Raindrops tapped against the floor-to-ceiling window like countless fine needles piercing the London night. William Camis crushed his cigar in the crystal ashtray; the embers flared and died instantly, much like the smuggler he had just eliminated for attempted betrayal.
"Kalis," his voice was low, carrying the chill of the rainy night. "St. Thomas's Medical School. Lyra Hainault. I want all her information, including recent research projects, on my desk within thirty minutes."
Kalis emerged from the shadows, his black suit making him resemble a silent piece of iron. "Understood, sir." As he turned, his sleeve brushed against documents on the desk without making a sound—a skill perfected through three years of serving William.
William leaned back in his chair, fingertips tracing the wood grain of the desk. His mind returned to a name Kalis had mentioned three days earlier: the medical student who had rejected patronage from all noble families, choosing instead to research the cholera ravaging the slums. Interesting, he thought. In an era where everyone sought social advancement, this girl dared to refuse.
The night's cold seeped through the glass, yet William felt something stirring within him—like a seed buried in ashes, quietly beginning to sprout.
In the underground laboratory of St. Thomas's Medical School, the lighting was as dim as candlelight. Lyra Hainault, wearing a faded white lab coat with her hair tied up by a piece of twine, had droplets of sweat on her forehead. She stared intently at the cholera vibrios in the petri dish, her brow furrowed.
"Lyra, working past midnight again?" The Dean pushed the door open, holding a gilded envelope, his tone filled with helplessness. "Viscount Bolton's assistant is here again—this time with an even more generous offer."
Lyra looked up, her eyes as clear as the sky after rain. "On the condition that I abandon my cholera research to become his wife's personal physician?"
The Dean sighed. "Indeed. The Viscount claims your research is too 'common' for someone of your potential. He's willing to fully fund your medical education, even send you to Paris for advanced studies—if only you would comply."
Lyra set down her tweezers and stood. Though not particularly tall, her posture remained straight as she faced the Dean. "Dean, do you know why I research cholera?" She pointed at the petri dish. "Three years ago, my mother died from this disease in the slums. The physician at the time said she was 'low-born,' not worth wasting medicine on."
Her voice carried a tremor, but more than that, it held resolve. "I'm not studying this for aristocratic approval or social status. I want to give people like my mother a chance at treatment. Therefore, I will not accept Viscount Bolton's patronage—never."
The Dean observed her stubborn profile and fell silent for a moment. "Very well. I'll apply for the school's emergency fund on your behalf, though it's limited. You must... proceed with caution." With that, he shook his head and left the laboratory.
Lyra returned to her lab bench and picked up her notes. The pages were filled with diagrams of cholera vibrios structures, beside which she had written: "The essence of medicine is healing, not categorization."
She knew the path was difficult—the culture mediums were nearly exhausted, the laboratory equipment old and worn. But she would not give up. Her mother's death had taught her: some things matter more than wealth and status.
In William's office, Kalis placed a stack of documents on the desk. "Sir, the information on Lyra Hainault. Mother deceased from cholera, father was a dockworker who died in an industrial accident three years ago. She currently researches methods to inhibit cholera vibrios. She refused Viscount Bolton's patronage because he demanded she abandon this research."
William turned to the page with the photograph. The girl in the picture wore a lab coat, a hint of stubbornness in her smile, her eyes shining with unyielding light. His fingers lightly brushed over the face in the photo, a flicker of softness passing through his gaze that he himself barely noticed—like ice meeting warm sunlight, quietly beginning to thaw at the edges.
"Viscount Bolton?" He raised an eyebrow. "That old fool allied with the Thirteen Knights?"
"Correct. The Thirteen Knights have recently been smuggling medical supplies. They might be attempting to profit from Lyra's research," Kalis replied.
William's gaze turned instantly cold, like a frozen lake. "The Thirteen Knights..." His fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk, producing sharp sounds. "Warn Bolton to stay away from her. If he dares harm a single hair on her head, I'll reduce his estate to rubble."
Kalis nodded. "Understood. Additionally, her laboratory lacks culture mediums and equipment—should I..."
"Send a shipment anonymously," William interrupted. "Use the fastest method. Leave no traces."
Kalis paused momentarily—his employer never concerned himself with ordinary medical students. What made this girl special? But he asked no questions, merely responding respectfully, "Yes, sir."
William gazed out at the rain. The night remained long. He recalled the details of her past from the file, remembered the determined look in her eyes when she refused patronage. "Lyra Hainault..." he murmured, a faint, nearly imperceptible smile touching his lips. "Could you become the brightest light in my dark empire?"
The knock on the laboratory door came just as Lyra worried over her empty culture medium bottles. A delivery man entered with a box. "Miss Lyra Hainault? An anonymous package."
Lyra accepted the box and opened it. Inside were the latest culture mediums, a precision microscope, and a note: "Persist in your research—from an admirer."
She frowned. Who sent this? She knew no such person. Yet seeing these desperately needed supplies, warmth still rose in her heart. She tucked the note into her notebook, picked up her tweezers again, her gaze more determined than ever.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, the London night still deep. But in this small laboratory, a rebellious light quietly ignited amidst the ashes.
And across the city, William Camis stood before his floor-to-ceiling window, looking toward the laboratory (his office overlooked the entire medical school). He held a glass of red wine, his expression complex—half the cool of a domineering CEO, half a carefully concealed tenderness.
"Lyra Hainault," he said softly, "We will meet soon."
The night wind rustled the curtains, carrying the scent of rain. An encounter between light and shadow prepared to unfold amidst the ashes.