Year 931 of the Inglvig Calendar.
The city slumbered in pitch-black silence.
Above, a colossal zeppelin drifted across the night like a steel leviathan, its cyclopean searchlight sweeping over the sleeping streets, prying and observing in silence.
Lloyd stood at the corner of a dim street, a cigarette dangling from his lips, exhaling slow spirals of smoke. The tobacco was laced with stimulative herbs — enough to keep his mind razor-sharp even in the dead of night, perhaps even a little too sharp, edging on exhilaration.
With that faint thrill humming in his veins, his cane tapped the cobblestones in a rhythm only he knew — soft, deliberate, like a secret beat marking time.
He was waiting for someone.
And as usual, he filled the waiting with thought — any thought would do, as long as his mind didn't go idle.
He lifted his gaze toward the dim streetlight, and his thoughts began to drift...
According to the theory of parallel worlds, every improbable thing must happen — given a vast enough scale, every impossible story finds its stage.
In one universe, light itself can be outpaced; Saturn's rings are made of sugar and dough; Tesla wields thunder like a grand sorcerer; Hawking takes the form of a bronze dragon bending time; and King Arthur — is, in fact, a woman.
In short — everything is possible.
And perhaps in another world not too far from ours, humanity once stirred its first industrial revolution. The thunderous engines of steam heaved forth gigantic constructs of steel. Rails carved across every stretch of inhabited earth. Production unshackled, economies soared, and an age of roaring progress arrived, cloaked in steam and ambition.
At least — that's how the story was supposed to go.
But as in all multiverses, there are always worlds where the script goes astray.
So imagine, just for a moment…
What if the dawn of the electrical age never came?
What if, by some small deviation, the thread of familiar history frayed — ever so slightly?
The Second Industrial Revolution would still unfold, yes — but in this reality, the world would never embrace electricity.
As if, in some cosmic joke, Newton dozed beneath the apple tree and, just before destiny's apple struck his head, the fool turned over — and mankind lost the law of gravity for a century.
So too did this world stray. When they discovered that boiling water could drive the world, history itself went off the rails.
Electricity never became the ruling power of civilization. It flickered only in corners, in secret workshops, in the dreams of a few. Even the internal combustion engine — that miracle of heat and motion — remained buried in the steam.
The engines grew larger, louder, ever more complex.
And eventually, they became the beating hearts of cities — of the world itself.
They were monstrous and magnificent, grotesque yet glorious.
And whenever one rose before human eyes — all fell silent in awe.
Lloyd lived in that era — an age where reason walked hand-in-hand with madness.
Steel and steam. Mystery and the unknown.
A shrill whistle cut through his reverie. From a nearby manhole, a burst of white-hot vapor hissed skyward, twisting into droplets that cooled and fell with the cold night breeze. The mist spread — gray, ghostly — and soon shrouded the entire city.
It was a damned age.
And this — a damned city.
The lunatics at the Mechanical Academy had hollowed out the ground beneath it, building the largest steam engine in history. They'd even carved a miles-long canal to draw the Thames underground, feeding it into their iron furnace — a roaring heart that never slept, driving every gear and factory above.
The labyrinth below served as the city's breath — its vast exhaust system. Thousands of tons of vapor rose each day, purged and recycled, then returned to the surface as endless rain.
Thus the city remained forever overcast — a world without sunlight.
Lloyd glanced at his pocket watch.
Time was nearly up.
From the end of the street came the quick, uneven sound of footsteps — and heavy breathing.
Right on time.
He flicked away his cigarette, hand slipping beneath his coat to draw out his beloved Winchester.
As the theory of parallel worlds dictates — even in this accursed age, there existed one who called himself a "great detective."
Of course, that title was self-proclaimed.
He wasn't famous, nor particularly brilliant in deduction. In truth, he was a man who preferred to intimidate suspects with force — a second-rate detective, nothing more.
And so the world knew him — Lloyd Holmes.
The footsteps drew closer, pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat.
A grin split his face.
"Welcome to Old Dunlin, my friend!"
With a wild laugh, the second-rate detective lunged from the corner and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger.
The Winchester roared — thunder cracking through the fog.
In the flash of gunfire, the approaching figure barely had time to gasp before collapsing, blood threading between the cobblestones and vanishing down the gutter.
Moments later, policemen with rifles surrounded the scene.
The zeppelin's light poured down like artificial daylight, illuminating every inch of the street.
But there was nothing left now —
nothing but a cooling corpse, and the echo of a gunshot that seemed to linger in the mist forever.