Eve felt herself being dragged into the man's rhythm. She helped stack the steel drawers, watching as Lloyd tested the wheels—smooth enough.
"What are you planning?" she demanded.
"Escaping."
He tore a white coat off the wall, tying the makeshift metal cart together.
"If we just run, we'll burn before we reach the door. The flames will eat your clothes first, then the heat will melt your eyes. You'll gasp from panic—and in that single breath, you'll suck in a hundred degrees of air. It'll burn your throat, your lungs… like swallowing fire itself."
His tone was disturbingly calm as he described it. Then he shoved the cart toward the wall.
"So, we use this. Ride it out like a board, straight through the corridor. I remember the route—it's a straight line."
He pointed toward the shadowy interior of a steel locker, gesturing for her to enter.
"Ladies first."
Eve froze. "You want me to climb in there—with you?"
She prayed her father would never hear about this day. Being alone with a strange man was bad enough—being crammed inside a morgue locker with him was beyond salvation.
"We'll need momentum," Lloyd said matter-of-factly. "Otherwise, we'll stop halfway—right in the middle of the flames. Two roasted pigs, detective. You get the picture?"
Lloyd clearly valued his own skin more than modesty.
The explosion came first—a burst of steam pipes and a wave of fire that swept through the morgue.Outside, Press was already shouting orders, trying to make sense of the chaos. No casualties, they said—but Eve was missing.
The rookie who'd once seemed so eager was now nowhere to be found. For a brief, ugly moment, Press thought maybe she'd fled—but another thought crept in.
What if she was at the very center of it all?The morgue.
"Damn it, kid…" Press muttered.
Then the impossible happened.A steel carriage burst through the burning corridor, crashing into the wall with a deafening clang. Lloyd stumbled out first, singed but alive, followed by a dazed Eve tumbling from inside the scorched cart.
Lloyd's heavy coat smoked from the heat, but he didn't stop to rest. His eyes scanned the chaos, searching. Someone was here. Someone had set that fire—and they weren't leaving until they were sure no witnesses survived.
They would be watching, waiting in the shadows for the flames to die down.
What will you do now, Lloyd?
His hand slipped into his pocket—a pocket with a hidden slit leading beneath his coat.To anyone else, he looked calm, casual.But his finger was already on the trigger.
Now that there were survivors from the blaze, what would you do?
Lloyd's gray-blue eyes swept across every face before him, his gaze cold and unblinking. None of these people had ever studied acting; sooner or later, someone would crack.
So what will you do? he thought. Leave quietly—or kill me where I stand?
No one would have imagined that the death of an ordinary sailor was somehow tied to a sudden inferno in the hospital. The value gap between the two incidents was simply too vast for anyone to make the connection.
Press had struggled terribly to pull Eve out of the iron locker. The girl was covered in soot and bruises, her clothes in tatters—but her face glowed with a wild, feverish excitement. She hadn't even realized that, had they been a moment later, she and Lloyd would've been roasted alive together in the blaze.
For the first time, she felt the thrill of being inside her dream—the breathless, dangerous joy of it.
She brushed aside the hair sticking to her face, wiped the grime from her cheeks with her sleeve, and forced herself to her feet.
Chaos ruled the place. It was, after all, a hospital. Though the fire hadn't spread further, the tension alone was enough to scatter reason and rattle hearts.
Lloyd watched it all closely.
People were drifting about, hesitant, trying to gauge whether the danger had passed. Some began to leave; others stayed—those who couldn't resist the gravity of disaster, who lingered to watch.
Doctors?
Not many white coats among the crowd. Most only paused to take a look before hurrying back to their posts. The few nurses still visible were scrambling to fetch water, trying to contain the flames.
Patients?
Mostly families of patients, gaping and whispering prayers.
Lloyd shook his head sharply.
No—his line of thought was wrong.
The arsonist would need a safe position—somewhere he could watch for survivors yet slip away into the chaos at any moment. And whoever started this fire had used oil, in great quantities. No ordinary doctor or patient could have hauled in that much fuel without drawing attention.
The puzzle shattered into a thousand fragments, and Lloyd began picking them up one by one, fitting them together until the reflection inside the broken mirror revealed its true face.
His hand tightened around the trigger hidden beneath his coat. He'd found him—the one man no one would ever notice.
A janitor, pushing a cart brimming with oil canisters. He had poured it across the floor, then picked up his mop to play the part. When no one was near, he lit the match.
Yes—no one looks twice at a janitor. No one ever questions what's in his filthy bucket.
The identity was clear. And the location—easy to deduce.
Just beyond the corner ahead. From there, the arsonist could see this hallway—and, with a single step back, vanish into the lobby's crowd.
"Excuse me, please make way!"
Lloyd swallowed the rush of adrenaline pounding through his veins and advanced toward the spot. The moment Eve saw him move, she shouted to Press,
"That man—there's something wrong with him! Don't let him leave!"
Press didn't hesitate. He drew his revolver and barked,
"Sir! Please cooperate!"
He didn't know exactly what Eve meant, but something about Lloyd—the unnerving familiarity of his presence—made suspicion twist in his gut.
Troublesome.
Lloyd cursed inwardly, then lunged into the crowd. He knew full well how these detectives shot—they wouldn't dare open fire with civilians in the way.
The crowd erupted in panic. People screamed and stumbled back, clearing a path before the man who'd just escaped a fire yet wore a grin like a madman.
The janitor panicked. Seeing Lloyd closing in, he made a fatal mistake—he stepped back. If he reached that corner, if he turned and ran, Lloyd would lose him forever. The hospital was vast, swarming with people and guards.
That meant it was time for The Lloyd Holmes Detective Code, Rule No. 7. Lloyd had always believed his book deserved a place in every academy's curriculum.
What do you do when a suspect runs?You shoot before he's out of sight. Aim for the legs.
The Winchester rose from beneath his coat in a swift, graceful arc. Lloyd's hand, long resting on the trigger, became the bowstring pulled taut—ready to sing.
No one expected the gentleman's coat to conceal a shotgun. The thunderous blast split the air, the shockwave ringing in every ear. Dust burst upward, shards of stone ricocheted, and the fleeing figure collapsed before he could take his first stride.
That was well within the Winchester's effective range—the pellets tore through his calf, splattering the floor with dark blood. He barely had time to choke out a moan before falling into a crawl.
Lloyd didn't intend to let him crawl far. The shotgun spun smoothly in his hand, lever cocking open. The hot shell spat free with a hiss, followed by the crisp metallic click of reloading.
God, I love this gun.
Short-barreled—perfect for hiding beneath a coat. But there was a deeper reason, one no one else in this world would ever guess.
"Don't run, my friend!"
Lloyd advanced, but before he could reach the man, a volley of gunfire ripped through the air.
It came from outside. From the janitor's vantage, he could see the lobby—and the shooters could see him. His comrades. They weren't here to rescue him. Now that the mission had failed, they would silence him.
A bullet pierced his skull. His body froze mid-crawl, and the filthy blood began to spread like ink across the tiles.
It wasn't over.
A storm of bullets followed, pinning Lloyd down.
He wondered, not for the first time, what the Silverfish had really been carrying. What lay within that mysterious iron crate that so many were willing to burn a hospital to conceal?
He drew a deep breath. These weren't soldiers—they were hired guns, thugs with more greed than training. They didn't know the rhythm of alternating fire, which meant their perfect barrage would eventually break.
And it did. Beneath the wails and chaos, a heartbeat of silence—an opening.
A fatal mistake. Every proper army drilled its men in staggered shooting: half fire, half reload, maintaining the curtain of death. These fools had all reloaded at once.
Lloyd leapt from cover.
The Winchester roared again. The scent of black powder filled his lungs—a perfume more intoxicating than any opiate.
The blast punched through a man's chest, scattering him backward in a bloom of red.
No counterfire followed. Nothing.
They weren't reloading—they were retreating.
That was Lloyd's oversight. When the fire broke out, reinforcements from the Suaran Hall must have already been en route. With the cavalry's speed, they'd reach the site in under ten minutes. His attackers didn't want a fight. They wanted to vanish before the law arrived.
Outside, the whinny of horses pierced the smoke, hooves pounding, fading into the distance.
Lloyd broke through the crowd, sprinting past the fallen body toward the exit. More gunfire greeted him—wild, erratic shots meant only to frighten.
He knew it was over. They'd already won. He couldn't catch them. He could only watch as they galloped away.
And then—
A shrill whistle tore through the air.
Like an answer from heaven, it came: the long wail of a locomotive cutting through the chaos, its path cleared by every red signal turning in its favor.
The iron serpent roared forward, exhaling white steam into the ashen sky.