Placing the gold-silver card carefully into his pocket with both hands, he walked downstairs, climbing the steps to his room.
His eyes swept the building as he moved—leaves creeping along the walls, cracked paths and fallen wood, rusted, corroded iron. He didn't linger, keeping his focus ahead.
He reached his room and opened the door.
A figure stood inside.
Crow Morrow looked at her, a faint, curious smile crossing his face.
"Miss… what are you doing here?" he asked.
At the corner of the room, a young lady stooped over the desk, one hand resting on its surface, the other lifting a small book. Her eyes skimmed the words,
furrowed in concentration, while her dress, neatly arranged, seemed to echo the quiet diligence of her movements.
"It is Cecilia Ashcroft,"
she said, her voice carrying a slight mixture of playfulness and seriousness as she dropped the book. Her face held a trace of anger.
Crow looked at her and laughed softly. "My apologies, madam, but may I help you?"
Cecilia's face swelled, almost childlike. "I thought we were friends! Can't you just call me by my name?"
Crow met her gaze and said,
"A most splendid morning to you."
Cecilia's expression softened, and she smiled.
"A most splendid morning to you, too."
Crow stepped further into the room, closing the distance between them.
"Cecilia, what must I hold this visit for?"
She looked at him shyly, hands resting behind her back, weaving the fabric of her garment left and right.
"Might I ask a favor of you, good madam?" he said, stepping closer. He reached for the vase on the wall, adjusting it carefully, then moved away from her,
bending toward the desk. He picked up a silver cup. Inside lay a wooden brush.
"May I take care of myself before you say anything?" he added, his tone playful, eyes glinting.
Cecilia Ashcroft followed beside him, stepping lightly on her toes as she moved.
Crow passed through the doorway and stepped into the bathroom.
Cecilia reached the front of the door, pausing and bending slightly to peer through the opening.
Inside the small bathroom, a tap ran over a sink, a bucket sat beneath it, and a mirror hung above—slightly shattered.
Crow moved his hand to the left side and turned on the tap. Then he took the brush, scrubbing his mouth with all his strength.
Spitting out blood, he washed his hands and pulled his clothes off, tossing them outside.
Cecilia laughed softly, not loudly, then asked,
"May I ask… what is this for?"
Crow's tone was serious. "Could you help
me take this inside?"
Cecilia looked at the ceiling for a moment, then at the clothes. She picked up the garment and returned to the room,
placing it neatly on the wooden bed.
She then retrieved another set from the cupboard near the door beside her.
After a few seconds, she walked back, hands extended before her, the new set of garments resting neatly on her palms.
She moved forward, approaching the curtain-covered door, and paused in the corner. Then she stretched her hand inside.
Crow Morrow had finished. He took the garments from her palms and, after putting them on, he brushed his hair back slightly before stepping outside.
Crow told her to wait, then walked back into the room.
He picked up his trousers, slid his hand into the pocket, retrieved the card, and tucked it into his jeans as he put them on. Tossing the trousers back onto the bed, he moved to the desk, arranging the books neatly and setting the gas lamp properly.
Stepping outside,
He looked at Cecilia Ashcroft. Speaking with a clear, measured voice, he said, "Shall we make our way to fandom, Ourself in the delight of today's amusement?"
Cecilia quickly ran forward, taking his hand, and together they walked down the stairs, passing through the front door.
Outside, their footsteps echoed over the cobblestones as carriages rattled past.
In his mind, he wondered, looking at her—how could a noble girl come to the lowless district, though they had been childhood friends?
He remembered the first time they met. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he turned back to her. He could never forget the loneliness, the emptiness of those days.
Yet he could not shake what had just happened. His mind still carried the lingering twist of the illusion he had witnessed that morning. Not fully understanding what he had seen,
he clung to the thought that it had been merely a dream—or perhaps just a trick of the morning's illusions.
Cecilia Ashcroft, happy and smiling, tugged at his hand, dragging him along as they ran through the scattered streets—the empty cobblestones, the old, rusted carriages at the corners.
They moved away from the rot of the lawless district, finally entering the main part of Iron Gate City.
Crow looked around, his mind heavy with a flicker of hatred.
Power is everything in this godforsaken world, he thought, silently.
Ahead, he and Cecilia Ashcroft moved together, hands clasped as one.
His attention was suddenly drawn to a man in the corner, seated on a bench, an umbrella resting at his side and an eye patch covering his left eye.
Their eyes met for a brief, tense moment. Crow quickly turned his head away, then glanced back at Cecilia. She looked at him, and he smiled.
Moving slowly, the two of them passed through the crowd, the cold cobblestones beneath their feet as carriages rattled past.
For some reason, the eyes of two officers standing at a distance seemed fixed on Crow.
He raised his head slightly, meeting their gaze, then turned back. The man who had been sitting on the bench was already gone.
Surprised for a moment, Crow gently withdrew his hand from Cecilia Ashcroft's. He looked at her, then bent closer.
Cecilia Ashcroft's face brightened with a smile. Crow bent toward her and whispered,
"Run."
Without understanding, she looked at him in surprise, unable to speak.
But Crow was already gone, sprinting straight ahead without glancing back. He rounded the corner to the left,
passed through another street to the right, and finally stopped at a blocked path.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
For a moment, he steadied himself, then looked to his right, where a giant stone wall barred his way.
In the center of the wall, a door stood. His mind flashed back to the gold-silver card, the address written upon it.
He pulled the card from his pocket, studying it carefully. The address matched perfectly.
"Huh… maybe the fever is getting to me," he muttered, slightly annoyed. Then he added,
"Who cares? I'm already here."
Moving closer,
he reached for the door—but before his hand could touch it, it swung open on its own.