Lucian discovered a pathetic law of the universe.
Charlotte's "assigned seat" in the library sat exactly fourteen meters from the nearest empty chair he could reliably claim.
The system's passive-income radius was fifteen meters.
So every afternoon, like clockwork, he appeared in the eastern wing corner, spread his notebook open as if writing, and actually just stared at the panel's bottom-right corner—watching the "+1" tick once per hour.
Three hours, three points.
More miserly than a beggar.
At least beggars don't have to pretend they're creating art.
"Goldfish."
Fourteen meters away, the silver-haired girl didn't even look up.
"Since Monday you've been sitting in that seat every day. Exactly three hours each time. You've written fewer than two hundred words per session. Are you watching me, or are you slacking off?"
"Outlining." Lucian turned to a blank page with great solemnity. "Inspiration needs time to ferment."
"Four days for eight hundred words—snails feel insulted." Charlotte's voice was dry enough to pickle a corpse.
"Quality over quantity—"
"You used three pages to describe the angle I hold my lollipop, how often I bite, and where the sugar residue sits." Charlotte finally lifted her head. Those blue-green eyes held pure, uncut disgust. "You forgot to close your notebook when you went to the lavatory yesterday."
Lucian's spine froze for half a second.
"That's character detail."
"That's perversion."
He tried a weak pivot. "Does this count as which line of your weekly quota?"
"Third." Charlotte dropped her gaze back to her work. "Two left. Spend them wisely."
She resumed answering questions.
Lucian shut up.
Fourteen meters away, the "+1" blinked quietly.
Fine.
Thank you for the alms.
…
A paper packet landed on his desk, carrying the mixed scent of almonds and lemon.
Mary stood before him, her golden side braid draped over one shoulder, arms—as always—cradling a fortress of medical textbooks.
"Senior, you didn't eat lunch again."
"I did."
"The cafeteria is closed for disinfection today." She tilted her head slightly. "Also, when you lie, you touch your pocket."
Lucian reflexively yanked his hand out of his pocket.
Then shoved it back in.
"I don't."
In the past few days, he'd learned Mary was the kind of person who spoke nonsense with a straight face about seventy percent of the time.
The problem was you never knew which seventy percent.
"Then I must have misunderstood." Mary smiled past it and nudged the packet closer. "Lemon flavor. I tweaked the recipe—less sugar, a little salt."
Lucian took a piece and bit down.
A crisp shell, bright lemon tang, and a faint salty finish—like sea wind trailing behind the citrus.
"Good." He chewed carefully. "The salt is perfect."
"Really?" Mary blinked, visibly relieved. "I tried three ratios. I wasn't sure which one was right."
Three ratios.
Three attempts—just for a few biscuits.
Lucian looked at her while chewing and, for a flicker of a second, thought: there probably wasn't a second person in the world who'd spend an entire afternoon perfecting a flavor he'd mentioned offhand.
"I'll pay you back for the ingredients."
"Four pence." Her tone was light, almost playful. "Eight total including last time. Roughly the same as your pay for five hundred words."
"…You remember that too?"
"You complained three times." She counted with effortless precision. "Tuesday afternoon, Thursday morning, and last Saturday while you were gnawing black bread."
"The third time, I'm pretty sure I didn't say it out loud."
"Your mouth did."
Lucian found himself with nothing to say. The feeling of being remembered—earnestly, accurately—was unfamiliar.
As a lifelong background character, he wasn't that different from a spider in the dark.
It felt… strange.
So he decided, very sensibly, that from now on he would never make any facial expressions in front of Mary.
He folded the biscuit packet, tucked it into his pocket, and mumbled a thank-you around a mouthful.
Mary took two steps away, then looked back.
"What time are you staying in the library today?"
"Probably five."
"Then I'll come find you at five."
"For what?"
"I'll tell you then."
Her golden braid swayed once—and vanished behind the shelves.
…
Mary didn't come.
Jekyll did.
At 4:40 p.m., Jekyll burst into the library hard enough to knock over the umbrella stand by the door. The crash was loud enough that even Charlotte—fourteen meters away—frowned.
"Lucian."
Jekyll's face was wrong. Pale. Tight.
Lucian grabbed his arm and lowered his voice. "What happened?"
"Autopsy." Jekyll yanked off his glasses and wiped them, hands trembling. "This afternoon at St. Bartholomew's. Male corpse. The coroner ruled acute alcohol poisoning, but the stomach contents—"
He pulled out a crumpled sheet covered in pencil-scratched numbers.
"Something's off. The gastric mucosa has focal burns—clean borders. Alcohol can't do that. Alcohol damage is diffuse. This looks like the wall was scorched through in a short time by a high-concentration solvent."
Lucian scanned the paper. The data was clear, even if the handwriting looked like a spider doing ballet.
"Did you tell the coroner?"
"No." Jekyll's voice dropped further. "After Craig, you know how—"
"I know." Lucian folded the paper neatly.
Then he looked toward the silver head fourteen meters away.
Charlotte was flipping pages, shifting her lollipop from left to right—her tell for boredom.
A bored Charlotte was dangerous.
But also the easiest to hook.
"Henry," Lucian murmured, "go back. Do nothing. Don't touch anything."
"You're going to—"
"Ask a technical question."
Soon after, Lucian placed Jekyll's notes beside Charlotte's exam sheets.
He didn't say a word.
The silver-haired girl's gaze slid to the wrinkled page.
Four seconds.
She set her pen down. The lollipop moved from right back to left.
"Where's the body?"
"St. Bartholomew's. Deceased is Herbert Marsh—retired solicitor. Lodging at an inn on the south bank."
"How do you know?"
"Jekyll attended the autopsy."
Charlotte grabbed her coat and headed for the door. Lucian followed.
"No one called you."
"I know."
She kept walking. She didn't say come along—and she didn't tell him to get lost either.
…
The inn was so shabby even rats would file a complaint.
Police tape cordoned off a room at the corridor's end. Lestrade was directing his men as they packed up. When he saw Charlotte, his expression was what you'd expect from a man with a stomach ulcer staring at lemon juice.
"It's closed. Alcohol poisoning."
"Closed with what?" Charlotte ducked under the tape. "Your judgment—thinner than a newspaper?"
The room was cramped and dim, the stench of whisky thick as a wall.
Two glasses sat on the table. One empty. One half-full.
Charlotte crouched beside the table.
"Two different lip marks. The empty glass—dry, cracked lips, strong suction: nervousness or fear. The half-full glass—barely any contact, lip print incomplete: too composed."
She picked up the half-full glass, sniffed, set it down, then bent to look beneath the table.
A scorch mark streaked across the chair seat.
Wax drips dotted the tabletop.
Lestrade yawned. "Victim's right palm had a pattern. Coroner says it's an old tattoo."
"It's not a tattoo."
Charlotte rose. Her voice dropped into something colder.
"A honeycomb-shaped brand. Metal stamp at three hundred degrees or above pressed into living flesh. A man drunk enough to die of cardiac arrest can't brand his own palm—touching the iron triggers reflex withdrawal unless someone held him down."
She moved to the other chair, fingers gliding over its armrest.
"Two sets of grip marks. One hand—short, thick fingers; strong but lacks endurance. Restraint. The other—long, steady pressure. Execution."
She turned to face Lestrade.
"Two killers. They sat across this table, drank with him, and then they killed him."
Lestrade's yawn finally died.
"Pull every case that solicitor handled in the last two years," Charlotte said, collar up. "Especially the ones that got withdrawn."
"Why two years?"
Charlotte paused at the doorway. Moonlight from the corridor's end cut a silver edge along her profile.
"Honeycomb is a home for bees. Bees sting—and then they die."
Her voice was very soft.
"The killers are telling us this was revenge that ends in mutual destruction."
Lucian hesitated as he wrote that down.
When Charlotte said mutual destruction, there was something in her eyes he'd never seen before—like she understood the impulse to burn yourself down along with your hatred, understood the feeling itself.
Lucian crossed out his last line.
Some things didn't belong in a biography.
At least—not yet.
.....
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