The floorboards creaked, a slow withered sound, as Mrs Cliffton made her way upstairs. The small apartment of 31 Victoria Road was home to some strange types of people, though it wasn't her place to make judgement on how they lived.
She was to house them after all, and on this particular day she had rent to collect. She reached the top of the stairs as fast as her old legs would carry her, passing the first floor and on to the second. Now moving along the corridor, past seven doors that had seen better days, the apartment wasn't the best looking, but it served its purpose.
She reached the door at the far left that read Room 27. This door was strangely well maintained, as if the tenant had made it a point to clean and refurbish it every now and then. She knocked, then waited some time, then knocked again, growing impatient.
She cleared her throat. "Get out here, ya brat. Pay day's today."
That certainly had woken up this tenant, as well as all the others.
"Why ya shouting so loud in the morning, you old hag?" one of the other tenants shouted from their own room. The problem was that the rooms had quite thin walls.
"Shut it," Mrs Cliffton turned. "Or would ya like it if I doubled your rent this month? No triple. My roof, my rules."
"Alright, alright, no need to go that far, you old hag," the tenant from before answered, voice now pleading.
Mrs Cliffton huffed. "Serves ya right," she muttered. Just then, sounds could be heard from the other side of Room 27—rustling fabric and steady steps.
The lock on the door unlatched with a click, a turn, and a pull. The door opened just enough to make out the person standing beyond the threshold.
It was a young man, around the age of eighteen years old. He had golden blonde hair that blackened at the roots. He was taller than average, but no giant. His face had sharp and refined features. Clear skin, quite the handsome young man but the most unusual set of eyes Mrs Cliffton had ever seen. They were pitch black, yet never seemed to end, as if the darkness in them folded into itself, creating—if you looked close enough—strange and indescribable shapes. They never seemed to have a set form.
"It seems you're having quite the festive morning, Mrs Cliffton," the young man said in a casual tone, blinking lightly.
"Cut the chatter. You know why I'm here," she said as she stepped into the small room, the young man showing no resistance by casually stepping out of the way.
"Hmm, that I do. But first, wouldn't you like some tea and biscuits? It's always a good way to start the morning," he said as he closed the door for more privacy, though it didn't offer much.
Mrs Cliffton's eye twitched. "I'm not going to play your little games, this time."
"What games, Mrs? I only wanted to offer you something, anything. It's the least I could do as one of your tenants," he said in a falsely innocent tone.
"Enough, boy. Ya already giving me a headache. This not the time," Mrs Cliffton said, now sitting on a chair in the corner.
"That reminds me—how are your daughter's university exams going?"
The old woman blinked. "How did ya—" but she was cut off softly.
"You seemed stressed. I've always had a knack for guessing," he laughed. "I do hope she's doing well."
Mrs Cliffton paused, looking at the young man, then sighed. "Ya never cease to surprise me, do ya, Lucian?"
The young man, now known as Lucian, smiled faintly. "Well, that's a relief. It means you're not grown bored of me quite yet. Now, how about that tea, eh?" He turned to the right, opening a wooden door, and entered the small kitchen.
Sip. Sip. Sip.
Mrs Cliffton let out a sigh as she drank the green tea. She set her small porcelain cup down on the table and took a half bite out of a biscuit on the plate. Mouth still full, she spoke, "Where did you ever get that electric stove, lad? You must know how much those cost brand new."
"That I do," Lucian said as he took a sip of his own tea, though evidently much slower and less enthusiastically. He set his barely drunk tea down and continued, "But the fortunate thing is I was able to get quite the deal on it. After all, the condition was not up to standard when I first acquired the poor thing, but with a little elbow grease I was able to fix her up anew."
"On to another note, how's the tea? It's not too weak, is it?"
The older lady took another gulp of her tea to wash down her biscuit. "Not at all, it's quite strong compared to others I've tasted. In my day we used to just boil the leaves we found in the gardens. Ah, nothing beats the old days," she said, a wistful smile touching her lips.
"I see, well I—"
Ding dong.
He was cut off by the clock tower. Looking down at the well-crafted watch on his wrist, he read the time: 7:00 on the dot.
"Hmm, it seems I must make like a bee and buzz off to work. I'll be late otherwise," he said, climbing from his seat. He looked back at the old woman sitting there, with her grey hair and brown eyes.
She moved, brushing the skirt of her gown and adjusting the scruffy red scarf. "Well, don't forget—rent is due. If it's not paid within the week, you're out of here. That's final," she shouted as she opened the door and made her way out, her steps thudding along the corridor.
Lucian shook his head, making his way to the wardrobe next to the kitchen door. Opening it revealed his only pair of clothes: a slightly worn-down leather jacket, a crisp but plain white shirt, and a pair of dark trousers. The jacket had seen better days, the seams a little frayed, but it retained the cut and elegance of fine tailoring. A pair of simple leather boots rested at the bottom, polished just enough to reflect his care, yet showing scuffs from regular use.
Once he was fitted, he made his way to the door, picked up his half-top hat and cane that were placed on a small table near the door, and stepped out, locking up behind him.
Making his way down the corridor, he noticed that the handle of Room 25 had fingerprints on it, visible at least to him in the light. Then he looked down at the bottom of the door.
Drag marks, he thought.
Now on the steps, he dodged multiple passersby, slowing and quickening at the right times. Before long, he had reached the main door, where he once again ran into the receptionist, Miss Lorra—a young woman with short but fluffy brunette hair and a youthful appearance that complemented her emerald eyes. She was currently absorbed in her newspaper.
He rang the bell at the counter, causing her to jump, hiding the newspaper in a rush. She looked up to see who had rung the bell, hoping it wasn't Mrs Cliffton, as this was classed as slacking.
Once she got a good look and saw who had rung the bell, she exclaimed, "Lucian! Oh, it's just you. For heaven's sake, don't scare me like that," she said, her voice frantic.
"Scare you? I was being quite polite. I even rang the bell. It's you who's being caught slacking on the job. Tsk, tsk, young lady. What would the madam think?" An amused expression glinted in his eyes.
"Oh, please don't tell her. I'll get a right shouting if you do. I'll do anything!" she pleaded.
"Anything you say, hmm… I can't think of something off the top of my head, as I must run, so it seems you've gotten away with it." He made his way to the door, then turned. "Oh, and could you check on Room 25? My floor—the handle seems to be faulty, and the hinges have rusted."
"Goodbye, Malady," he said, tipping his half-top hat. Miss Lorra sat there stunned before shouting out, "Okay! Thank you for the notice."
Lucian inhaled the air and covered his eyes as he left the building. The smell of smoke hit him like the rush of a passing carriage. He looked around the busy street: merchants and pedestrians, all either moving or chatting, small businesses lining every corner.
Children ran around, weaving unpredictably through the crowd, forcing passersby to adjust their steps or risk collision. Well-kept buildings lined the street, their brickwork clean and orderly, chimneys releasing thin trails of smoke into the morning air. Streetlamps stood at even intervals along the pavement, their metal frames polished a quiet sign of the city's upkeep despite the constant movement below.
He moved along with the crowd, weaving through at a normal pace. An approaching carriage clattered down the street, the driver shouting, "Move it or get crushed! Not responsible for any damages to ya!"
Lucian reached the traffic light that had turned red a moment earlier. The chatter of the morning continued, and as Lucian listened, he picked up some hushed whispers.
"Did you hear? Soulfracturing has become more common. You never know when one of those monsters could pop out…"
Another lady turned to join in. "Did you know Mr Phelps has been ill for quite some time? You don't think… he could?"
"Mr Phelps, the watchman? He fixed a faulty clock in my home just the other week," the first lady said.
The timid one, far thinner and quieter, continued, "Ever since his wife died… it couldn't be."
"Pa, it's a load of bollocks. The man's fine. This is all just the Government's way to keep us in check," the lady the timid one had been speaking to before the other interjected spoke up.
The light turned, and the crowd began to move again. Passing buildings, the crowd grew denser, and a distant whistle cut through the morning air. Lucian glanced ahead, already knowing what lay beyond the next turn the station, busy as ever at this hour.
As he arrived at the gates of the station, he paid for his ticket. Looking back into his small leather wallet, he saw a total of five pounds, all in coin form. He was broke.
Good thing it's pay day, he thought.
He stood near the left end of the track, among the crowd. A paperboy was running circles around the passersby, shouting about the new laws and political statements put out by the government. He managed to catch the attention of some, who read the news on their way to work.
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
"Hello there, mister. Would you be interested in this week's news?"
Lucian blinked, not showing his surprise. "And why would I?" he said, eyeing the lad.
The boy seemed about thirteen years old, dirt and grime covering his face. He had a large, latched bag slung over his shoulder, full of copies of the news. Brown, flaky hair and hazel eyes, wearing a cap and a cotton shirt, along with the same worn trousers.
"Well, you look like quite the refined gent—one that would enjoy a quick read. What do you say, sir?"
Lucian took out 50 pence and handed it to the boy. The boy looked at it and said in a sweet tone, "The paper's actually a pound, sir."
"Huh, a pound? Why, that's robbery, don't you think?"
"I would say," the boy said, nodding his head, "but I don't make the rules."
Lucian muttered to himself, tossing the boy another 50 pence—now he was down to only four pounds. My, how money flies when you're in need.
The boy handed him the newspaper, exclaiming, "A thank you, kind sir!" as he scurried off, waving.
"Ta," Lucian said, his lips turning upwards.
As the boy passed through the crowd, he saw a man standing at the far end, away from everyone else. Oh, I can make an easy killing from him. I'll charge 1.50—no, 2 pounds. Way to go me.
"Hey, mister! Would you be interested in a copy of the news? Only the best!"
The man, covered in a jacket, didn't reply. Instead, there was heavy breathing.
Playing hard to get, eh? the boy thought. He tried another angle, targeting the man's heart. "Mister, please, it would mean a lot—it goes towards my family."
But the man continued to ignore him. Finally, the boy grew tired of it, his eye twitching. He pushed the man just enough to wake him if he were asleep, but instead the man fell face-first, hitting the pavement with a thud. The boy jumped back slightly, shacken.
Lucian, who had been watching from across the crowd perfectly, noticed the twitching near the center of the man's back. His eyes widened. Now moving toward them, he shouted, "Soulfracture!"
The crowd perked up—some ran, others looked around for their children, luggage, and other items screaming and chaos ensued.
Lucian rushed through the crowd, thinking: Ok, the distance between me and the boy is roughly 300 steps. The crowd adds another layer of complexity. Working my way through now that everyone's hysterical is going to increase the time it takes by around four minutes—damn it. But there's no other choice. I couldn't let the crowd stay oblivious; it would just cost more lives, and it's illogical.
The time it takes for a full Soulfracture to occur is around thirty seconds to three minutes. The time it takes for the corrupted form to fully manifest is about five minutes, but this is all subjective to the person and their psyche, so it could be longer or shorter. From the looks of it, I don't have luck on my side, so the best bet would be….