《The Ghost's Path》


 Chapter 1: To open or not to open (1)

    "Kieran, are you listening?"


    "Yeah, yeah, I''m here," I murmured, sinking into the rickety recliner. The weak light from the expensive gas lamps barely pierced the gloom in Gideon Moreau''s study. Books, magazines, and papers were arranged as meticulously as ever.


    Gideon stood by the window, his gaze fixed outside. His grey hair and round-trimmed glasses added to his air of intellect¡ªyou might mistake him for an accountant or a bank manager. The stained coat he always wore looked like it had seen better days.


    Considering his wealth, he could easily afford a new coat, or even a whole new wardrobe, but there was something about this one he couldn¡¯t let go of. I never asked why, but I was sure there was history. The only thing that unsettled me was that he never seemed to wash it, though it never smelled bad.


    "What was I saying then?" he asked, his tone sceptical.


    "Something something Mrs. Tofann...?"


    "Mrs. Fontaine... She wants us to investigate her husband''s unusual nighttime activities in the Old Quarter."


    "Great, I hate these cases," I muttered under my breath.


    Gideon¡¯s lips curled into a mischievous smile. "She¡¯s paying us 100 crowns for this. You¡¯ll receive 20% as usual."


    I paused, letting the number sink in. "Twenty crowns for catching a cheating bastard?" I grinned, feeling my mood shift. "Actually, those are my favourite cases. That poor lady deserves justice!"


    Gideon¡¯s grin widened. "I thought that might change your mind. This should, in theory, be an easy one. Just follow Mr. Fontaine, see where he goes, and if he meets any women."


    "What if he meets men?" I quipped, trying to lighten the mood.


    Gideon, as always, didn¡¯t laugh. "Then you''ll have to see it through to the end."


    I sighed, feigning exasperation. "Suddenly those twenty crowns don¡¯t seem so appealing. Do I get a health premium?"


    Ignoring my jest, Gideon handed me a small notebook and a pencil. "There¡¯s a sketch of him inside. Just deliver me a report when you get back." Inside the notebook was a detailed, if hastily drawn, image of Mr Fontaine¡ªmiddle-aged, average build, dark hair threaded with grey, and a moustache that looked like it belonged in a different century. I had to admit, he wasn¡¯t unattractive.


    "What a poor sense of fashion, though," I remarked, closing the notebook.


    This was only my third case. The first had been rather intriguing¡ªwe were hired to investigate who was stealing money from the city¡¯s sewer budget. As it turned out, there was no thief. The real culprit was the accountant, but not because he was a crook. The poor guy had forged his degree in math and was terrible at accounting. Who would¡¯ve thought?


    The second was a routine police commission. The case was mostly solved; they just wanted Gideon¡¯s expertise. The twist? Of the three initial suspects, two were in cahoots. I guess it wasn''t an actual twist.


    We stepped outside into the cold night air. Fog clung to the streets, wrapping the city in a damp, clammy embrace. Eldenport was a city of contrasts¡ªa place where progress had collided with decay, leaving both winners and losers in its wake. Merchants lined the streets, the sewer system was a mess, fights broke out constantly, and people from all walks of life were scrambling for any opportunity. The air reeked of desperation. But the rich part of the city? That was almost like another world¡ªwell-kept, clean, and quiet. As we approached the Old Quarter, I couldn¡¯t help but mutter to myself.


    "Ha, this place¡­ great. I hate it." There was a part of me that felt like this was home, and another part that screamed at me to get out as fast as I could. It¡¯s strange¡ªI couldn¡¯t explain why, but this place always made my skin crawl.


    Gideon stopped at the muddy entrance to the Old Quarter. "Alright, Kieran. You''re on your own from here."


    I nodded, wrinkling my nose at the stench and the oppressive atmosphere. "Right. I¡¯ll be fine, I suppose."


    Gideon gave me a casual nod. "Just observe and report." He turned to leave, but then hesitated, as if something important had just crossed his mind. "And don¡¯t engage unless absolutely necessary. And remember¡­"


    "To run if my intuition tells me so, I know," I finished for him. He was always repeating that like a mantra. I couldn¡¯t picture the scholarly Gideon running from anything, so he must be damn good at avoiding trouble in the first place. "By the way, what kind of lover would a rich man find in the Old Quarter?"


    "I don¡¯t know. Usually, they end up scammed, kidnapped, or dead."


    "Don¡¯t jinx it," I muttered, but I couldn¡¯t deny that it made sense.


    Even though this was only my third official case, the job was a vast improvement over my previous ones. It paid well, and the hours were flexible. It beat being a night security guard or a lamplighter. This was the best job I¡¯d had in years.


    Gideon watched as I set off alone. I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something was off, but I brushed it aside. Twenty crowns was too tempting to pass up. This was just a routine job, nothing more.


    "But really, with his money, he could find lovers in better places..."


    The Old Quarter had a way of unsettling me, yet there was something oddly familiar about it. The crumbling buildings and narrow alleys were a stark contrast to the orderly streets where the wealthy, Gideon included, resided.


    I found a decent spot to watch, a small open-air bar with a view of the main thoroughfare leading into the Old Quarter. Almost everyone who ventured into this part of town passed through here, as the rest of the entrances were shady alleys and muddy streets in the ever-raining Eldenport. I settled into a corner, half-hidden by shadows, with a clear view of the street.


    As I sat there, the cold air nipping at my skin, I watched the comings and goings of the night.


    The bar was noisy, with only a few rowdy patrons nursing their drinks, accompanied by women in heavy makeup and stronger perfume. One of the women approached me, her dress a bit too revealing. I could guess what she was about to offer.


    "Hello, sir... Would you like some drinking company?" she asked, leaning in close. I thought I might be lucky¡ªshe was the best-looking of the bunch. Or maybe it was just because I was wearing one of Gideon¡¯s expensive black coats. It was borrowed; I couldn¡¯t afford one like it just yet.


    "Not tonight, thank you," I replied politely. "I¡¯m waiting for a friend."


    She gave me a knowing smile and moved on, leaving me to my stalking job. I caught the briefest flash of a scowl as she walked away, but what could I say? I''m a romantic. Besides, I was especially looking forward to those soon-to-be-mine twenty crowns.


    After a while, I noticed a man moving in the shadows, trying to lean to the left side of the lane as he looked around nervously¡ªMr. Fontaine. He moved quite quickly, taking a left turn down a narrow alley.


    The thing about following people is that it''s quite difficult, especially when the person is vigilant. They tend to be on the lookout for anyone tailing them, particularly if they''re up to no good. I had to keep a very safe distance to avoid drawing any attention, which nearly caused me to lose him a couple of times.


    The dark alleys twisted and turned, the cobblestones slick with moisture and a bit of occasional mud, making it challenging and noisy to stay on his trail.


    Mr. Fontaine finally stopped at an old, dilapidated warehouse -the kind that gives a creepy feeling. He glanced around nervously before slipping inside.


    I hesitated for a moment, my instincts telling me to turn back, but I pushed forward. After all, there might be a woman ¡ª or man ¡ª inside and he might have a fetish for creepy places. I kept moving along the shadows as I slipped through the partially open door after him. Note to self, always close the door when doing shady stuff.


    Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit by a few stray beams of moonlight seeping through broken windows. I could barely see Mr. Fontaine. The air was thick with the smell of damp wood and something else¡ªsomething metallic and acrid, like old blood.


    Mr. Fontaine moved deeper into the warehouse, his footsteps echoing eerily in the vast, empty space. I kept my distance, trusting my knack for going unnoticed and being socially invisible. People had a way of overlooking me, but I¡¯d always chalked it up to having a forgettable face or an unassuming presence. It was, after all, a handy quirk, especially for this kind of job.


    Fontaine reached under his coat and pulled out a small, weathered box.


    Even from where I stood, I could see how he handled it from his body language. Repulsively, like he was touching something that might bite - a snake perhaps. His fingers hovered over the lid nervously for a few seconds, almost as if he didn¡¯t want to open it. What¡¯s in there, Mr. Fontaine? A deadly disease? A cursed trinket? Or is it just a box full of regrets? Well, I was almost having another take about leaving.


    He set the box down on a crate, hesitating before finally letting go, his hand recoiling like he¡¯d just placed a venomous snake on the table. I stifled a smirk. He looked like a man handling something utterly repulsive.


    Just then, I shifted my weight to move closer, and my oversized shoe¡ªa second-hand deal I¡¯d snatched up for half-price at a barter shop¡ªscraped loudly against the stone floor. Damn it. Three crowns for these shoes, and now they¡¯re costing me 20, I thought bitterly, realizing that my little slip had just blown my cover.


    Fontaine¡¯s head snapped up, his eyes wide with fear, and this time, he saw me. Of course, he wouldn¡¯t have noticed me if I hadn¡¯t tripped over my own stupid shoes. The worst investigator ever.


    "Who¡¯s there?" Fontaine demanded, his voice trembling slightly, full of fake bravery. Not that he could scare me.


    Well, no point in hiding now. I stepped out of the shadows, trying to muster some semblance of confidence. "Uh, sorry about that," I started, forcing a grin. "Would you believe me if I told you I was just passing by?"


    Fontaine¡¯s eyes narrowed, clearly not believing me, but instead of looking angry or suspicious, he seemed more relieved¡ªlike I wasn''t a threat he was expecting. But then there was a look of fear again. What¡¯s he so afraid of? I wondered. It wasn¡¯t me, that was for sure.


    Before Fontaine could respond, the warehouse door creaked open again, and a figure slipped inside¡ªa woman with very distinct red hair and a sharp gaze accompanied by a frown. So THERE WAS a woman involved, I thought. She moved with a predator¡¯s grace, resembling a cat, or lynx, her presence somewhat sleek and dangerous. She scanned the room quickly, and her eyes landed on me.


    "And who¡¯s this?" she asked, with narrowing eyes as she assessed me. I usually have no problems with people looking at me. But her gaze seemed especially discomforting. As she was deciding if she''d kill me or not. Please don''t.


    "Just a creep that was following me," Fontaine muttered, clearly trying to dismiss me as quickly as possible. He didn¡¯t care who I was¡ªhe just wanted me gone. That hurts my feelings.


    Creep? Really? I thought, keeping my sarcasm to myself. I prefer ¡®peculiar observer,¡¯ but yeah, I did follow him.


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    Before she could respond, heavy footsteps echoed through the warehouse, followed by a male voice.


    "Mr. Fontaine, we know you''re in there!" the voice boomed, rough and dangerous.


    The woman¡¯s eyes widened, and she moved quickly, snatching the box from Fontaine¡¯s hands. She glanced at me again, as if weighing her options, then grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and shoved me toward a pile of crates.


    "Hide!" she whispered, urgently. She crouched beside me, still clutching the box, her breathing controlled but tense. From her readiness, I knew she was used to it. What do you do for a living, Ms. Redhead?


    I didn¡¯t need to be told twice. I ducked behind the crates, my heart racing as I watched her settle into the shadows, becoming as still as I was. The air was thick with tension, and I knew that whatever was in that box, was bad news.


    She glanced at the box, her expression hardening. Slowly and carefully, she opened the lid just enough to peer inside. That¡¯s when it hit me¡ªa wave of dizziness, like I¡¯d just been thrown into a whirlpool. The world started spinning, colours blurred, and for a moment, it felt like I was somewhere else entirely. The sensation was overwhelming, almost suffocating.


    When I blinked again, I was back, my vision slowly clearing. The dizziness faded, leaving me with a pounding headache. I wanted to groan but knew better than to do it. How long had it been? Felt like an hour, but not really. I could see the woman still peering into the box, but I couldn¡¯t focus on what she was doing. Everything felt... off. As if I was slightly out of sync with the world around me.


    "Shhhh," she whispered. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, still trying to process what had just happened.


    It couldn''t be that I was THAT tired. But I had no time to think about it.


    From my hiding spot, I could hear the heavy footsteps of the men approaching, their voices growing louder as they neared the warehouse. The woman beside me remained tense, her eyes locked on the box as if it held all the answers¡ªor maybe all the dangers.


    Then, without a word, she stood, box in hand, and stepped out from our shared obscure hiding spot. As my heart beat heavier. What the hell is she doing?  I panicked. Surely they''d see me now, right? There was no way they wouldn''t notice an unassuming man behind such an eye-catching red-headed woman standing out from so close to me...


    Well, they didn''t.


    Their eyes went straight to her like she was a blinking firefly.


    But none of them noticed me, not even when they were practically on top of us.


    I was just background.


    Oh, I mused, a wry smile drawing on my face. Except for the tripping shoes, I''m still invisible... Charming.


    The men looked surprised to see her. "We were expecting Fontaine, not you," the shorter man said, his tone suspicious.


    "Where is it?" the taller man demanded. By then I could tell whatever was inside that box was the crux of this whole matter. At least it wasn¡¯t an affair... Maybe...


    The woman hesitated for a moment before showing them the box. "It''s here," she said, her voice steady. "But you don''t dare open it. We still don''t know its effects. Just be careful with it."


    "Come with us, both of you... You carry it." Main goon, the one seemingly less stupid, said.


    They clearly didn''t want to handle it, despite their bravado. They left it to the woman, and I could see the tension. The way they acted, it was as if that box contained poison.


    "How chivalrous of you...", said the lady, and I could hear the clear sarcasm in her voice.


    Mr. Fontaine seemed to become a pecking chicken, as it only nodded in a scared manner and observed the situation.


    Then, they started moving out of the warehouse, the redheaded in front, then Mr. Fontaine and the two goons. One of them even took a look inside and out to see if anyone was spying on them. I''m right here, dumbass.


    I debated whether to follow them or not. I knew I should mind my own business. After all, this wasn''t what I was hired to do. I could relay it to Gideon and he would know what to do. But the strangeness I felt towards the box and the whole situation compelled me to make a stupid decision.


    I decided to follow them.


    From a safe distance, of course, knowing full well this could risk my life. They led me through the dark, winding streets until we reached a carriage parked discreetly in an alley.


    The carriage was unassuming, and from the looks of it, whoever owned it didn''t try to draw attention. It even looked somewhat ominous. The curtains were closed, but there was light inside, and dancing shadows were cast on the windows as people moved within. I found a spot to hide nearby in the alley right beside it, straining to hear their conversation.


    "Welcome, Ms. Dufresne. You are quite the troublemaker, aren''t you?" A male voice rumbled through the air, and I assumed it belonged to their ''boss''. The man''s voice was intense and low, with a slight foreign accent, but he seemed very well-spoken. "Mr. Fontaine, you have given me quite a bit of trouble as well by acquiring this item. I will reimburse you for it, though. But I will need you to hand it to me."


    Mr. Fontaine, with an audibly distressed voice, then spoke, "When I acquired this, I didn''t know it would bring me so much trouble. Someone made me think that whoever was after it was a thief, not such a polite and civilized person." His words carried a tinge of resentment.


    "Ah, Ms. Dufresne does have a knack for spicing things up." I could hear from his intonation that he was smiling. "Now, I need you to hand it over to me."


    Mr. Fontaine, feeling relieved, said, "Thank you. I paid a fortune for it. I''m glad to be rid of it." ,


    Ms. Dufresne clicked her tongue in irritation but said nothing.


    "That one is very dangerous," Ms. Dufresne started, "It shouldn''t be sold in the auction."


    "Well, Ms. Dufresne, who buys it and whatever they are going to use it for has no relation to me whatsoever. Those are the rules of the auction. Now, please..."


    There was a brief pause, and I could only assume that Ms. Dufresne was handing over the box.


    "Isn''t it quite peculiar how these things come to be? This one, for instance, is... strange, to say the least." As he spoke, I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me, reminiscent of the very same sensation I felt when the redheaded woman¡ªnow Ms. Dufresne¡ªopened the box for the first time, although not as intense.


    As I blinked, the world seemed to spin. I don''t drink, but I was sure that was how drunk people felt. My vision blurred, and I felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion like I was shackled to the damp alley. As my eyelids grew heavier by the second, I heard his voice, dripping with polite sarcasm and amusement.


    "Why didn''t you tell me you''ve brought company, Ms. Dufresne?"


    Suddenly, the dizziness faded, and there I stood, regaining command of my body once more.


    "Shit..."


    Panic set in as I realized he was referring to me. I tried to remain as still as possible, hoping they wouldn''t notice me, but I knew it was too late. I should''ve dashed away like Gideon taught me to, the moment I saw the two men back in the warehouse.


    I heard footsteps approaching, and then the unmistakable presence of one of the goons standing right next to me, blocking my exit. The man in the carriage continued in his formal, old-fashioned manner.


    "Young man, why don''t you come out and join us?"


    I wondered how he knew I was ''young'' or how he had sniffed me out.


    At this point, I knew I had no choice but to confront them.


    "Would you believe me if I told you I was just passing by?" Sarcasm was my usual defence mechanism when I was nervous.


    The red-haired lady looked at me with a face that asked, "Again?" I could only offer a weak smile in return.


    The man smiled lightly, with a calm demeanour and a posture that seemed royal. His presence was imposing¡ªtall and lean with a finely tailored dark green overcoat and black inner clothes that exuded both wealth and power. Despite his somewhat normal and amiable face, he had an uncanny ability to catch the eyes of everyone in the room. His long, wavy hair reached his shoulders, giving him a slightly unkempt look.


    His sharp, angular face, framed by high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes, seemed to see right through you. I could have sworn they glimmered ever so faintly.


    Every instinct I had screamed at me, louder than any other time I¡¯d faced danger.


    "Why don''t you take a seat?" he asked in a commanding tone. I felt an inexplicable compulsion to obey. It was almost like an order I couldn''t refuse. And I didn''t.


    As I stepped into the carriage, the scent of polished stained wood and leather hit me. The space was tight, dimly lit by a small lamp overhead. Dark, luxurious fabric covered the seats, giving off a quiet sense of wealth without flaunting it. Everything was arranged with simplicity.


    One of the goons, the taller one, still standing outside the carriage, shot a glance at Mr. Fontaine. Now that I was closer, I noticed his dark hair was almost black, with a scar running down his left cheek. His thin lips barely moved, giving him a constant, unsettling grin. The other goon, shorter and stockier, had light blonde hair and yellowed teeth that stood out against his pale skin. He seemed more focused on keeping an eye on Fontaine than on me, his small eyes darting around nervously.


    "All right, how can I help you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.


    The man spared me a curious glance and turned to Ms. Dufresne. "Is he someone you know?"


    She shook her head. "No, sir. He just followed Fontaine to the warehouse... I guess he followed us twice, but he''s not someone I know."


    Mr. Fontaine stiffened at the mention of his name, his eyes darting nervously between the boss and me, clearly unsure of what to expect next. The taller goon cleared his throat, as if reminding Fontaine to stay in line.


    The man¡¯s gaze shifted from me to the box resting on his lap, his voice soft and almost coaxing.


    "Try opening it, young lad."


    He pushed the box towards me. I instinctively held it, feeling the coldness of the wood.


    I hesitated, a wave of unease washing over me as I remembered the two instances where I had been affected, and how he had essentially been commanding me. Could that be explained by any logical answer? A type of gas in the air? Was that box perhaps a container for a toxic substance that could instantly affect some people while not affecting others? Was his voice permeated with sound waves that manipulated targeted people? I guess I just didn''t want to accept the most obvious answer.


    "Can I not?" I asked in a final bid for desperate refusal.


    The boss¡¯s eyes gleamed, almost literally, with interest as he tilted his head. "Well, that might be tricky. Of course, I could make you forget what you¡¯ve come to know today, but it would be... rather forceful. And I cannot guarantee your mind would emerge unscathed. There are always... side effects to the... procedure. However, if you open it, I¡¯ll overlook your earlier transgression. How about that for a deal?"


    I didn''t think I had much of a choice. I didn''t want to know whatever procedure that was.


    "Just opening it, right?"


    With a reluctant sigh, I reached for the box lid. My hands trembled slightly as I began to open it, the sense of unease growing stronger as I felt the slight resistance of the lid. As I opened the box, I felt a strange pull towards it, almost like I wanted to touch it, whatever was inside it. My fingers twitched with the urge to reach out. The boss watched me intently, then closed the box just as I was about to touch the leather wrap over it.


    "And what is your name?" he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.


    "I... my name is Kieran... Crowe," I replied.


    Once again, I couldn¡¯t refuse. I should have answered with a different name. Gideon taught me that one of the taboos when getting caught was to give them your real name.


    "Interesting," the boss murmured. "Do you know what''s inside the box?"


    I shook my head, sincerely. "I have no idea."


    The boss clapped his hands together, a look of amusement on his face.


    "Then, I will leave this in your care, along with a decision. You may open it, or not. If you choose not to open the box within a week, I will extend my forgiveness to you, Mr. Fontaine, and Ms. Dufresne. However, should you decide to open it, you will owe me a favour." He then handed it to me, and I felt the weight of its significance immediately.


    The boss then turned to his associates. "Mr. Fontaine, you are dismissed. Ms. Dufresne, you will accompany us."


    As they prepared to leave, the boss handed Mr. Fontaine three promissory notes. The smallest note issued by the imperial bank was worth 500 Crowns. I did the math in my head; that was, at the very least, 1,500 Crown. The realization that the item in my hands was worth such a steep price made me even more anxious.


    "What have I gotten myself into..."


    I felt an overwhelming urge to distance myself from this object, but the realization struck me¡ªif I opened it, I would owe a favour worth at least 1,500 Crowns. That is 5 years of comfortable living expenses. All tied to a shady mob-like boss, and a bizarre night.


    The boss gave me one final, chilling instruction. "Remember not to say a word about what happened today to anyone."


    I watched as they disappeared into the night, leaving Mr. Fontaine and me alone in the street. The box felt heavy in my hands, the weight of the decision it represented pressing down on me.


    ~~~~~


    Ding Dong


    Gideon Moreau''s coffee time was interrupted by the sound of the door chime as another person entered the reserved restaurant. A figure approached Gideon''s table with a confident yet nonchalant stride. Gideon looked up as the man took a seat across from him.


    "Oh, Gideon, my friend, you wouldn''t fathom what I''ve stumbled upon," the man said, his deep, foreign voice tinged with playfulness.


    Gideon¡¯s expression was a mix of surprise and wariness. The presence of this peculiar acquaintance always made him slightly uncomfortable¡ªnot out of fear, but because of the constant reminder of the world he had been drawn into. It wasn¡¯t a world he liked being a part of. And whenever the man wore that amused smile, Gideon knew headaches were sure to follow. Dealing with someone like him, who navigated this world so effortlessly, only deepened his discomfort.


    He had a feeling this time wouldn¡¯t be any different.


    "What is it this time?" Gideon asked, trying to keep his voice steady.


    The man leaned back slightly, his eyes gleaming. "What is the name of your assistant, the one you mentioned previously?"


    Gideon frowned, feeling a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. "Why do you ask, Sigmund?"


    Sigmund smiled faintly, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. "Was it Kieran Crowe, perchance? Can you guess what he was doing? He was involved in the pursuit¡ªor should I say ''investigation''¡ªof the same man I was looking for. The one who had procured a certain relic I had set my eyes onto."


    Gideon''s eyes widened in shock as the realization hit him. "No way. Kieran... and you... both after Mr. Fontaine?" He leaned forward, his discomfort turning into a more restless anxiety. "What did you do to him, Sigmund?"


    Sigmund''s expression remained composed, his tone almost serene. "Rest easy, Gideon. I didn¡¯t harm him. But I was... curious. His destiny intrigued me. Too much of a coincidence, wouldn¡¯t you say? So, I offered him a choice. The boy is now faced with a decision, one that may shape his path."


    Gideon¡¯s restlessness didn¡¯t subside. "You can¡¯t just play with people like this. He¡¯s young, he¡¯s¡ª" He cut himself off before his worry grew further. "What kind of relic was it, Sigmund?"


    A sudden realization dawned on him. ''Don''t be cursed or sentient type.''


    Sigmund¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of mystery lacing his words. "The specifics elude me. There¡¯s something... peculiar about it. Dangerous, even. Almost as if it¡¯s developing a will of its own. But, of course, I cannot say for certain."


    Gideon¡¯s brows furrowed in concern. "A dangerous item, possibly with a will of its own? Cursed and sentient, Sigmund. For God¡¯s sake!"


    Sigmund simply shrugged, his calm demeanour unshaken. "Don''t be uncouth, Gideon... Time will reveal its true nature, I¡¯m sure. For now, it¡¯s in Kieran¡¯s hands. A test, if you will."


    Gideon shook his head, rubbing his temples, the unease gnawing at him. "This is lunacy. You can''t just¡ª"


    Sigmund interrupted, his tone firm yet still calm. "Let¡¯s leave that to destiny, shall we?" He paused, then his gaze grew more intent, and his playful mood switched instantly to a serious and commanding one. "Now, what about the matter I asked you to look into? How¡¯s the progress?"


    Gideon sighed, his discomfort still lingering but knowing there was nothing he could do. "So far, not much to say. I¡¯ve been digging, but nothing out of the ordinary." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "However, I did find out that the Director of Foreign Relations has been seen with a tall woman who always wears a veil."


    Sigmund''s eyes flickered with interest. "The Director, you say? How intriguing. It must be her, then, isn¡¯t it?"


    "Yes," Gideon confirmed, his voice steady. "From what I¡¯ve gathered, she¡¯s been seen in his company more than once."


    Sigmund leaned back in his chair, considering the information. "Interesting. If she''s involved, you can stop investigating. It¡¯s too... dangerous."


    Gideon nodded, the weight of the investigation pressing on him. "Right... But I still think we should be cautious. This situation is more tangled than it seems."


    "Agreed," Sigmund replied, his tone thoughtful.


    With that, Sigmund stood up, smoothing out his coat. "I¡¯ll be in touch, Gideon."


    Gideon watched as Sigmund left the restaurant, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

 Chapter 2: To open or not to open (2)

    The street was silent as the ominous carriage vanished through the winding roads.


    The night felt unusually quiet as if the city was holding its breath. I''m sure there was life all around us, but only the crickets appeared awake.


    Mr. Fontaine and I stood in awkward silence, the box in my hands weighing heavily on us. Should I just leave it in an alleyway? Whatever...


    At last, Mr. Fontaine sighed, though I wasn''t sure if it was in relief or depression. Most likely the former.


    Whatever it was, it carried no good omen.


    "Uhm... Well, young stalker..." His voice finally breaking the silence. "Don''t ever talk about what happened tonight and..." His eyes flicked to the box I was holding as if seeing a very dangerous creature. "Don''t open it. Your life will change the moment you do."


    It kind of already has, Mr. Fontaine. I voiced it internally.


    I expected to see a flicker of greed in his eyes, because of the steep price it held. But instead, there was something else¡ªresignation, perhaps even mockery. It was sort of strange seeing this man, who moments ago was so meek and silent, now speaking with a kind of hollow authority. I guess I''m really background.


    "Mr. Fontaine," I asked, keeping my voice low, "what is inside?"


    He hesitated, his gaze drifting away from mine as if the question itself was an inconvenience. "... Uhm..." His expression was one of frustration like he wished the whole ordeal would just disappear. But I wasn¡¯t about to let it go when he was the only person I could question. I waited, giving him an obnoxious amount of time to answer hoping the awkwardness between us to force it out of him.


    Finally, he sighed again, sounding tired and defeated, settling my victory. "To be honest, I have no idea. Never opened it."


    I studied his face, searching for any sign of deceit, but all I saw was weariness. He looked back at me.


    "What I know is..." he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "that all the previous owners either went crazy or died shortly after acquiring it." He then looked at me with visible fear. Do you want it back, perhaps?


    "You don''t mean a night''s short, right...?"


    He didn''t answer. Only looked at me with deep irritation at my sarcastic comment. That''s my defense mode, hey.


    A chill ran down my spine. There was no drama in his voice, no exaggeration¡ªjust the cold, hard truth. It made me wonder how far he¡¯d gone to entangle himself with something so dangerous. But before I could press him further, he shifted his weight, clearly eager to distance himself from the entire situation. Please don''t leave me alone now. You''re the one with a wary wife.


    "You¡¯re better off forgetting you ever saw it," he added, almost like an afterthought. "Trust me."


    But how could I? The box in my hands felt heavier than before as if it held more than just its physical contents. Despite his warnings, I knew this wasn¡¯t something I could walk away from.


    The night seemed to close around us, the city¡¯s usual noise muted, waiting for something to happen. Mr. Fontaine gave me one last glance before turning to leave, his steps echoing softly on the cobblestone.


    I guess he''d look for a carriage or something.


    The Old Quarter stretched out before me like a city within a city, its cracked cobblestones glistening with dampness and mud, and its narrow streets twisting into themselves as though ashamed to be seen.


    I guess this place is even more depressing at night.


    The shadows swayed in an awkward rhythm, cast by faint flickers of oil lanterns and stray candlelight spilling from the windows covered by curtains. It reminded me of my short-lived career as a lamplighter. Romantic, right? Hardly. Back then, I was tempted to pinch a few spare lanterns¡ªor even the copper gas lines¡ªbut who would buy them from someone with soot-covered fingers? I''m still pondering about my quirk of being ignored and how it could mean profit if I ever decided to follow a career as a thief.


    Even now, as I walked through its maze, I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of being watched¡ªnot by people, but by the walls themselves, which seemed alive with mildew and stories too stubborn to fade. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that didn¡¯t promise peace but whispered threats if you listened too closely.


    Why do I always end up here? I muttered under my breath, kicking a loose stone that clattered too loudly in the silence. I must be the worst combination of bad decisions and luck.


    The box weighed heavy in my arms, its edges pressing into my skin as if it wanted to remind me it was still there. My shoes scraped against the uneven cobblestones, each step announcing my presence to the entire quarter. Should I buy another pair? Not that I had the money right now. These cursed things had already cost me three crowns at a thrift shop¡ªand half my dignity.


    I half-expected some shadow to peel away from an alley and demand to know why I was trespassing. But, as usual, no one paid attention to me. Hey, I¡¯m right here.


    Without realizing it, my steps had carried me to King¡¯s Quarter, the adjacent neighbourhood. Quieter than the Old Quarter¡ªnot peaceful, just... quieter. The streets here were narrower, the buildings shorter, and the atmosphere just slightly less suffocating. A regal title for a place filled with sagging roofs, peeling shutters, and windows lit by flickering candles.


    Ah, King¡¯s Quarter. Where rats live like dukes and dreams of nobility come to die. If the monarchy named this place, they must¡¯ve had a wicked sense of humour.


    This was where the working class congregated. Shoemakers, seamstresses, bakers. Honest work. Too honest for my taste, but at least the walls didn¡¯t threaten to eat you alive.


    It wasn¡¯t until I stood outside the chipped wooden door of my building, staring at the rusted metal number barely hanging onto its hinges, that I realized where I was.


    Really? The corner of my mouth twitched into a bitter smile. My feet had carried me here out of habit as if my body knew the path better than I did. So much for self-determination.


    I shifted the box under one arm and fished the key out of my coat pocket. The keyhole fought back, sticking as it always did, before grudgingly letting me in. The air inside hit me like a damp towel. Thick with the smell of mildew and something faintly metallic¡ªold water pipes or maybe a leaking radiator. Probably both, considering the overall charm of the place.


    The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a lone candle at the far end, perched precariously on a rusted sconce. It had almost burned down to the base, leaving the air tinged with wax and smoke. The wallpaper was peeling, a sickly green shade that made it feel like the building itself was ill. Green of all the colours. My apartment was at the end of the hall, marked by a door so warped it didn¡¯t quite close properly unless you shouldered it like a battering ram.


    Inside, the space wasn¡¯t much better. The floorboards creaked, each one lodging a formal protest against my intrusion. The walls were blotched with mould in places the peeling wallpaper couldn¡¯t pretend to hide.


    The kitchen was a masterpiece of neglect. A gas fixture hung above the stove, but it had long been cut off¡ªprobably stolen by my enterprising neighbour. I¡¯d been left to rely on oil lamps and candles that burned down faster than my patience. I¡¯d discovered this charming reality shortly after signing a one-year lease. It had felt like a steal at the time. Turns out, it was the kind of steal where I was the one getting robbed.


    I glanced at the flimsy lock on the door and chuckled to myself. I could probably leave this thing wide open, and no one would bother. Hell, if a thief walked in, they might drop a coin out of pity. Maybe even organize a fundraiser.


    Setting the box down on the rickety table, I gave the room a once-over. It hadn¡¯t improved since yesterday. Or the day before that. A loaf of bread sat in the cupboard¡ªa loaf so stale it could double as a weapon.


    Well, at least no one¡¯s stealing that, I muttered, closing the cupboard with a sigh. Unless they¡¯re planning on using it in a duel.


    The chair groaned as I sank into it. For a moment, I just stared at the box. Its polished wood gleamed faintly in the dim light of an oil lamp, its brass edges catching the glow. It sat there, silent, ominous, and annoyingly smug, like it knew it held the answers to questions I wasn¡¯t ready to ask.


    Leaning forward, I tapped its edge with a finger. Alright, box. Got a name? Address? How about an invoice? I hear your going rate¡¯s a thousand five hundred crowns, minimum. That true, or are you just here to bankrupt me in spirit?


    The box didn¡¯t reply. Of course, it didn¡¯t. But its presence felt loud enough. Something about it tugged at the edges of my thoughts, like a whisper I couldn¡¯t quite catch.


    Great. A box that glares. I leaned back, running a hand through my hair. The night felt like a blur, every moment from the warehouse to now layered with questions I wasn¡¯t ready to answer. My body had just moved on its own, dragging me back here like it knew something I didn¡¯t.


    The room was still, the kind of stillness that made you feel watched. But no matter how much I stared at the box, it didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t shift, didn¡¯t do anything.


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    I sat there for what felt like hours but couldn¡¯t have been more than a few minutes, just staring at the box. Its edges gleamed faintly, mocking me, as if daring me to open it.


    What am I even doing here? I muttered, leaning forward. My elbows rested on the wobbly table, the wood groaning like it was sharing my mood. I hear you. I felt the weight of the night pressing on me¡ªon my chest, my arms, my mind. Everything felt heavy. Maybe I was that tired after the whole ordeal. It was late in the night, but I felt like days had gone since the warehouse incident.


    My eyes flicked to the threadbare curtains. Beyond them, the pale light of the moon shone over the King''s Quarter. Somewhere out there, Mr. Fontaine was probably climbing into a fancy carriage, off to sip brandy and forget this whole mess. And the red-haired woman? She looked like she belonged in some well-kept mansion, like a rich heir, not skulking around mouldy warehouses.


    Even the two goons¡ªwhat was it about them? They looked rough but clean. Like they could blend into the shadows of the city and still somehow come out cleaner than me. Now that I think about it, I was the only one in place. I could surely win the competition for being a resident of the Old Quarter if they were my opponents.


    Everyone I¡¯d met tonight¡ªeveryone¡ªseemed to have a place. A role. And here I was, sitting in an apartment so run-down that the local beggars probably avoided it out of pity.


    I sighed, leaning back in my chair, and that¡¯s when it happened. I heard a cracking of wood.


    With a sharp snap, the back leg of the chair gave out sending me straight to the cold hard floor.


    It wasn¡¯t a slow, graceful collapse. It was immediate, brutal, and entirely unforgiving. My ribs bore the full brunt of the impact against the chair''s back.


    One moment, I was pondering about the unfairness of life; the next, the universe was enforcing its unfairness upon me. Ironic, to say so.


    "Fucking ironic."


    For a moment, I just sat there on the floor, stunned. My breath caught in my throat, and before I knew it, I was...


    "hahaha"


    Laughing?


    Not the good kind, either¡ªthe sharp, bitter kind that hurt your ribs and burned your throat. Oh, sure, I gasped between the jagged breaths.


    "This is exactly what I needed. The damned chair¡¯s joined the rebellion."


    The laughter stopped as quickly as it had started. My chest tightened, and my eyes burned, but no tears came. I wanted to cry, to scream, to punch the wall and curse at the universe, but I couldn¡¯t even muster that much energy. Like I''ve been sucked dry. I just sat there, crumpled on the floor with splinters under my boots and the weight of everything pressing down on me.


    My gaze drifted back to the box on the table. It sat there, perfectly balanced, untouched by my chaos. Of course, it¡¯s untouched. This piece of wood didn''t belong here, in my hands...


    I dragged myself up, my knees creaking as much as the broken chair. The room felt smaller somehow, the air thicker. My thoughts circled themselves, chasing questions that had no answers. Why was this box so damn important? Why did they all act like it could kill us just by existing? Lastly.


    "What the fuck do you hold?"


    And then a new question whispered in the back of my mind: What if opening it could change everything?


    "A thousand-five-hundred-debt will surely change my miserable life."


    But should I consider it a debt? What if it is an opportunity?


    I hesitated, my hands trembling as they hovered over the latch. My reflection wavered on the polished brass edge, distorted and faint, like even the box couldn¡¯t decide if it wanted me to see my laughable self.


    ¡°Alright, fine!¡± My voice cracked as I slammed my hands onto the table. ¡°Worst case scenario it IS poisonous and I die, right?"


    Like a rich man would use such an elaborate and expensive killing method on a poor bastard like me.


    My fingers fumbled with the latch, with a simple brass lock ¡ªno locket¡ª, the cold metal biting into my skin. With a snap that sounded far louder than it should have, the lid creaked open, and the air in the room seemed to shift. I held my breath as I peeled the lid back fully, revealing what lay inside.


    A book.


    Wrapped in what looked like leather, but not the kind you¡¯d find in a cobbler¡¯s shop. The texture was uneven, marked with faint ridges and strange imperfections, like it had been skinned from something that wasn¡¯t entirely natural. It glinted faintly under the flickering oil lamp, exuding an unnerving sense of presence.


    ¡°A thousand five hundred crowns¡­ for a bloody book?¡± I muttered, lifting it off the table like it might explain itself. It looked ancient, almost like it¡¯d crumble if I breathed too hard. Maybe it held the meaning of life, or maybe it was just some sick joke. The leather¡ªor whatever this stuff was¡ªwas cracked and etched with swirling patterns that seemed to shift under the dim light. No title, no labels, and no hint of what it was. Just a plain black cover that somehow felt heavier than it had any right to be.


    I flipped it open, half-expecting some dramatic revelation¡ªa treasure map, a cursed warning of the impending apocalypse, or the mad scribblings of someone long dead. I''ll take the treasure map, thanks...


    No way, right?


    Unfortunately, the pages were blank. Every last one.


    ¡°Isn''t that lovely?¡± I muttered under my breath. ¡°Now I owe a favour worth a thousand five hundred crowns to god knows who... And all I¡¯ve got for it is the world¡¯s priciest fucking diary. Real generous, pal.¡±


    And then it hit me.


    I¡¯d opened the damned box.


    My stomach plummeted as chills went down my spine, and my blood turned to ice as my gaze locked on the blank book, sitting there on the table like it owned the place. That man¡ªthe refined one from the carriage, with his unsettling calm and veiled threats¡ªwhat if he finds out? What would he do if he knew? Somehow I knew he would.


    My hands gripped the edge of the table so hard that the rough wood dug into my palms. That thing didn¡¯t move. It didn¡¯t need to.


    Why did I open it? My breath quickened as my thoughts spiralled. Why couldn¡¯t I just leave it alone? Why couldn¡¯t I just listen for once? Why, why, why, why, why?


    WHY?


    The words slipped out in a low murmur, then louder, growing with each repetition. ¡°Why, why, why, why?¡± My voice weakly echoed, bouncing off the peeling walls of my cheap room.


    I shoved myself away from the table, the splinters from the broken chair creaking in protest as I scrambled to my feet. My hands tangled in my hair, pulling at the messy strands as I paced the room in frantic, uneven steps.


    ¡°No, no, no, no, no!¡± The word burst from me, a jagged shout of desperation. Each syllable cut through the air like a whip. ¡°This isn¡¯t me. I...¡± I stopped mid-sentence, my chest heaving, each breath a battle against the chaos in my head.


    You...


    My eyes shot back to the table, to the book, sitting there like some smug overseer of my unravelling. ¡°Wait... What the fuck is wrong with me?¡± I spat, slamming my fist into the wall. Pain flared up my arm, but it felt distant. Unnaturally distant¡ªsecondary to the storm inside my skull.


    The room felt smaller than it already was. Smaller than the damned cubicle it always had been. The cracked window let in just enough moonlight to make everything feel worse. Pale, cold, mocking. Even the bloody moon looks smug tonight.


    I dropped back into the remains of the chair, its fractured frame creaking beneath me. My head fell into my hands, my fingers pressing against the back of my ears. My knuckles dug into the bone as hard as I could, trying to feel some semblance of pain. A habit I¡¯d always had whenever dealing with a headache.


    And then the silence. Thick, suffocating, and oddly clarifying.


    Something was wrong. Something was damn wrong.


    Not just with the empty book. Not just with the situation.


    With me. With my very self.


    My hands fell away from my face as the realisation hit like a punch to the gut. A creepy smile drawing on my face. The anger, the panic¡ªit wasn¡¯t entirely mine. It had been there, yes, but it wasn¡¯t natural. It felt foreign. Coiled. Planted.


    ¡°Ever since I¡¯ve been near this thing...¡± I whispered, the words trembling as they left my mouth.


    The warehouse. Miss Dufresne.


    I remembered now. She¡¯d opened the box in front of me. The moment the seal was broken, something had shifted. I¡¯d felt it, even if I hadn¡¯t understood it at the time. That suffocating pull, like invisible hands locking me in place, drew my attention to it.


    That¡¯s when it started. Or that''s when it intensified.


    The impulsiveness. The reckless decisions. The emotional chaos. The insanity drawing nearer... Well, this one''s always been there.


    The connection.


    I wiped a trembling hand across my face, the roughness of my palm grounding me, if only for a moment. My voice came out hoarse, broken as if I had a dry throat. I probably did.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been in my head this whole time, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    It didn¡¯t answer, of course.


    ¡°It¡¯s you,¡± I muttered, the words tasting sour as they left my lips. Anger taking over. This one I could feel was purely mine. "You little fucker..."


    The fucking thing wasn¡¯t just an object. It had done something¡ªto me, to my thoughts, to the very core of how I acted. I mean, I curse, a lot, but I''m not this mentally unstable. Well, most of the time.


    I stood slowly, my legs shaking under the weight of my own fear and frustration. My gaze locked on the book, and for the first time in my life, I took a step back from a fight I couldn¡¯t comprehend.


    I hit the wall, sliding down it until I was seated on the floor. My knees pulled up to my chest as I stared at the book with a mixture of terror and bitter anger.


    ¡°Great,¡± I said, the sarcasm dripping from my voice like venom. ¡°Not only do I owe some rich sociopath a favour, but now I¡¯ve got a damn haunted notebook babysitting my brain. Really stellar life choices, Crowe.¡±


    My breathing slowed as the sarcasm became my shield. Bad habit of mine. ¡°You¡¯re not going to ask me to write my memoirs, are you?¡± I glanced at the table, half-expecting it to respond. ¡°Not that my life story would fill more than a page."


    The book remained, of course, silent.


    "No wonder you''re blank."


    I leaned my head back against the wall, letting out a shaky laugh that sounded too much like a sob. ¡°And now I¡¯m talking to a book. Brilliant. Truly.¡±


    But as I stared at it, that static-like pull crept back into my mind, stronger now that the air had settled. My curiosity itched, my fingers twitching. What if I write in it?


    Yeah, what could possibly go wrong, right?


    Fumbling through my coat pocket, I found the stub of a pencil Gideon had left there during our last case. My hand trembled as I sat back at the table, the book waiting, open, its blank pages somehow more menacing than if they¡¯d been covered in cryptic text.


    ¡°Well,¡± I muttered, tapping the pencil against the edge of the table. ¡°Care for a chat, maybe?¡±


    With a deep breath, I wrote, half-expecting nothing to happen.


    ¡°What are you?¡±


    The pencil had barely left the page when an answer appeared beneath my question, sharp and immediate. No delay, no fanfare. Just one word, burned into the paper like they had always been there:


    What am I?


    The answer was maddeningly cryptic, almost childlike in its simplicity like a kid repeating a difficult question to which they didn''t know the answer.


    My brows furrowed as I stared at the answer. I couldn¡¯t tell if the heat rising in my chest was anger or plain, unfiltered terror. ¡°Really...? You¡¯re just a damn piece of paper.¡±


    A piece of paper that writes on its own.


    But something tugged at me, deeper than the words themselves. They weren¡¯t just an answer¡ªthey were a reflection, a mirror I hadn¡¯t asked for, showing me my own confusion. My own self. I didn¡¯t know if I was speaking to the book, or if it was somehow speaking through me.


    Frustration gnawed at me, and I couldn''t resist writing another question, the hand holding the pencil a bit shaky. You can''t judge me, can you?


    What do you do?


    The response came slower this time, the ink dragging itself across the page like a hesitant whisper:


    What do you need?


    The vagueness of the answer only deepened my unease. My fingers gripped the pencil tighter as the room seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible ring right behind my ear.


    I leaned back, forcing myself to think. ¡°What do I need?¡± I muttered, half to myself, half to the book.


    ¡°I need a straight answer, for starters.¡±


    The notebook offered none.


    I leaned forward again, tapping the pencil against my chin. Maybe it needed a more direct question¡ªor maybe it thrived on my confusion. I decided to test its limits, writing carefully this time, my hand trembling less as I tried to focus. Think, Kieran, what do I need?


    I need money.


    The ink appeared swiftly, sharper this time, the letters etched with an unnerving clarity:


    The weight of gold. The shadows beneath.


    I blinked, rereading the phrase as a chill ran down my spine. ¡°What the hell does that mean?¡± I whispered, more to myself than the book. The answer felt poetic, deliberate¡ªand completely, utterly, useless. But as the words sank in, a deeper part of me stirred, connecting dots I didn¡¯t know were there.


    And then, the pain hit. Stronger than before, accompanied by a vast sense of weakness that couldn''t be just anaemia.


    A sharp, stabbing sensation erupted behind my eyes, like hot needles piercing my skull. I clutched my head, the pencil clattering to the table as I doubled over. My vision blurred, the room spinning in jagged, surreal angles.


    ¡°What... the... fuck...¡± The words escaped between gritted teeth, my breath ragged. The pain ebbed slightly after a few agonizing moments, leaving a throbbing ache in its place. My hand shook as I reached for the notebook again, its blank pages staring back at me, as indifferent as ever.


    I glared at it, my voice cracking from the dryness of my throat, as I muttered, ¡°This is going to cost me, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    The notebook didn¡¯t respond. It didn¡¯t need to. The price had already been paid. I could feel that if I used it again, I might have more problems than before.


    The pencil stub lay discarded on the table, and for a fleeting moment, I considered tossing the entire book out of the window. But something stopped me¡ªan invisible tether, an insidious curiosity that refused to let go.


    "This isn''t right..."


    I closed the notebook with a trembling hand, its leather cover feeling colder than before, like it had been sitting in frost. My head swam as I tried to piece together what I¡¯d learned, if anything.


    The cryptic answers. The pain. The undeniable pull of the notebook itself. It wasn¡¯t just an object. It was something far more dangerous than I could possibly grasp. And more important: Something alive.


    As I sat there, the room grew quieter. The distant hum of the city faded, leaving only the sound of my shallow breaths and the faint creak of the floorboards. My gaze drifted back to the notebook, its swirling patterns shifting faintly under the dim light.


    My voice came out weak, tinged with bitter sarcasm. ¡°Right. Babysitting a haunted piece of stationery. That¡¯s exactly what I needed in my life.¡±


    The silence deepened, oppressive yet strangely comforting. And then, with no prompting, a new line of text appeared on the cover of the book itself, faint but undeniable:


    What am I?


    I froze, my breath catching in my throat as the words seemed to shimmer, disappearing as quickly as they¡¯d appeared, almost leaving me thinking if I was hallucinating.


    Right, that''s what I should''ve thought in the beginning.


    After all, it all seemed unreal.


    My hands trembled as I shoved the notebook shut, shoving it to the far end of the table like it might bite.


    I sort of know now why they treated this like a venomous snake.


    This wasn¡¯t normal. None of this was normal. My thoughts raced, each one more panicked than the last, but one thing was clear.


    I wasn¡¯t just dealing with an artefact.


    I was dealing with something sentient¡ªand it wanted something from me. Maybe my blood, maybe my soul. Or maybe my thoughts.


    I slumped back into another chair, that groaned under my weight, hoping it wouldn''t snap like the other one.


    ¡°What the hell have I gotten myself into?¡± I muttered, my voice hoarse and broken. But the question lingered in the air, unanswered, as the book sat there, silent yet watchful.

 Chapter 3: A new case (part 1)

    I woke up on the floor.


    Not in bed. Not even in a chair. Just lying there like a drunken sot thrown out of an inn¡ªwithout the pleasure, the ardor, and most of all, the ale.


    Not that I had been drinking, of course. And my body was suffering for it. I hurt everywhere¡ªlike I''d been trampled by a row of very angry horses. My back complained, my shoulders were as rigid as cast iron, and my head throbbed with a slow, ponderous beat that made me flinch at the very idea of moving.


    I opened one eye¡ªimmediate regret. The pale grey morning light streaming through the window made the throbbing in my skull that much worse. A dull, lingering nausea¡ªnot the brain-scrambling agony of last night, but still potent enough to tell me something was wrong.


    The book.


    It sat on the shaky table like an uninvited guest that wouldn¡¯t leave. Darker than the shadows that pooled around it, swallowing the faint light instead of reflecting it¡ªlike a void in the universe, waiting to be filled. It did not stir, did not throb with otherworldly power, did not whisper strange secrets into my half-sleeping mind. It simply was¡ªmotionless, quiet, yet somehow more there than anything else in the room.


    A liar of a book.


    It only took a glance to know it wasn¡¯t natural.


    I exhaled sharply, raking a hand through my hair. I must have fainted at some point¡ªprobably after that lovely plunge into existential horror and paranoia.


    And rather than, you know, getting into my uneven, uncomfortable and dusty bed, like a sensible person would, I had apparently decided that the icy wooden floor was a far superior alternative.


    Yes.


    Fucking


    Brilliant.


    My body felt strange, like I had to consciously remind it how to work. My muscles protested, my back was an old church bell fissured from overuse, and my head rang like a war drum in the distance. And, of course, to top it all off¡ª


    The window was open.


    Of course it was.


    Now my entire room was colder than a crypt.


    ¡°Great,¡± I muttered, pushing myself upright. My joints creaked, vertebrae grinding like corroded gears in a machine long overdue for repair. My body, protesting, seemed to be questioning me¡ªwhy are we like this?


    Regardless, I had work to do. As much as I¡¯d love to sit here and conduct a thorough postmortem on the slow-motion catastrophe that was my life, I still had obligations. Gideon would be expecting some kind of report on Mr. Fontaine¡¯s nocturnal activities¡ªor lack thereof. That meant dragging myself upright, pretending to be a functional human, and surviving another day of going through the motions.


    The book.


    I looked at it again, debating whether I could just leave it here. Forget about it. Walk away and pretend it was someone else¡¯s problem.


    But leaving it unattended seemed¡­ irresponsible. Like turning my back on a fire and assuming it wouldn¡¯t spread.


    I exhaled, buttoned up my coat, and tucked the book into my inside pocket, where no prying eyes could see it. It felt heavier than yesterday¡ªlike something had settled inside it overnight. Or maybe that was just smoke curling around my ribs.


    The door, because my life was just that fantastic, chose to fight me on my way out. The blasted thing refused to budge, forcing me to wrestle with the lock until it finally gave way, letting me stumble into the streets of King¡¯s Quarter.


    A damp chill hung in the air, the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. The city was already waking¡ªvendors calling out, boots echoing on cobblestone, the distant rattle of a cart bouncing across uneven pavement. And beneath it all, the ever-present stench of too many bodies crammed into too small a space.


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    Nothing like the morning aroma of industry and unwashed humanity to get you going.


    I started walking.


    ~ ~ ~


    The street was too loud for the hour. Too loud for the headache pounding at the back of my skull like an angry blacksmith.


    Market day. Fantastic.


    The air was thick with the clashing scents of baking bread, roasting chestnuts, and the less pleasant stench of people packed too close together. Peddlers called out their prices, thrusting bruised fruit at passing customers. Somewhere in the crowd, a child wailed like they¡¯d just been denied a second pastry.


    I kept walking, my body still stiff and uncooperative from last night. My arm ached, my back groaned with each step, and I was moving more like a poorly strung marionette than an actual person. If I didn¡¯t snap out of it soon, I was going to trip on a loose stone and die the most humiliating death in King¡¯s Quarter.


    I reached into my pocket, feeling for the apple I¡¯d bought earlier. Food would probably help. Except, because nothing in my life could be simple, my fingers fumbled, and the damn thing slipped from my grip.


    The apple hit the cobblestone with a dull thud and just kept rolling¡ªright into the boot of some poor bastard standing nearby.


    I muttered a curse and bent to pick it up.


    And then I felt it.


    A shift. A slow, creeping weight. The kind of presence that closed in around you before you noticed it was there.


    Not before. Now.


    The moment the apple dropped, it was like something had stirred awake.


    My sluggish brain caught up. Someone was watching me.


    I straightened stiffly, my eyes lifting.


    A man.


    He stood against a wall just past the fruit vendors, partially in shadow, arms crossed, stance casual. He had probably been there the whole time, just another face in the crowd, but¡ª


    Now he was staring.


    Brow furrowed. Mouth half-open. Like he was surprised to see me. Like I had just materialized in front of him.


    I clenched my fingers around the apple.


    ¡°Kieran? Is that you?¡±


    The voice¡ªgravelly, thinner than I remembered.


    I squinted. The face was familiar, if you scraped away half the weight.


    Benedict.


    ¡°Shit.¡± The word slipped out before I could stop it.


    He blinked. ¡°Didn¡¯t even notice you were there until you dropped that.¡± He nudged the apple lightly with his boot. ¡°Swear to god, you¡¯ve always been a ghost or something.¡±


    Yeah. A ghost. That tracks.


    ¡°Yeah, well.¡± I stooped to retrieve the apple. ¡°I have that effect.¡±


    Now that I got a better look at him, it was¡­ unsettling. Benedict used to be built like a fortress, the kind of man you¡¯d station in front of a tavern door just to discourage idiots from entering. Now he looked hollowed out. Like someone had scraped out everything inside and left the shell behind. His coat draped over him, too loose for his frame.


    His eyes flickered to my jacket. Brief¡ªjust a second, if that. But I caught it.


    Yes. The coat.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I know.¡± I sighed, brushing dust from my sleeve. ¡°Nice expensive coat, huh? Sorry, it¡¯s not mine.¡±


    He smirked, but there was no malice in it. ¡°I was just wondering when you got an upgrade.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well.¡± I shrugged. ¡°Guess hard work does pay off.¡±


    That got a laugh.


    ¡°Bullshit.¡±


    ¡°Ahh,¡± I growled. ¡°Absolutely.¡±


    Then he really looked at me. Not just a glance¡ªhe assessed me. His gaze swept over my stance, the way I stood too rigid. His eyes lingered a second too long on the pocket where I¡¯d tucked the book.


    I had the sudden, stupid urge to tell him to mind his own damn business. But he didn¡¯t say anything. Just nodded, like he¡¯d considered something and let it go.


    ¡°Haven¡¯t seen you in a while,¡± he said.


    ¡°Yeah, well. Been busy.¡±


    He rubbed his hands together. ¡°Anyway, just saying hello. Take care of yourself, yeah?¡±


    ¡°You too,¡± I muttered.


    And then he was gone.


    I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the tension.


    Paranoia was going to kill me at this rate.


    I sighed, paid for another apple, and turned toward Gideon¡¯s office.

 Chapter 3 (2): A new case (part 2)

    Paranoia was going to eat me alive at this rate. My brain was starting to interpret every set of eyes as an omen, every coincidence as a conspiracy, every carriage as a den laden with ominous men offering life-changing experiences.


    Next thing I knew, I''d be deducing the existential motives of a stray cat for looking in my direction.


    I sighed, tossed a few coins to the fruit seller, and bought another apple.


    And then, just as I turned away from the stall¡ª


    A cat.


    A fucking cat. Sitting on the low wall across from me, staring straight at me with deep, knowing disapproval, like it had been listening to my thoughts and was now profoundly disappointed in my existence.


    I froze.


    The cat did not. It just kept watching.


    I narrowed my eyes. ¡­Did I just jinx myself?


    The cat blinked.


    I took a slow step to the side.


    The cat''s head tilted.


    Alright. This was officially too much for me today.


    With a sigh, I tossed the cat a piece of apple and walked away before it could start talking or something.


    ~ ~ ~


    Gideon''s place was pristine¡ªorderly to the point of sterility. The kind of place that looked curated rather than lived in. The sign above the door gleamed with recent polish.


    I knocked once and stepped inside.


    Gideon barely looked up from his ledger, but his gaze took an extra second to scan my face.


    "You look like you crawled out of a grave."


    I''ve been through it last night.


    "Nice to see you too," I muttered, shrugging off my coat and draping it over the chair. "Long night."


    He didn''t press, though his brow furrowed slightly. "Fontaine?"


    "No mistress," I said, slumping into the seat¡ªand immediately regretted it as my buttcheeks were also sore from the whole freezing experience in the morning.


    "Just shady deals in a warehouse."


    Gideon tapped his pen against the desk. "So his wife''s just overly suspicious?"


    "Or overly observant." I also decided to leave the whole cursed book and creepy polite man out of the report.


    Gideon nodded. "Fine." A pause. "I''ll report back that we found nothing."


    I kept my face blank. No need to overshare.


    Instead, he reached for another file. "New case."


    I groaned. "Shit, Gideon. Do you sleep?"


    "Better than you do, I guess."


    And with that, another job began.


    ~ ~ ~


    The walk to Eleanor Pike''s home was uncomfortable and laboured. King''s Quarter was loud and oppressive as always, weighing in on me from every direction like the city itself was attempting to suffocate me. Or perhaps it was me. Perhaps it was residual fatigue taking its toll on my nerves. Perhaps it was the book, an abstract weight in my jacket. Or perhaps¡ªmaybe¡ªit was just that everything was louder today. The sounds of the city were a dense, jarring din in my mind, a scratching claw clawing at my already ragged temper.


    Gideon, naturally, was unbothered. The man had the emotional range of a well-disciplined brick. Unflappable. A fine contrast to the simmering annoyance running through my nerves.


    By the time we got to Pike''s home, I was preparing for the usual¡ªgrief, fatigue, perhaps subdued resignation. What I hadn''t anticipated was defiance.


    Eleanor Pike wasn¡¯t young, wasn¡¯t old. Just worn. Dark hair pulled back, a sharp face that had probably been softer once. No makeup, no ornamentation, just practicality. She had the look of someone who had spent years pushing forward because stopping wasn¡¯t an option.


    She moved out of the way and allowed us in silently. The kitchen was compact but tidy in that tough, forced manner achievable only by attempting to stay occupied. Two cups stood together on the table. One had been used. Not by mistake. A habit. A refusal. I looked over at Gideon, but if he saw the same thing, he said nothing.


    Eleanor pulled a chair out but didn¡¯t sit. She just gripped the back of it, fingers white-knuckled, as though holding onto something solid kept her on her feet.


    "I know what they''re thinking," she said at last, her voice strained. "That he eloped. That he left me for another woman, or just disappeared, or..." Her hand clenched into a fist around the chair.


    "Martin wouldn''t. He wouldn¡¯t."


    The confidence in her tone didn¡¯t falter. It challenged either of us to disagree with her.


    Gideon was unimpressed, and that was contrary to my own increasing sense that this woman would fight against reality itself if necessary.


    "Did he mention anything strange before he left?" I asked. "Did you see anything strange?"


    She blew air across her nose. "We''ve been together since we were children. We were poor. Same street, same hunger, same struggles to survive." Her eyes didn''t flicker. "Martin doesn¡¯t flee. And we weren¡¯t fighting. If anything, we were better than ever."


    I exchanged a look with Gideon. Most disappearances begin with a rupture of some relationship. A secret, a debt, an affair.


    Yet Eleanor wasn''t attempting to persuade herself. She actually thought this.


    Gideon broke the silence, speaking first. "Has anyone been here searching for him? Any creditors, angry employers?"


    A pause. Brief. Just a flicker. But it was there.


    "No."


    Liar.


    Gideon didn''t fault her for it. He just looked at her, pen tapping his notebook in that maddening patience of his.


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    "Has he been behaving strangely?" he asked. "More nervous than normal?"


    She paused again. A breath held just a fraction too long.


    "He''s been¡­ stressed. Work''s been difficult. The docks have been sluggish."


    Slow docks meant slow pay. Slow pay meant desperate men. And desperate men do foolish things.


    I moved back from the wall, shoving my hands deep into my coat pockets. "Alright. We''ll interview his co-workers. See what they have to say."


    But I didn''t budge. Something was still hiding behind her eyes, just out of grasp.


    She wasn''t finished.


    I allowed the silence to hang, just long enough to have her think and search for whatever was on her mind.


    And then she breathed in sharply¡ªa quick, little breath. A realization.


    But instead of words, her lips closed tight as if she wanted to swallow the thought down.


    Yeah. Not letting that slide.


    Gideon, normally so patient, inclined his head. "Mrs. Pike, if it''s only a minor detail, you have to tell us. Anything will help."


    She breathed out abruptly. "It''s¡ªit''s nothing, probably."


    I lifted an eyebrow. "Nothing is better than nothing."


    Her fists clenched on the chair. "It''s just¡­ I remembered something. It was stupid." She shook her head, obviously irritated with herself for bringing it up in the first place.


    I was quiet, waiting.


    At last, she breathed out. "A few weeks ago, he brought home meat."


    I frowned. "And?"


    "And fruit. Good fruit. Fruit that''s too much when the docks are slow." She shook her head, returning her eyes to the table. "It was my birthday, so I didn''t pay much attention at first. But the next day, I asked him about it. He said he''d been saving."


    I looked over at Gideon. We both knew the docks weren''t faring well at the moment.


    "He never was a spender," she went on, her voice hardly above a whisper. "We both started from nothing. We struggled for what we have. We don''t waste things."


    "And you didn''t believe him," I replied.


    She swallowed. "I did want to. But then, a few days later, I heard him arguing with someone outside. I couldn''t make much of it¡ªhe wouldn''t say who it was. Only that it was something to do with work."


    Her hand tightened on the chair. "Martin¡­ he was talking about having a baby. About being ready. But if the docks weren''t doing well, he should have been saving, not spending. I just¡ª" Her voice broke, but she continued. "I just don''t think it adds up."


    No. It didn''t.


    A man in debt does not start planning a family.


    Gideon''s voice was low but firm. "Mrs. Pike, did he ever mention any names? Anybody he was worried about?"


    She shook her head. "No. But I know Martin. If there was something wrong, he wouldn''t tell me. He would try to deal with it on his own."


    And now he was gone.


    I breathed out, shrugging my shoulders. "Okay. We''ll speak with his colleagues. Find out what they say."


    Eleanor sighed as though she had been holding her breath throughout the entire conversation. She nodded, whispered a soft thank you, and led us outside.


    The minute the door closed, Gideon whispered, "She just gave us a name without even realizing it."


    I released a slow breath. "Yeah." My jaw tightened. "The only people handing out money right now are debt collectors."


    ~ ~ ~


    The docks were as dirty as I remembered. Salt. Fish. Sweat. The scent was so characteristically terrible it was nearly personal¡ªlike the whole place existed to offend me.


    Work did not stop here, not even when one of their own disappeared. Crates were moved, voices bellowed over the water, and the steady groan of wood rang out. The machine continued to turn. It always did.


    We approached a group of dockworkers who were lounging beside a stack of crates. They spotted Gideon before he ever said a word¡ªbecause Gideon didn''t belong.


    He carried that sort of presence. The type that would make individuals double-take, make them rethink their choices, make them choose whether or not it was worth the trouble to disregard him.


    "Where is Martin Pike?" Gideon inquired, his voice smooth and unruffled, as if he had all the time in the world to wait. "Is he employed here?"


    A lean, wiry man with a scar on his forearm wiped his hands on his trousers and nodded curtly. "Yeah. Ain''t seen him since Tuesday."


    "What do you know about him?"


    "He''s a guy. Works hard, keeps to himself."


    "Not hard enough," snarled another man.


    Scar Forearm looked at the second man but said nothing.


    I concentrated. Not hard enough for what?


    I moved in closer. "Did Martin owe somebody money?"


    The reaction was immediate.


    Scar Forearm twitched so violently he nearly dropped the crate he was holding. The young man jumped, jerking away as though I had just popped up out of nowhere.


    What the hell?


    I''d had people recoil from me previously¡ªoccurred daily. My lack of visibility, or visibility, I suppose, made me an easy person to overlook. But it wasn''t that. It was more severe. As if I''d jumped from a dark alleyway out at them.


    Scar Forearm let out a rough huff, the surprise passing, but the young one still gazed at me in open-mouthed wonder, as if he could not quite figure out when I had got there.


    Silence. Thick silence. The type that weighs down the air.


    Scar Forearm wiped at his face, hardening his voice. "He made some bad bets. Owed the wrong people. We told him to keep an eye on his back, but¡­" He shrugged. "Some men don''t listen."


    Smart people do dumb shit if they''re desperate enough. Some open boxes and talk to cursed books.


    Gideon was drawing out a notepad, stretching to a fresh page with deliberate, almost languid, motions. "Who?"


    Scar Forearm paused. Then: "Curtis Holloway."


    The name landed like a lead weight in the gut.


    Holloway wasn''t a loan shark; he was a collector¡ªand not necessarily of the monetary variety. This man had his fingers in everything from extortion to trafficking. If Pike had money coming to him, he was either in hiding or already deceased.


    Gideon wrote the name down slowly and deliberately before looking up once more.


    "Warehouse we go."


    I guess most people who ever came to the dock knew where to find Curtis since they''d tell you to avoid a particular warehouse.


    Brilliant. Since nothing ever went wrong in a dilapidated warehouse off the docks.


    ~ ~ ~


    The warehouse reeked of sweat and secrets, the sort of place that would give you tetanus just from staring at it. Damp wood, rotten iron, and the faint but unmistakable odour of something that had once been alive and wanted to be so again.


    I trailed Gideon inside, my senses on high alert. Something was off. Not the usual this is a crime den sort of thing, but deeper. It was as if the air had mass. I could feel something watching our direction, but not in the classical sense. Not by men, not by eyes. By something else.


    A man stood with his back against a crate, radiating an aura of having all day. Tall. Big. The type of guy who could fill up a doorway simply by standing in it. But it wasn''t his size that made my blood run cold.


    It was the way he moved.


    Too fluid. Too deliberate. As if he was acutely aware of every inch of his body, every muscle shift, every breath he took.


    Gideon, naturally, was not impressed. "We''re looking for Curtis Holloway."


    The man barely reacted. He took his time, as if it was a favour to respond to us. His eyes shifted to Gideon first, scrutinizing him, assessing how much of a threat he might pose.


    And then they didn¡¯t move to me.


    That was the problem.


    I was right there. Only a few steps behind Gideon. Not hiding. Not being sneaky.


    And yet¡ª


    He did not look at me.


    Didn''t greet me.


    Did not appear to notice me.


    Until I spoke.


    "We can wait." Straightforward and concise. Maybe a bit too blunt.


    The man''s gaze darted to me.


    It was quick, almost too sharp. As if something had just clicked in his mind.


    For a second, the smile on his face wavered, as though he wasn''t sure if he had dreamed me up or I had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.


    I met his stare, my face expressionless, but my brain working overtime.


    He hadn''t noticed me.


    That could mean he was slipping¡ªunlikely, considering his demeanour¡ªor I was getting better.


    Or worse. Depending on the way you considered it.


    Not exactly a comforting notion.


    The man chuckled slowly, covering up whatever had momentarily disturbed him. "Suit yourselves."


    Gideon, never a fan of urgency, provided an aggravatingly slow nod before he went deeper, passing by the man. As if he hadn''t just walked into a warehouse and stirred up a man who very probably had a past involving violence.


    I did, pushing my hands into my pockets, my fingers encountering the cold and hard cover of the book. Waiting.


    Gideon walked ahead of me, his pace slow and measured, and my mind curled in on itself like a twisting, turning knot. The silence between us didn''t relax; it vibrated. It swelled.


    I licked my dry lips. "There was something wrong with that guy."


    Gideon barely glanced at me. "Lots of men in his line of work are."


    "No, I mean¡ª" I broke off. "He didn''t see me. Not right away."


    Gideon did not relent. "You''re not exactly memorable, Kieran."


    It was the sort of teasing shot he always took at me, but now it was different. I was different.


    I let out a gentle sigh. "Gideon."


    He turned to me at last, serene and inscrutable. "Yes?"


    I watched his face, waiting for something¡ªanything. A flicker of comprehension, a suggestion that he felt something was wrong.


    Nothing.


    Or perhaps I simply wasn''t paying attention.


    My stomach twisted. "Forget it."


    The sensation didn''t leave. If anything, it settled in deeper. Under the rot and salt of the docks, under the clang of crates being shifted and men yelling orders, something was poking at the edges of my mind.


    Like fingers on a windowpane.


    Like a breath on the nape of my neck.


    Martin Pike was a desperate man on the run from a debt.


    That was all this was supposed to be.


    So why did I get the feeling that I had just burst in on something I wasn''t meant to?


    And why did I have the uncomfortable feeling that someone had just become conscious?

 Chapter 3 (3): A new case (part 3)

    I was still thinking about it.


    Not the warehouse, not the scent of damp wood and corroded iron, not even the way the man had last looked at me¡ªtoo sharp, too sudden. It was the damn delayed reaction. That half-second gap where I hadn¡¯t existed for him.


    The feeling hadn¡¯t faded. Not actually. It was worse than before.


    The front of the warehouse was business as usual¡ªrows of neatly stacked crates, all very respectable business. But deeper in, things were too¡­ intentional. Crates arranged just right, blocking clean sight and stacked just high enough to slow movement. Enough to be caught while running away.


    The message was clear.


    A bottleneck. A warning. A trap.


    Gideon made a quiet sound. ¡°Interesting layout choice.¡±


    ¡°Right?¡± I muttered. ¡°Really puts me at ease.¡±


    The deeper we walked, the stranger the feeling got. The weight. The silence here wasn¡¯t empty. I, or we, were being watched.


    I could almost feel them. I could... feel them.


    Not just the obvious ones¡ªCurtis¡¯s men, stationed in plain view, leaning against the walls, flanking the table. No, there were more. Further back. Watching from the periphery. I couldn¡¯t see them, but I knew they were there.


    Paranoia. Right?


    Doesn''t matter right now. I could see¡ªsix, maybe more. Definitely more.


    Gideon didn¡¯t react, but he''s the smartest man I know.


    Then there was Curtis himself.


    He lounged back in his chair like a man who owned the air around him, one arm slung over the backrest, the other rolling a cigar between his fingers. The ember glowed against the sharp edges of his face¡ªhigh cheekbones, a strong jaw softened only by the lazy curve of his mouth. His dark hair was slicked back, neat but not too neat, the kind of man who cared about his appearance but knew better than to look like he tried. His coat was expensive but worn at the cuffs, like everything in his life had once been better, richer, before time and power had made it something else.


    A man built on debts and deals. The kind who never raised his voice because he never had to.


    And despite expecting us, despite setting all this up¡ª


    He still hesitated when he saw me.


    His smirk didn¡¯t slip, but his fingers twitched against the cigar. That flicker of hesitation. That beat too long before recognition.


    Again.


    The heavy feeling in my body shifted to a rock-solid realization.


    I wasn¡¯t just seeing the room differently.


    The room was seeing me differently.


    Curtis recovered quickly, exhaling smoke as he leaned back in his chair, studying me now like he was trying to place something just slightly off. Then he smirked.


    "Well, well. What''s this? Inspector Gideon visiting my modest abode. You finally come to claim that favour you have on me?"


    Gideon, ever the patient one, tilted his head to the side. "Looking for Martin Pike."


    Holloway blew a slow trickle of smoke, half-closed eyes squinting. "Pike, Pike¡­" Taking his time, as if pulling the name from somewhere deep. "Oh, yeah. The dockworker." He spun the cigar in his fingers. "Kind of a letdown, that one. Not the smartest bulb on the string, but I''ll give him points for optimism."


    Gideon didn''t stir. "He''s missing."


    "That so?" Holloway held up his hands. "Haven''t seen him."


    Gideon held his ground. "You did business with him, though."


    Holloway chuckled deep in his throat. "Oh, you know how it is, Inspector. Money comes and goes fast in my line of business. Comes quick, goes just as quickly. Some pay, some don''t." He ashed his cigar, his tone easy, almost affable. "That''s the risk, isn''t it?"


    I tilted my head a little. "Sounds tiring."


    His gaze cut across to me again, hard now, as if I''d disturbed something just out of kilter.


    I grinned. "Lot of risk, lot of reward. But you''ve got to make a good living, yeah?"


    Holloway sneered. "I get by."


    "See, I don''t," I shrugged. "My work doesn''t pay much. It just¡­ pays. And for some reason, my money keeps vanishing in all the wrong places. Figured I''d ask¡ªare you hiring?"


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    A pause. Then one of the men in the back snorted.


    Holloway gave a low laugh, his head shaking. "You''re not exactly suited for this job, no offence."


    I shrugged back. "I dunno. I''ve already got the whole unnerving presence thing covered."


    That drew a few more laughs from the men surrounding us. The room eased, just slightly. Not a lot, but enough. Enough that Holloway leaned back, his eyes on me with something that wasn''t quite suspicion, but wasn''t ease either.


    Then Gideon spoke again.


    "He took money from you, right?" His voice was casual.


    Holloway nodded, puffing on his cigar slowly. "That he did. Like almost every man in these docks."


    "But..." Gideon went on. "He paid it back, no?"


    I blinked.


    Really?


    Holloway grinned at my reaction. "What? You thought I''d had him fixed up for a few bucks?" He blew a stream of cigar smoke into the air. "Get real, Inspector. You kill some guy you''re owed by, and before you know it, all the other guys you''re owed by start thinking they can''t pay their debts no more either." He shook his head. "Bad business."


    Someone worse.

 Chapter 4 (1): Marked

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    "Where do I sign, then? Is this a formal contract? Perhaps I''m leasing my soul for an indefinite time? Will I have to use my blood? I must admit, I''m not fond of the idea of cutting myself."


    dramatic. For now, that is.