"Roland and Michael wanted to continue the experiments," Humphrey said, his voice quavering. "But Isaac and I objected. We couldn't bring ourselves to use human lives as mere test subjects."
He took another swig of liquor. His hand trembled so badly that amber liquid sloshed over the bottle's rim. By the lantern's glow, Charles could see the haunted look in his eyes—evidence of the horrific memories lurking within.
"The argument got heated," Humphrey continued. "Until the project's real owner came and put a stop to it. He proposed a compromise—he'd only use criminals, murderers, people society didn't want, for the experiments."
"The project's real owner?" Charles frowned. "Henry?"
"No," Humphrey answered in a hushed tone. "Henry was just a front—the owner of that clinic on paper. The real man behind it all was someone else."
"Then who was he?"
"We never saw his face." Humphrey shook his head. "He wore a mask and a cloak every time he came to see us. The only clue we had was this big silver ring he always wore."
The new piece of information felt like yet another door opening into a dark, uncharted room. The puzzle Charles thought he'd grasped now revealed new layers. Charles imagined the mysterious figure wearing a large silver ring—the true mastermind behind Henry Blackwell, the one pulling all the strings of these horrific experiments.
A gust of wind rattled the window, making the lantern's flame flicker. Shadows danced on the walls. Charles tried to piece together the possible ties between this masked figure and Henry: collaborators for profit? Co-conspirators with more personal motives? Or something else entirely?
But he knew this wasn't the time to get lost in these questions. There was more he needed to hear from Humphrey's own lips.
"What happened next?" Charles pressed, fixing his gaze on the old man's guilt-ridden face.
Humphrey gulped down another mouthful of alcohol, so roughly that the bottle shook in his grasp. The lamplight reflected in his eyes, clouded by grim recollections.
"Isaac refused to budge," he rasped. "He argued that, criminal or not, we had no right to decide who should live or die. So the project's owner backed off… or at least pretended to."
The flame in the lantern flickered in the night breeze, creating a faint keening sound. "We went back to business as usual, never realizing Roland and Michael were secretly continuing the experiments behind our backs—with support from that project owner."
"They used patients in the clinic as test subjects—poor folk without relatives, no one to notice if they went missing, no one to ask questions…"
"When Isaac and I started noticing things amiss…" Humphrey lifted a trembling hand to cover his face, as though to block out the memory. "Patients vanished one or two at a time… no record of them checking out, no family to come looking… it was as if they'd never existed."
The lantern's glow cast Humphrey's silhouette across the wall—an enlarged, distorted shape that seemed to represent the magnitude of his torment. "We investigated and followed the clues down into the basement lab… What we saw that day…" His voice quavered. "It was worse than any nightmare."
He paused, clutching the bottle so hard his knuckles whitened. "That night, the project owner came to see us in person… He spoke so gently, urging us to overlook everything. He claimed it was all for medical progress… for the good of humanity."
He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "'For the good of humanity…' A pretty excuse for torture and murder."
"Isaac refused his offer on the spot. He threatened to expose it all to the authorities. Me… I neither agreed nor refused right away."
"The next night," Humphrey went on, eyes glazing over as if he could still see the flames, "a fire broke out. It spread through the entire clinic, devouring everything—patients, staff, and Isaac and his wife…"
"Officers and townsfolk tried to fight the blaze. But then—like The Divine Ordainer's wrath—an earthquake struck, and no one dared go near the building. They could only watch it burn to ash."
"But that wasn't the strangest part," he said quietly. "The truly suspicious detail was that, after it was all over, no one from the authorities came to inspect or clean up. Not a single official stepped forward."
He fell silent for a moment before continuing, voice trembling with fear. "They simply declared the place off-limits, saying it was unsafe. But in truth…"
"They wanted to bury it all in the rubble—every secret left within."
A chill ran down Charles's spine as the pieces came together. The swift sealing of the site, the authorities' indifference—it had all been carefully orchestrated.
"So someone in a high position was involved," Charles said in a steady tone.
Humphrey nodded slowly. "After the fire was out, everything was handled swiftly and quietly. No investigation, no questions asked. The families of the dead were paid a large sum in compensation, along with a strong warning to keep quiet."
"That's when I realized the fire had been staged to kill Isaac before he could speak. He knew too much, refused to do their bidding, so they silenced him."
"I decided to run," Humphrey admitted in a low voice. "But they got to me first."
"What did they say to you?" Charles asked.
"They talked about my daughter, who was studying medicine in Sarnia," Humphrey said, tears welling in his eyes. "They knew—knew everything about her. Knew that, in the letters she sent me, she lied about being fine. Sometimes she had to live on stale bread because she refused to ask for more money, afraid to burden me."
Tears now slipped down his cheeks. "That foolish girl… had no idea her father had more money than she ever realized. She wanted to be a doctor, just like me." His voice quavered. "But I saw immediately that it was a threat. They were holding my family hostage."
He shivered. "I knew they were capable of it. They'd covered up the clinic fire so easily—it proved the power they had. Even though my daughter was all the way across the continent, they could still reach her."
The lantern's flame wavered, casting the trembling figure of this defeated old man onto the wall. "So I gave in… kept my mouth shut, remained part of that vile research so my daughter would stay safe."
A night wind stirred the open window, carrying in a morose hush. The old wooden frame creaked, as if the house itself was groaning in sympathy with its owner's despair.
For a time, neither man spoke. They merely sat in the feeble lantern light, alone with their thoughts. Charles regarded Humphrey, aware there was more yet to uncover.
"What about the new research site?" he asked quietly yet firmly. "Where is it located now?"
Humphrey shook his head, eyes full of defeat. "After the fire… they no longer trusted me." He gave a bitter laugh. "They kept me around only to tend an herb garden—growing and reviving rare plants they needed. As for the real laboratory…" Another shake of the head. "I don't know. They moved me out before they moved themselves. They never told me where."
"But…" He paused, speaking more softly. "I did notice something whenever they came to pick up supplies. The carriage always headed north, out through the city gates, and it never returned the same day."
"It made me think the new site must be far away—beyond city limits, possibly well off in the distance."
Charles studied Humphrey's face in the dim light, searching for signs of deception. Instead, he found only fear and shame—no hint he was lying. At last, Charles spoke again.
"I can arrange protective custody with the special unit," he offered. "You'd be safer there than if you stayed alone."
Humphrey shook his head slowly, gaze dropping to the worn floorboards. "You still don't get it. Their power runs so deep, they can interfere even with your department."
He glanced up at Charles. "What about Roland? How did he get back into the city after everything?"
Charles hesitated. "I found him in Old Town, hiding in the black market quarter. I took him in for questioning, but…" He paused. "They made me release him back to his family."
"Right…" Humphrey muttered. "There you have it. They pulled strings to free him. And a few days later… he's dead."
A flicker passed over Humphrey's features, pure terror. "No, your department can't protect me. No place is safe."
Charles pressed his lips together, worry gnawing at him. Humphrey's logic made sense, but it also meant leaving him alone could be lethal. The idea of forcing him to come along flashed through Charles's mind, but he knew that wouldn't solve everything.
He opened his mouth to speak, but noticed a gleam in Humphrey's hand caught by the lantern light—a gun, drawn silently from who-knew-where.
Instantly, Charles unleashed his power, clouding Humphrey's vision and senses. The older man's eyes grew distant, and his grip slackened for a moment.
Seizing the chance, Charles lunged forward and seized Humphrey's wrist, wrenching the pistol away from the trembling hand. "What are you doing?" he shouted, anger flaring.
"Up to now…" Humphrey choked out, tears glistening. "I've lived with the guilt of what I did. I may not have personally tortured people, but my work helped them carry out vile acts… I was complicit, no matter how indirectly."
He swallowed painfully. "In the past, I never dared end my own life because I had to care for my daughter. But now she's grown, married, has a family—she can stand on her own. It's time I ended this wretched existence."
"There are other ways!" Charles urged, his tone softening. "You can atone—reveal the truth so everyone knows what happened in that clinic."
Shadows deepened over Humphrey's face as he shook his head, eyes brimming with despair. "No!" he rasped, voice trembling. "If I do that, they won't spare my daughter. My death will solve everything. No one else has to suffer, especially not her."
The old house groaned at the joints, as though echoing its owner's sorrow. Charles felt a wave of weariness seep into him. It seemed hopeless trying to save a man who clung so tightly to hopelessness.
Gradually, his sympathy ebbed, leaving only a tired frustration. "If you're that determined to die," he said icily, voice as cold as the night wind, "at least wait a few months. I don't fancy becoming a suspect in your death."
With that, he strode out of the room, footsteps drumming on worn floorboards. The pistol remained clenched in his hand. Behind him, Humphrey sat hunched and trembling in the half-lit gloom.
The door hinges shrieked, followed by a resounding slam that echoed through the darkened house. There, in a single lantern's glow, the old man remained, shoulders shaking with sobs. His figure seemed so small and alone in the shadows, as though he were being swallowed by the guilt he had carried for seven bitter years.