The morning rain slid down the tall windows in slow, crooked lines. Beyond the glass, the neighborhood lay still—rows of narrow lanes, gardens heavy with damp leaves, and the occasional distant bark of a dog. No street vendors, no carriages rushing by. Just the soft, constant hush of rain on rooftops.
Cliffdon sat alone in the reading room of the large house the Secret Police had assigned him. The place was far too big for just two people, but it was quiet, and quiet was what he needed. His sister had left for school hours ago, walking down the lane with her satchel over one shoulder, her stride steady and purposeful. At sixteen, Sara Williams was no child—she carried herself with the calm focus of someone older, and never lingered to gossip or laugh with the other students.
Three days had passed since the mission at Ramstein's mansion. Three days of stillness.
Cliffdon had spent most of that time here, surrounded by stacks of books. Some were about history, some about the city's politics, and others just collections of odd rumors and events. He read without rushing, letting hours pass as the lamp's light shifted with the weather outside.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle when a knock broke the stillness. Three sharp raps against the front door.
He frowned. Visitors were rare here.
Rising, he crossed the hall, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. When he opened the door, there was no one on the porch—just the wet street, glistening under the thin daylight.
On the doormat lay a single envelope.
It was unmarked except for his name, written in a thin, precise hand.
Cliffdon picked it up, glancing around the quiet lane before closing the door again. The paper was cold to the touch, as if it had been left out in the winter air.
Inside was a single slip of paper, the same thin handwriting as before.
> Central District, 14 Market Row.
Cliffdon stared at it. That address was in the busiest part of the capital, a place filled with merchants, carriages, and constant noise.
The old clock in the hall ticked once, twice—then the lamp in the reading room flickered.
And Cliffdon realized the stillness he had been living in was over.
The address stayed in Cliffdon's mind all night. By morning, the rain had stopped, and a pale sun lit the quiet neighborhood.
He left the house without telling Sara where he was going. The carriage ride into the capital's heart was slow, pushing through the noise and movement—merchants shouting prices, carriage wheels rattling, the smell of roasted chestnuts mixing with smoke from street stalls.
When he reached 14 Market Row, he stopped. It wasn't an office or a safehouse. It was an old bar with a leaning wooden sign and a door that looked like it had been kicked more than once.
Cliffdon pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of strong drink and damp wood. The light was low, catching on old bottles stacked behind the counter. Most of the people here looked like they were used to trouble—scarred faces, quiet conversations, eyes that flicked toward the door when he came in.
He walked to a small table in the corner and sat down, silent, watching.
A few minutes later, a glass slid across the table toward him. Cliffdon looked up.
The man standing there was well-dressed, but not stiff—a fine dark coat, a purple hat tipped back on his head, and a loose tie like he hadn't bothered to tighten it. His smile was easy, his posture relaxed, but his eyes… his eyes were sharp, scanning the room even while looking at Cliffdon.
"You look like you could use something to warm you up," the man said, voice light and friendly. Without waiting for a reply, he sat down.
"Judas Ares," he said, offering his hand. "Secret Police."
Cliffdon took it cautiously. "You don't look like the type."
Judas grinned. "That's because I'm not the type. I like my work, but I'm not interested in looking like I'm about to interrogate someone all the time. Besides—people talk more when you don't look like trouble."
He took a sip from his drink, then added, "Heard about you. Ramstein's place. The cracked mirror. Not bad. You keep your head, even when things go strange."
Cliffdon said nothing, waiting.
Judas leaned back, but his gaze flicked toward the far corner of the bar for half a second before returning. "Our next job… I don't know the details yet, but it's in a part of the city where people vanish without noise. No mess, no screams. Just… gone. That's rare. Someone's covering their tracks."
His tone was still easy, almost lazy, but the way he pieced together those words told Cliffdon that Judas wasn't just talking—he had already thought this through.
Judas finished his drink and set the glass down gently. "When the call comes, we'll go in together. I notice things. You handle yourself well. Should work fine."
He smiled again, but his eyes stayed sharp. "And trust me—whatever's coming, it's worth paying attention to."
Judas stood, brushing a bit of dust from his coat. "Well, that's enough sitting for me. Places to be, people to annoy."
He tipped his purple hat in a small, almost playful salute. "I'll see you soon, Mr. Williams. Try not to get bored before then."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strolled toward the door. He didn't rush, didn't glance back, but somehow moved with the ease of someone who already knew no one in the room would touch him.
The door creaked open, letting in a sliver of daylight, and then Judas Ares was gone—leaving behind only the faint scent of tobacco and the half-empty glass on the table.
Cliffdon sat for a moment longer, wondering if the man's careless nature was exactly what made him so dangerous. Cliffdon finally stood up to leave.
The bar door shut behind him with a heavy thud, blocking out the low chatter and smell of smoke. The street outside was bright, the sun hanging low in the sky, and the noise of carts and voices filled the air.
Cliffdon had only walked a few steps when a thin, rough voice called, "Wait… young man."
He turned and saw an old man standing by the wall. His back was so bent it looked painful, his hair thin and white, and his skin wrinkled like dry paper. His clothes were worn and faded, the kind of fabric that had been mended too many times.
The man reached out a trembling hand. "Come closer."
Cliffdon hesitated, then stepped forward and took it. The old man's grip was surprisingly firm for someone so fragile. His eyes shut, his face went still, and his lips moved in a silent murmur as if speaking to someone who wasn't there.
A moment later, his cloudy eyes opened. They were pale but sharp in a strange way. He spoke slowly, his voice rasping, "Your future… is in the shadows."
Cliffdon blinked, unsure what to say. It sounded like nonsense, but something in the man's tone felt too serious to ignore.
With a small sigh, Cliffdon pulled a few coins from his pocket and placed them in the man's hand.
The old man's mouth curled into a long, knowing smile. He didn't speak again, only watched as Cliffdon turned and walked away.
Even as he stepped back into the busy street, Cliffdon had the uneasy feeling that the man's eyes were still on him.
The sun was dipping lower now, shadows stretching long across the cobblestones. He turned into a quieter street on the way back home, where the noise of the crowd faded into the sound of his own footsteps.
As he passed a narrow alley, a figure stepped out from the corner.
It was Reinhead. He stood casually against the wall, arms folded, his coat collar turned up against the wind.
"Hello, Mr. Williams," Reinhead said with a faint smile. "Sorry to bother, but I think we have another assignment to do."