"Blackthorn Security Company."
The words gleamed dully on the brass signboard, and Klein couldn't help but smile.
Of course it's called that. Subtle as a brick through glass.
He shook his head, half amused, half exasperated, and climbed the steps. The half-closed door creaked faintly as he knocked.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound echoed softly down the narrow hall, unhurried and rhythmic. No reply — only the faint sputter of gas from somewhere within.
He tried again.
Knock, knock, knock.
Still nothing.
Klein sighed, pushed the door open a little wider, and peered inside. The interior looked more like someone's old sitting room than a professional office — a faded sofa, a soft armchair, and a burly wooden coffee table scarred with age.
Behind a front desk sat a young woman with chestnut-brown hair, head drooped in slumber.
Even if "Security Company" is just a cover, this level of professionalism is astounding. Not the greatest first impression I'll admit, he thought dryly. How long has this place been pretending to be in business? Not that they actually need any real customers.
Suppressing a grin, he stepped closer and tapped lightly on the desk beside the girl's ear.
Knock, knock.
The girl jolted upright, snatching up a newspaper to hide her face in reflex.
Tingen City Honest Paper, Klein noted with amusement. A fitting name, if not an honest nap.
Her muffled voice floated out from behind the paper. "The steam-train service Soaring Express, which travels directly to Constant City, starts operating today… Oh, come on! When will they open one to Brindisi Bay? I can't stand taking the ship there anymore — awful, absolutely awful…"
Then she peeked over the edge of the paper, eyes widening. "Hello there, who might you be?"
"Hello." Klein removed his hat and held it politely to his chest. "Klein Moretti. I was invited by Captain Dunn Smith."
The girl blinked, lowering the newspaper fully. She looked to be in her early twenties, bright-eyed and pretty, dressed in a light green Loen-style gown trimmed with neat lace at the collar and cuffs.
"The Captain? Oh! Wait here a moment — I'll fetch him."
She sprang to her feet and hurried into a side room.
Didn't even offer a glass of water, Klein thought, smiling faintly. Customer service is clearly not a Nighthawk priority.
A few minutes later, she reemerged with the same brisk energy and said sweetly, "Mr. Moretti, please come with me. The Captain's on duty at the Chanis Gate and can't leave at the moment."
"All right," Klein replied, following after her. Chanis Gate… what could that be?
They passed through a partition into a narrow corridor lined with offices — three on each side. Some doors were firmly shut; others were open, revealing clerks hunched over heavy typewriters, the rhythmic clack of keys echoing in the stillness.
Then, unexpectedly, Klein spotted a familiar face: the black-haired young officer who had inspected his apartment. The man's green eyes held that same easy charm, his shirt half-tucked in a poet's defiance of order.
Klein nodded in greeting. The man smiled back before returning to his work.
Perhaps he really is a poet, Klein mused.
At the corridor's end, the brown-haired girl pushed open a door to the left and chirped, "This way — we have to go down a few levels."
Inside, there was no office at all — only a gray stone staircase spiraling into the earth. Gas lamps lined the walls, their steady glow pushing back the shadows and casting a golden rhythm down the steps.
The girl descended first, watching her footing carefully. "Even though I walk here all the time, I'm still afraid of tumbling down like a barrel. Leonard did exactly that! First day as a Sleepless, hadn't mastered his new abilities, decided to dash down these stairs — and he just rolled. Like a cartwheel. It's rather funny when you imagine it. Even more so when you were there in person."
She laughed, a bright sound in the damp air. "Oh, Leonard's the guy who greeted you earlier. That was three years ago. I've been with the Nighthawks five years now. Joined when I was seventeen…"
She paused mid-step, suddenly smacking her forehead. "Ah! I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Rozanne. My father was a Nighthawk too — died in an accident five years ago. I guess we'll be colleagues now. Uh… well, sort of colleagues. Not teammates, since we're not Beyonders. But colleagues all the same."
Klein smiled. "I'd be honored, but I suppose it depends on what Captain Smith decides."
The air grew cooler as they descended, the stone walls damp with underground moisture. A faint chill brushed his skin — refreshing after the summer heat.
"Don't worry," Rozanne said with a grin. "If you've made it this far, it means the Captain's already agreed. He's… intimidating sometimes, even though he's perfectly kind. Like a fatherly figure, you know? I don't know why, but I'm still afraid of him."
Klein chuckled softly. "Isn't being afraid of a father normal?"
Rozanne giggled. "True."
They rounded the final bend, and the stairway opened onto a long corridor paved in smooth stone. Gas lamps burned behind iron grates along the walls, throwing long twin shadows before them. Every few meters hung the same emblem — a black disk spangled with silver dots, like half a crimson moon hanging in the dark.
The Dark Sacred Emblem of the Evernight Goddess.
They gave off no power that he could sense, yet walking among them filled Klein with a strange, tranquil calm. Rozanne fell quiet, her earlier chatter fading into the hush.
Soon, an intersection appeared ahead. Rozanne pointed as she explained, "That way leads to Saint Selena Cathedral. To the right are the armory, the storeroom, and the archives. Straight ahead — the Chanis Gate."
Saint Selena Cathedral? Klein's brow lifted slightly. Then is Zouteland Street really just behind Red Moonlight Street?
He knew the place — the headquarters of the Church of Evernight in Tingen, the sacred heart of the city's faith. Along with the "Holy Numerics Cathedral" of the God of Steam and Machinery in the suburbs and the "River and Sea Cathedral" of the Church of Storms in North Tingen, it formed one of the three pillars of the city's spiritual life.
Klein said nothing. A man of his position was better off listening than asking.
They continued forward until a massive black-iron gate loomed into view. It was carved with seven sacred emblems and radiated cold authority, like a slumbering giant standing guard in the dark.
"Chanis Gate," Rozanne murmured, pointing to a lit room beside it. "Captain's inside. Go on — he's waiting."
"Thank you," Klein said politely.
He paused at the door, took a steadying breath, and knocked.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Come in," came Dunn Smith's calm, low voice.
Klein entered. The room was sparsely furnished — a table, four chairs, and the Captain himself, sitting with a newspaper in hand. The faint gold chain of a pocket watch gleamed against his dark coat.
Dunn looked up with a mild smile. "Have a seat. Have you made your decision? Are you sure you want to join us?"
Klein removed his hat, bowed slightly, and sat down. "Yes. I'm sure."
"Good." Dunn opened a drawer and pulled out two sheets of parchment. "Here's the deed — or 'contract,' as people call it these days."
The text was short and straightforward, mostly things Dunn had already explained: confidentiality, obedience, the special tribunal of the Church for any violations. Essentially, a court-martial for Beyonders.
A five-year term, Klein noted. Two pounds and ten soli a week, plus ten soli risk allowance… Fair enough.
He read it through once more, then nodded firmly. "I've no objections."
"Then sign here." Dunn pointed to the signature line and handed over a dark red fountain pen.
Klein tested it on a scrap of paper, then wrote out his name — Klein Moretti — on both copies. Lacking a personal stamp, he pressed his thumbprint beside the signature.
Dunn took the papers, added the official stamp in several places, then handed one copy back. "Welcome aboard. From now on, you're one of us. And remember — the contract itself is also confidential."
Klein rose, shook his hand, and smiled. "Then I suppose I should start calling you Captain."
"Yes," Dunn replied with quiet amusement, his gray eyes glimmering faintly in the lamplight.
Klein glanced at the red seal on his copy. The letters read:
"Nighthawk Team — Tingen City, Awwa County, Loen Kingdom."
He couldn't help but chuckle. "I still can't believe you're hiding under the name Blackthorn Security Company."
"Ah, we have other aliases too." Dunn opened the drawer again and pulled out another document stamped with the city government's seal and the police department's crest. It read:
"Seventh Unit, Special Operations Department, Awwa County Police, Loen Kingdom."
"The first four units are regular police — VIP protection, key facilities, all that," Dunn explained, tone unhurried. "From Unit Five onward, we handle the supernatural. Our unit covers incidents related to the followers of the Evernight Goddess in Tingen — mainly the north, west, and Golden Indus regions.
"The Church of Storms' Mandated Punishers handle the piers, east, and south — that's Unit Six. The Church of Steam oversees the university and suburbs — Unit Five, Machinery Hivemind."
"I see," Klein said thoughtfully. Then, grinning, "What happens if someone really comes here because of the Blackthorn Security Company sign and tries to hire us?"
"Then we take the job." Dunn's smile deepened. "Why not? As long as it doesn't interfere with Church business. The pay counts as a bonus — our members enjoy that part. Though most mundane work, like finding lost cats and dogs, has been monopolized by private detectives."
Klein laughed. "Fair enough. So, Captain… how many members does the Nighthawk team actually have?"
"Not many," Dunn said. "Supernatural incidents are rare, and Beyonders rarer still. There are six official Nighthawks in Tingen, including myself. And six civilian staff — counting you."
Klein nodded slowly, then leaned forward slightly, his tone more serious. "Captain, there's something I've been wondering since yesterday.
What exactly does it mean for a Beyonder to 'lose control'? Why does it happen?"