The rain hadn't stopped in three days.
Lightning flashed across the glass dome of the United Race of Human Federation's (UR-HF) headquarters, casting fleeting silhouettes of the world's most powerful leaders. The chamber below was a circular hall of polished steel and glass — banners of nations stitched together, the illusion of unity trembling under the storm.
A sharp voice broke through the silence.
"THE RUMORS HAVE SPREAD TO THE ENTIRE WORLD! IF THIS GOES ON, HUMANITY WILL BE DOOMED!"
Marshal Renn, head of global defense, slammed his hand on the table. "Ten thousand citizens vanished into thin air, and we still have no explanation. Entire districts near that city have gone dark!"
A woman with light red hair, dark skin, and deep brown eyes exhaled a curl of smoke from her cigarette. "Rumors are everywhere. Some say the city never existed before last year — that it just appeared."
"It did," said a quiet voice from the end of the table.
The room turned.
Her Majesty, Evelyn Windsor — the Federation's representative of England, called Queen more by habit than blood — sat poised in her seat, a pearl-handled cane across her knees. Despite her age, her beauty carried a timeless authority that silenced even the loudest of men.
"The satellite archives confirm it," she continued calmly. "No geological or digital record of the city exists before twelve months ago. It's as if it... manifested. Whole. Complete."
Renn frowned. "And yet we've lost ten thousand there — soldiers, scientists, civilians. Are you suggesting magic, Your Majesty?"
Evelyn smiled faintly. "I'm suggesting that technology has no language for this."
Another voice — young, nervous — spoke from the corner. "Ma'am, with respect, the people need answers, not poetry. They're calling it the Cursed City of Augustus now. There are protests in the capital—"
Evelyn tapped her cane once against the floor. "And sending more soldiers to die will give them comfort?"
Silence followed.
From the shadowed end of the table, Director Hale of Internal Security cleared his throat. "We may have one option," he said. "Someone who specializes in... unorthodox disappearances."
Marshal Renn raised an eyebrow. "You mean him?"
Hale nodded. "Ravenscroft Phantomhive."
The Queen's expression softened, almost amused. "Ah. My little reaper."
"Reaper?" one of the delegates whispered.
"She means," Hale said carefully, "the man who dismantled the Lucerne terrorist network and exposed the Veylen corruption in Geneva. The kind of man who sees patterns no one else does. Efficient, detached, and..." — Hale hesitated — "difficult to manage."
Renn leaned back. "And if he vanishes like the others?"
Evelyn smiled thinly. "Then he'll solve the case from the other side."
That evening, the rain fell harder over London District-7.
A black transport car glided through the neon-lit streets until it stopped before the iron gates of a sprawling mansion — the Phantomhive Estate. Its gothic silhouette carved itself into the skyline like an old scar.
The gates opened silently.
Inside, Ravenscroft Phantomhive stood before a grand window, watching the storm.
His reflection looked back — tall, dark-haired, eyes like cold glass. His uniform bore the insignia of an Earl-Investigator, though he never wore it with pride.
He didn't believe in titles.
Behind him, a servant's voice echoed through the marble hall.
"Sir, a call from the Federation Council."
He answered without turning. "Put it through."
The room's holo-display flickered to life, revealing the regal face of Queen Evelyn.
"Ravenscroft," she said, smiling faintly. "I trust you've heard the rumors."
"Only fragments," he replied, his tone calm and measured. "A city that shouldn't exist. People vanishing."
"Yes. Including three of my personal envoys."
Her expression sharpened. "I want you to investigate it. Quietly. No media. No politics. You report only to me."
He didn't ask why. He never did.
"Understood," he said.
The Queen's voice softened. "Do be careful, my dear. The Federation is losing faith in science, and when people lose faith, they turn to gods... or monsters."
The call ended.
Ravenscroft's reflection lingered in the dark glass. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw another face behind his — a faint outline, smiling back.
Then thunder broke the silence, and it was gone.
The next morning, he arrived at the border of the Cursed City of Augustus.
The Federation had quarantined the area. Drones hovered above empty streets where Victorian buildings stood untouched by time.
Gaslamps burned in place of streetlights. Steam vents hissed from the pavement like something breathing beneath the surface.
"Cameras go dead past this line," said Lieutenant Mira, one of the field officers. "Any drone crossing it loses signal instantly."
Ravenscroft stepped across the barricade.
The air felt... heavier. The sound of rain faded.
Each footstep echoed like it belonged to someone else.
Mira hesitated. "Sir, maybe we should—"
"Stay behind. Or go back," he said simply, and continued forward.
The street curved toward a massive structure at its center — a train station. The sign above the archway read:
STELLA EXPRESS TERMINAL.
Ravenscroft frowned. He had seen this architecture before — but for the first time, he couldn't recall where. And he was certain it was impossible for it to exist here.
Inside, the air smelled of iron and burnt coal. Dust coated everything except the tracks — which looked freshly used.
Then the ground trembled.
A horn echoed in the distance — long, low, ancient.
Through the mist, the Stella Express emerged — a black locomotive, sleek and monstrous, steam billowing like a living thing. Its lamps burned with an eerie blue fire that cut through the fog.
No crew. No sound but the hiss of engines.
The officers behind him stumbled back.
"What the hell— It's running?! There's no power lines, no—"
Ravenscroft didn't move. His gaze fixed on the engraved letters at the front:
STELLA EXPRESS.
Something inside him stirred — like recognition.
A whisper that wasn't his own crawled through his mind.
You came back... too early.
He reached for his communicator. "This is Investigator Phantomhive. I've found something."
Static.
He turned.
The officers were gone. The barricades, the street — gone. Only mist remained.
The train doors opened with a hiss.
Ravenscroft stared at the open carriage.
He should have run. Called for backup. Followed every rule the Federation had written.
Instead, he stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a whisper — and the Stella Express began to move.