The transcription work was a special kind of torture. Foster's hand tiredly held the pen, tracing the inked script of a long-dead city clerk documenting sewer expansions.
The stack seemed like an insurmountable mountain separating him from the opulent doors of the Aethelstan Club. Yet, there was a strange peaceful quality to it. In the quiet of the library's archival room, the frantic pace of his new life slowed to the deliberate scratch of pen on paper. He wasn't just copying words, he was absorbing the city, its forgotten infrastructure.
He learned about neighborhoods that had been paved over, about springs that had been forced into pipes, about the old steam tunnels that still found their way beneath the modern electric grid. The deep places, the old woman had said. He was, inadvertently, mapping them.
This job turned out to be greatly advantageous because it helped him study the city workings of the world he had fallen into.
At the station, he maintained his posture of engaged diligence. He followed up on Martha's lead about the burglary case, visiting antique dealers and feeling a small thrill when one recognized the description of the stolen silverware and nervously admitted to having bought a piece, no questions asked. It was another box ticked, another mark in the "win" column for Foster Ambrose.
But his focus was split. During breaks, he would pull out his personal notebook—the clean one, and add his findings. He drew a map of the city center, marking the location of the Davidson alley and the old basement door. He wrote down the symbol from the bone chip: ○ 卄 ○.
He didn't know what it meant, but having it on paper made it feel more like a piece of evidence.
It was Ben Frank who provided the next, unexpected piece.
Foster was in the morgue, delivering an evidence transfer form for a different case. Ben was at his slab, though it was thankfully empty. He was, however, examining something under a large magnifying lens—a set of tarnished silver forks from the burglary case.
"Look at this," Ben said, not looking up. Foster approached, the sterile, chemical air of the room was a familiar discomfort now. Ben pointed with a probe.
"The craftsmanship is exquisite. Late 18th century. But see the pattern here, along the handle? It's worn, but it's there."
Foster leaned in. Etched into the silver, was a design. A series of interlocking circles.
His breath hitched. It wasn't the same as the bone chip, but it was close. Geometric and ritualistic.
"Family crest?" Foster asked, keeping his voice level.
"Doubt it," Ben mumbled around a mouthful of the sandwich he'd produced from his lab coat pocket. "More likely a maker's mark, or a guild symbol from a specific silversmith's tradition. This isn't standard. It's esoteric."
He finally looked up, his bored eyes sharpening.
"Why? You see a pattern, Officer Ambrose?"
Foster met his gaze. The coroner was far more observant than anyone gave him credit for.
"Just curious. The burglar had a type."
"He did," Ben agreed, turning back to his lens. "He had a type that knew how to disable modern security to steal old, marked silver. A man of specific tastes and specific knowledge. Almost… academic."
_Academic._
The word hung in the air. It connected to nothing and at the same time, everything.
Later that week, Foster finally put together enough from his transcription work and his police salary to feel a sliver of confidence. He walked to the Aethelstan Club & Social Foundation. Up close, it was even more imposing. The marble was veined with gold, the brass fittings were polished. He saw a man in a fine suit—the same one he'd seen days before—being ushered inside by the doorman.
Foster, in his slightly-too-worn police coat, felt like a smudge on the pristine pavement. He didn't go in. He wasn't ready.
Instead, he watched. He saw the kinds of people who entered: a mix of obvious old money and sharp, new-tech entrepreneurs. They all carried an air of belonging, of being part of the city's hidden machinery.
As he turned to leave, his foot scrubbed against a metal grate in the sidewalk. He looked down. It was a ventilation cover, but unlike the standard city-issue ones, this was ornate, also bearing a design. Worn by countless footsteps, but still visible.
A single, straight line bisecting a series of waves.
It was different from the bone chip, different from the silverware. But it felt related. A language he couldn't read was etched into the very fabric of the city, in its clubs, its stolen goods, and its streets.
The world, which had seemed chaotic, was beginning to show a terrifying coherence. The supernatural wasn't a monster leaping from the shadows: it was a pattern, a history, a secret society of symbols and effects. And it was everywhere.
He thought of the girl with the ginger hair and the dogs, a fleeting moment of normalcy in a world that was proving to be the opposite. He thought of Ortego, safe at home. He thought of the cold indifference in Captain Hanson's eyes.
He had a badge, but it felt like a toy shield against a force of something far older and more profound. The Aethelstan Club wasn't a luxury anymore, it was a necessary tool for survival. He needed to get inside. He needed to learn the language.
Walking home, the city felt different. The cobblestones weren't just stones, they were like pages. The old buildings weren't just architecture. The buzz of electricity wasn't just power, and in the quiet places where it flickered, something else could be heard in the dark.
The case was no longer just about Davidson's death, or his own. It was about the soul of the city itself.
And Foster Ambrose, the ghost in a borrowed skin, was the only one who seemed to be paying attention.