Hot steam was still billowing from the surface of the water inside the porcelain bathtub as Leon stepped out. The cold floor greeted his wet soles. He reached for a thick cotton towel, wiping away the remaining droplets of water from his broad chest and shoulders, leaving strands of his golden-blond hair still slightly damp, hanging over his forehead.
Leon stepped into his modest second-floor bedroom. The room was sparse of trinkets, arranged like the quarters of a soldier, containing only an iron bed covered with a thick wool blanket, a writing desk with neatly stacked work files, and a two-door dark oak wardrobe in the corner. Above the doorway, the black hands of a wooden wall clock ticked monotonously, pointing to 4:12 in the afternoon. The grey evening light from the Creydon sky was beginning to fade, slipping in through the cold, lead-framed windowpanes.
Leon opened one of the creaking wardrobe doors, grabbing a crisp white cotton shirt and a pair of charcoal-grey wool trousers from the wooden hangers. He put on the white shirt first, tidying the row of buttons from bottom to top, deliberately leaving the top two buttons comfortably open. Afterward, he donned his trousers, buttoned the waist, and pulled a pair of suspenders up over both shoulders.
He had no intention of wearing his waistcoat or coat just yet; he wanted to prepare dinner for his grandmother first.
Leon descended the stairs, the scent of chamomile salve and cinnamon once again greeting him from the living room. His grandmother was still sitting in the rocking chair near the fireplace, her aged fingers moving nimbly as she knitted brown wool yarn.
Leon walked straight toward the small kitchen, but his steps came to a halt.
"What are you planning to do there?" his grandmother asked. The old woman glanced over her reading glasses, looking at her grandson's white shirt.
"Cooking for you, Grandma," Leon answered, just about to reach for the pan handle.
"No need," she interrupted quickly, refocusing her gaze on her lap.
"The smoke smell will cling to you. You're going to see Florence, aren't you?" the old woman asked.
Leon refrained from taking the pan. He looked down briefly at his clothes, then awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.
"Besides," she continued in a relaxed tone.
"I don't feel like chewing right now," the old woman excused herself.
"Just go buy some broth soup at Mr. Keller's shop. Go on, off you go," she commanded lightly.
A faint curve appeared at the corner of Leon's lips. He knew the old woman was merely making an excuse so he wouldn't have to bother.
"Alright, Grandma," Leon replied.
Before stepping toward the exit, Leon glanced at the wooden pendulum clock above the fireplace mantel; its black hands pointed to 4:22 in the afternoon. There was still enough time before he had to leave.
He turned back for a moment and grabbed a covered tin tiffin carrier from the shelf, then walked near the front door. He reached for his faded brown, thick cotton house coat from the wall peg near the door, slipped his feet into his work boots, and opened the door once more to face the cold evening air of Creydon Borough.
Leon walked casually along the cobblestone sidewalk of Wellstone Street for roughly three hundred meters until he arrived at an eatery named Keller's Eating House.
The shop stood wedged between rows of other dark brick buildings along the street, its window glass perpetually fogged by the hot drafts from within. As Leon pushed its creaking wooden door, a small brass bell above the frame vibrated and chimed twice. The chiming was instantly swallowed by the dense heat and the savory aroma of beef marrow that hit his face directly. The wooden floor was intentionally strewn with thick sawdust to absorb the mud from customers' shoes.
Inside the long room extending to the back, a dozen laborers who had just finished their shifts sat crowded together along two rows of long communal benches. They bowed their heads in weary silence, holding pewter spoons and greedily sipping from their bowls.
At the far end of the room, behind dense plumes of white steam, a giant copper cauldron bubbled slowly over a coal stove. On the side wall by the counter, a black chalkboard displayed the daily menu written in Westerian script:
Crusty Bread & Butter — 3¢
Leg-of-Beef Soup — 5¢
Meat Pie & Mash — 10¢
Mutton Stew & Dumplings — 15¢
Pork Chops & Fried Onions — 25¢
Roast Beef & Gravy — 35¢
Rump Steak & Fried Potatoes — 50¢
*Note: ¢ = One cent (penny)
On the cutting table near the coal stove, a browned slab of roasted beef thigh, still dripping with savory fat, was being sliced thick by the kitchen assistant, ready to be paired with rump steak, pork chops with sautéed onions, and stacks of crusty wheat bread. Yet at the edge of the serving counter, the giant copper cauldron remained the focal point of activity for the working-class pocket-saver: leg-of-beef soup. Shins, cartilage, and beef feet were simmered for dozens of hours until all the collagen and marrow completely dissolved, producing a thick, silky, murky brown broth packed with nourishment.
Leon walked past the long benches, approaching the wooden counter whose surface was encrusted with broth steam and grease.
"One full serving of broth, Mr. Keller. Please strain out the meat and bones; my grandmother doesn't feel like chewing," Leon said.
"Of course, Leon," greeted the plump man in the dirty white apron as he took Leon's tin container with heat-calloused hands. He glanced briefly at the steak that had just been lifted from the iron pan, then smiled understandingly.
Leon placed a nickel 'Nick' five-cent coin onto the wooden counter. Mr. Keller deftly scooped up the coin, picked up a long iron ladle, and poured the boiling, thick broth into Leon's tiffin carrier. He closed it tightly, wrapped the base of the carrier in a rough napkin cloth so it wouldn't burn Leon's hands, then tucked a small piece of hard wheat bread on top of the lid as an accompaniment.
Upon returning home at 4:46 PM, Leon stepped inside and closed the door against the cold wind. He removed his work boots and hung his brown cotton house coat back on the wall peg by the door.
With the steaming tin carrier still in hand, Leon walked straight to the kitchen area. He retrieved a thick ceramic bowl from the dish rack, poured the thick, bone-free golden-brown broth until it released a rich, savory aroma, and then sliced a loaf of wheat bread into thick slices on the wooden cutting board. Carrying the bowl and the small plate of bread, Leon walked to the wooden dining table in the corner of the room and served it there.
Seeing her meal ready, his grandmother set her ball of wool into the knitting basket. At eighty years of age, the old woman still possessed a fairly straight back and a steady gait. Without needing support, she rose from her rocking chair, walked casually to the dining table, and pulled out her own wooden chair.
The old woman sat down, reached for a pewter spoon, and tasted a spoonful of the steaming brown broth. She let out a breath of relief as the warmth settled in her chest.
"Mr. Keller wasn't stingy with the pepper this time," she muttered with a soft chuckle. She scooped another spoonful before looking up at Leon.
"Now go upstairs and get ready to escort Florence. Don't keep her waiting," the woman urged lightly.
"I understand, Grandma. Finish the soup while it's hot," Leon replied with a small nod, then turned to walk up the stairs.
In his room, Leon began his final preparations. It was 4:58 in the afternoon. He pushed the door of the oak wardrobe shut until it closed firmly with a soft click. On the right door's exterior, a full-length brass-framed mirror clearly reflected his entire posture.
He took a dark silk cravat with subtle stripe patterns, looped it around his neck, and tied it into a neat Ascot knot. From inside the wardrobe, he pulled out a dark grey double-breasted wool waistcoat. Leon donned it over his shirt, buttoned it tightly, and hooked a thin silver chain from his waistcoat pocket to the middle buttonhole to tether his favored pocket watch. On his right hip, he buckled a sleek leather holster housing a silver-plated revolver, then donned a matching wool suit jacket that comfortably concealed the weapon.
Leon picked up a faceted glass bottle from the small table beside his bed. He spritzed a bit of fragrance onto his wrists and the base of his neck. A cool, sharp, masculine sandalwood aroma wafted subtly, blending with the scent of clean wool cloth. Through the reflection in the wardrobe mirror, Leon ensured his golden-blond hair was neatly combed to the side.
He then opened his writing desk drawer. From within, Leon retrieved a black leather wallet containing Mark banknotes, as well as a small, palm-sized rectangular wooden box—plainly dark-varnished without conspicuous carvings. The box felt solid and weighty in his palm. After slipping the wallet and wooden box into the inner pockets of his jacket, Leon put on his thick charcoal straight-cut overcoat, ensuring his chest didn't look bulky before stepping out of the room.
In the dining room, the ceramic bowl on the table was already half empty. His grandmother had set down her spoon and was sipping water, seemingly enjoying her simple dinner in peace.
"I'm off now, Grandma." Leon paused near the doorway.
His grandmother turned, eyeing her grandson's appearance from his crisp shirt and waistcoat to his clean coat suit. Her eyes scrutinized him briefly before she nodded subtly.
"Don't come home too late," his grandmother instructed while wiping the corner of her lips with a cotton napkin.
"Lock the front door and give my regards to Florence," she added.
"I will. Don't fall asleep in the rocking chair again if it gets cold tonight," Leon reminded her calmly.
"Yes, yes, so naggy. Off you go," his grandmother replied, waving her hand dismissively.
Leon smiled faintly. He walked over to the front door, slipped his feet into a pair of black leather dress shoes gleaming with fresh polish near the mat, and grabbed his black top hat hanging neatly on the wall peg beside his cotton house coat. He placed it on his head, pulled the brim slightly forward, opened the door, and stepped out onto the streets of Creydon at precisely 5:10 in the afternoon before locking the wooden door securely behind him.
He walked at a leisurely pace for eight minutes through Wellstone Street, which was beginning to be illuminated by gas lanterns, heading toward the entrance of the underground station. The atmosphere of the commuter station during the transition from afternoon to dusk felt quieter than earlier in the day. Leon descended the stone steps, purchased a second-class ticket for ten cents, and stood on the platform waiting for the northbound train.
At 5:20, the steam locomotive glided to a stop with its signature hiss. Leon boarded the second-class carriage, sitting near the window and letting the rumble of the engine carry him along. The train slowly ascended out of the darkness of the underground tunnel, crossing a sturdy iron truss bridge spanning the foggy surface of the Sanore River, before finally gliding into the open platform of Broad Street East Station.
The journey took ten minutes. At precisely 5:30, the steam locomotive braked slowly beneath the iron canopy of the station.
As soon as he stepped out of the station hall, the evening bustle along Broad Street, Eastmarch greeted him immediately. At the corner of the cobblestone street, rows of hired carriages—serving as one of the very few reliable means of transportation available—were lined up waiting for passengers heading across to the Old Quarter, a quiet residential area in the southwest untouched by railway lines.
Leon approached the stand, selected a closed four-wheeled brougham, and approached the driver.
"Number Nine, Old Quarter," Leon said
"Wait for me there for ten minutes to pick someone up, then take us to Westgate Station. How much is the fare?"
The middle-aged cabman blinked, his rough fingers stroking his thin beard as he calculated the route in his head.
"Crossing to the Old Quarter, wait time, then continuing northwest to Westgate..." muttered the driver, glancing at Leon's neat coat suit before naming a price.
"Standard fare and wait time is about one Mark twenty cents, sir."Without wasting time bargaining, Leon reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal coat and pulled out his leather wallet. From it, he drew two one-Mark banknotes, then slipped the wallet back inside his coat.
"Two Marks, and keep the change," Leon said, handing the banknotes to the driver.
The driver's eyes immediately lit up. Receiving an eighty-cent tip in the evening was a rare stroke of good fortune. He quickly bowed respectfully, touched the brim of his hat with a broad smile, and hurried to open the cabin door.
"Thank you very much, sir! Leave everything to me," he exclaimed cheerfully.
"Please step inside, sir!" he added with a bow.
Leon stepped in, resting his back against the comfortable leather cushions. He glanced at his pocket watch; it showed 5:37 as dusk began to settle. The driver leaped onto the box seat, flicked the reins, and the iron-rimmed wooden wheels clattered firmly over the cobblestones—carrying the inspector away from the bustle of Eastmarch's Broad Street toward the serenity of the Old Quarter for roughly twenty minutes.
On the upper floor of Number Nine Old Quarter, Florence Faraday calmly admired her reflection in front of the vanity mirror. A dark emerald silk-cotton dress fit her slender silhouette perfectly, shielded by a dull cream wool coat draped neatly over her shoulders. Her honey-blonde hair was braided into a circular crown above the nape of her neck, while a medium-brimmed hat with thin chiffon netting framed her forehead and the silver round glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. After ensuring everything was immaculate, she retrieved silk gloves from the table and stepped out of her room.
She descended the wooden stairs into the living room, warmed by the fireplace. On the carpet, Lucien de Noctval sat cross-legged with the thick book "Stairs to Miracle" open on his lap. Beside his thigh, Lumi was curled up asleep.
"Lucien, move to the sofa. I've told you not to read on the floor when the light is dim," Florence scolded as she pulled at the ends of her gloves.
"Just two pages left, Aunt Flo," Lucien replied, slowly slipping a bookmark between the pages.
"And remember my warning. While I'm away, don't even think about using your Uniqueness," Florence warned. She stared intently at her nephew from behind her round glasses.
"I don't intend to do anything strange," Lucien countered with a faint smile, stroking the back of Lumi, who was purring loudly beside him.
"It's not a matter of intention, Lucien, but the impulse," Florence interrupted softly.
"After Advancement, your Vessel's capacity expands and your perception shifts," Florence explained further.
"Your mind automatically grows restless as your perception begins to shift. If that impulse arises, hold it back, at least for the next few days," she added, adjusting the strap of her bag on her arm.
"I understand, Aunt Flo," Lucien acknowledged with a gentle nod, accepting the advice.
"Good then," Florence chimed, checking the buttons of her coat.
"Make sure to lock the door after we leave," she insisted.
"Of course. Enjoy your dinner, Aunt Flo," Lucien replied warmly with a smile.
Florence returned the smile subtly before turning to walk slowly toward the window beside the fireplace. Her steps paused briefly; her eyes caught a slightly smudged corner of the glass under the dim gas light. The tip of her thumb gently wiped a faint streak on the glass surface.
When she withdrew her hand, she touched the corner of the frame and pushed her round glasses slightly up the bridge of her nose.
Florence then walked toward the door. There, she sat briefly on the wooden bench near the entrance to tighten and fasten the row of small buttons on her pair of leather boots.
Just as the last button was neatly fastened and she rose to her feet, three knocks sounded from behind the door before her.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Florence stepped forward and opened the door. Beyond the threshold, Leon stood tall with his dark coat neatly buttoned and his top hat in hand.
"Good evening, Florence," Leon greeted with a polite nod, while his fingers reflexively tucked the pocket watch chain back into his waistcoat pocket.
"Good evening, Leon. Punctual as always," Florence replied with a subtle smile.
"Should we?" she asked, glancing briefly toward the street.
"Of course," Leon responded, taking half a step back to give her space.
Florence stepped out onto the porch, pulling the oak door gently shut behind her. Without wasting time, the two of them descended the stone steps toward the hired horse-drawn carriage waiting by the roadside
The driver deftly opened the cabin door. As soon as Florence and Leon were seated inside, the brougham began to sway gently, gliding over the cobbled streets of the Old Quarter. The rhythm of hooves and the creak of rubber-rimmed wheels sounded in harmony amid the quiet evening air.
Through the glass window, rows of old-style red brick buildings and shady trees along the sidewalk slowly drifted past. The street gas lamps flickered on one by one, casting a warm yellow glow over the wet pavement. The city sky above them remained heavy and grey as usual, yet the evening air slipping through the cabin vent felt far friendlier—cool, damp, and free of the sulfur smell or factory soot that usually choked throats in the industrial district.
Inside the cabin, the two shared quiet, relaxed conversation—exchanging brief news and discussing the city's condition, letting the rest of the journey be filled by the serenity of the old neighborhood.
About fifteen minutes later, the carriage slowed as it entered the spacious forecourt of Westgate Station at the western edge of the Inner Ring.
Leon stepped down first as soon as the wheels stopped. Giving a brief nod to the driver, he turned to follow Florence up the stone steps toward the platform. The cold air immediately gripped them as they reached the upper floor—the station's iron roof loomed high over the tracks, while the open sides of the platform allowed the night wind to blow freely, sweeping away plumes of white steam from passing locomotives in the distance.
Leon checked his pocket watch once more. The hands showed 6:19 PM. There were still about five minutes before the 6:25 PM commuter arrived—the Kings Borough line train that would carry them toward Bloomsbury Avenue. He tucked the silver-chained watch back into his waistcoat pocket.
Florence walked toward a row of wooden benches near one of the iron pillars. They sat side by side there, letting the cold wind of the Chronos evening on the platform gently caress their coats in a soothing silence.
In the distance, the long hiss of a steam locomotive split the western wind. The single headlight of the steam commuter slowly emerged from the bend of the tracks, piercing the thin fog as it prepared to pull into the Westgate platform.