We stepped inside the manor and immediately saw the Earl of Mortaine standing at the top of the stairs. Upon noticing us, he descended to meet us.
Honestly, I never expected an earl to go to such lengths for a mere private detective—but I had to maintain appearances.
After the earl's overly polite (and frankly unnecessary) words of welcome, he led us upstairs.
We walked down a long corridor lined with various paintings, made a full loop around the second floor, and finally reached the grand staircase leading to the third.
But the moment we stood before the stairs, the earl stopped.
As the "detective," I turned back to him and asked,
"Is something wrong? Is this the painting?"
The earl took a step backward. He didn't even speak.
I climbed a few more steps until I stood directly in front of the portrait. I turned to the earl again.
"Your Lordship the Earl—look at me. Don't stare at the portrait. Come up here and keep your eyes on mine."
But the earl's eyes only widened further. He pointed at the portrait with a trembling hand.
I had no patience for cowardly nobles. I was about to shout—when something strange happened.
Suddenly the world around me changed.
I found myself standing in a deserted street.
Gas lamps flickered on and off. Thick fog blanketed the cobblestones.
I could still feel the wall behind me—the one the portrait hung on—but everything in front of me was now an abandoned nighttime street lined with factories.
I tried to move, hoping to snap out of the hallucination. This couldn't be real. It had to be an illusion.
But then two dark hands seized me from behind.
A chilling, distorted voice whispered,
"Father… why did you leave me alone?"
The dark hands' nails grew sharper—longer—threatening to pierce my stomach.
I refused to look back. The voice was right beside my ear.
It sounded like a child resting his head on my shoulder, speaking through a torn throat.
Cold sweat ran down my back. The voice was unmistakably childlike—yet wrong. Rasping. Stretched. As though every word was dragged out painfully.
I wanted desperately to escape this nightmare—when the voice spoke again.
"Why didn't you protect me…?"
A cold body pressed against my back.
Now I understood why the earl was terrified.
Anyone would be.
I couldn't bring myself to turn around. Maybe I never would.
I tried to raise my hand to grab the dark arms—when the voice cried out again.
"They killed me…"
I seized both dark wrists with all my strength and shoved them backward, desperate to break free.
But in the final moment, the voice turned into a scream.
"They ate me!!"
The hands released me.
I stumbled—and suddenly I was falling backward down the stairs.
I gasped for air.
Head Butler, the earl, and Julien were all staring at me and the portrait in horror.
I clutched my stomach—where I could still feel the crushing grip of those dark hands. Exactly where the nails had pressed, the skin was torn and bleeding.
When I touched the spot, my hand came away red.
I didn't know whether the blood was mine or belonged to those dark hands.
I had no intention of climbing those stairs again. I didn't even want to go near that portrait.
I looked at Julien and—voice barely steady—asked,
"Why… didn't you come up after me?"
But Julien was frozen, staring at the portrait.
I thought the portrait had affected him too. I was about to slap him to snap him out of it—when Julien slowly raised a trembling hand and pointed.
"He… those… baby hands!!"
I turned in shock.
The earl had been right. The portrait changed.
When we first saw it, the faces were vague—almost as though the painter hadn't bothered to finish them.
Now the entire canvas was covered in tiny, upturned baby hands.
I turned back to Julien.
"Did you… see something while I was up there?"
Julien swallowed hard, voice shaking.
"Y-yes… One—no, two… black hands came out of the portrait… and wrapped around your face…"
I rose slowly from the floor.
I spoke quietly to Julien.
"From now on… don't accept any supernatural cases without discussing them with me first."
Julien, still terrified, answered,
"I… I'm not coming on investigations anymore. You go alone!"
I gave a faint smile.
"No… you're coming with me."
The moment I said that, Head Butler called out to the servants.
"You may all leave. Return tomorrow when the earl is feeling better…"
I bowed slightly in respect, then turned and descended the stairs we had come up. A few minutes later, we left the manor.
On the way back to our temporary house, I spoke to Julien.
"A changing portrait… a boy asking questions!!"
Julien looked at me—half terrified, half confused.
"What… what are you talking about?"
I stopped walking.
"You didn't hear it?"
Julien shook his head quickly.
"N-no!"
I resumed walking.
If Julien hadn't heard anything… did that mean only people close to the portrait experienced it?
Or only those the portrait chose?
I stopped again and stared at a newspaper kiosk.
I glanced at Julien.
"You're not doing anything useful… At least buy a newspaper."
Julien hurried to the kiosk.
I looked toward the other side of the city—where factory smoke was visible even from here.
The street I had seen in the hallucination had an industrial feel.
But was it connected to Mortaine's factories and industries?
Or not?
Lost in thought, Julien returned and tapped my arm lightly with the rolled-up newspaper.
"Here… your paper."
This boy either wanted to annoy me or simply had no manners.
Either way, I took the paper—still rolled—and continued walking toward the house.
"Tonight I want to read the newspaper… And if possible, buy a complete map of Mortaine with its districts along the way."
Julien—still shaken—asked,
"So… tonight we're doing research without a case?"
I exhaled deeply.
"Yes… yes."
The boy was clearly terrified. His behaviour screamed cowardice—exactly the opposite of what I had assumed.
But he had every right to be afraid.
My own hands were still trembling slightly. My heart was still racing.
At least I could still speak normally.
Julien was practically stuttering from fear.
I took a deep breath and quickened my pace slightly.
I could have taken a carriage—but a little walking wouldn't hurt.
───────────────────────────
Meanwhile, in the city of London—on the rooftop of Big Ben—a man dressed entirely in grey sat quietly.
Beside him rested a green fox mask. His grey top hat lay on his lap.
He was writing something on a sheet of paper.
When he finished, he whispered the words aloud.
"My dear Duke… today you visited the palace. Not much time remains until you bid the world goodnight… and close your eyes forever…"
He gave a soft, eerie smile.
Then he released the paper.
The wind carried it toward Carlton House Terrace.
Moments later, the man in grey was gone from the rooftop.
Like mist—there one moment, gone the next.