He unlatched the heavy bolt, pulled the door open just enough to slip through, and stepped out onto the porch. The cold morning air, tinged with the metallic tang of the crimson moonlight, bit at his exposed skin. The two officers turned, their faces grim in the red glow. One was familiar: Inspector Volkova, his sharp eyes fixed on him. The other was a broad-shouldered constable, whose face was unknown to Noir.
"Inspector Volkova?" Noir managed, his voice a low question, feigning surprise as he pulled the door almost shut behind him, careful not to let it click loudly. "I... I wasn't expecting you so early." He tried to inject a confused weariness into his tone.
Volkova's expression was unreadable, his gaze piercing. "Indeed. Circumstances have changed, Mr. Wilson." His voice was low, gravelly, sending a shiver down Noir's spine. "We are here to escort you. The expert is waiting. We believe it is time you provided us with a full account of your... association with Elias Thorne." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, and Noir felt as though Volkova could see straight through his carefully constructed facade. "And we are rather short on patience, Mr. Wilson. You will accompany us now."
The chilling finality in Volkova's tone left no room for doubt. This wasn't a request; it was a demand. Noir's carefully guarded secrets felt on the verge of spilling. He was being ordered into that dark carriage, to face an "expert" he knew nothing about, at Elias's house—the scene of a death too horrific to comprehend. His mind screamed for an escape.
Before Volkova could take another step, a sudden, piercing cry ripped through the pre-dawn quiet of the street. "Help! Someone... he stole my bag!" The voice was shrill, desperate, coming from around the corner, further down the residential street.
Both officers, trained responders, immediately reacted. Their heads snapped towards the sound. "Stay here, Constable," Volkova commanded, his eyes still on Noir for a fraction of a second, before he pivoted, his heavy boots thudding on the cobblestones as he broke into a sprint towards the commotion. The constable hesitated, torn between his duty to the Inspector and his assigned watch over the house. His gaze darted from Volkova's retreating back to Noir, who stood motionless on the porch.
This was it. A fleeting, improbable window. Noir didn't waste a second. As the constable took a hesitant step towards the corner, his attention momentarily diverted, Noir spun on his heel. He didn't go back into the house; he plunged off the porch, landing silently on the dewy grass. He dashed down the narrow gap between his house and the neighbor's, a path that led to the maze of service alleys behind the properties.
He ran, his bare feet slapping against the grimy cobblestones of the alley. The air here was thick with the scent of damp brick, discarded refuse, and the faint, sweet-sickly smell of decay from overflowing bins. Walls of soot-stained brick rose on either side, casting deep, oppressive shadows even under the crimson moon. He could hear the faint, receding shouts of the police and the distant, panicked cries of the victim. His lungs burned, his legs ached, but the frantic urgency propelled him onward. He took sharp turns, weaving through laundry lines strung between buildings, startling a few rats that scurried into the gloom. Each alley looked identical, a winding labyrinth designed to disorient.
He emerged onto a slightly wider, secondary street, still quiet at this hour, but with the occasional carriage parked along the curb. His eyes darted frantically, searching. There! A lone hansom cab, its driver slumped on the seat, seemingly dozing.
"To the docks! Quickly! And spare no expense!" Noir gasped, pulling out a handful of coins from Alder's wallet – more than enough for a frantic journey. He scrambled into the back of the cab, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.
The driver stirred, a shadowy figure under the crimson light. He grunted, pulled the reins, and the carriage lurch ed forward with a sudden jolt, picking up speed. Noir clung to the seat, peering back through the small rear window. No sign of pursuit yet. He planned to ride for a significant distance, then leap out, hoping to throw them off his trail completely. He knew the docks were a chaotic maze, a perfect place to disappear.
He leaned forward, urging the driver, "Faster! The city limits! I'll double it!"
The driver let out a low, rumbling chuckle, a sound that sent a chill down Noir's spine, familiar yet utterly out of place. The carriage was moving at a furious pace, but the driver hadn't turned his head.
Then, slowly, deliberately, the figure in the driver's seat began to turn. The crimson moonlight caught his features, revealing the sharp, unyielding gaze, the severe jawline, the familiar dark coat.
"Plotting for an escape, are we, Mr. Wilson?" The voice was calm, utterly devoid of surprise, and impossibly familiar. "A rather desperate move, even for you."
It was Volkova. Inspector Volkova.
The realization hit Noir like a physical blow, stripping the air from his lungs. Volkova, not the constable, had been the one who had stayed. Volkova had been the driver. The entire diversion, the opportune escape, the seemingly random carriage—it had all been a trap. A carefully constructed illusion. His world tilted, and the crimson moon outside the window seemed to swell, its red light pulsing, distorting the reality around him.
Noir's eyes snapped open.
The crimson moonlight was gone. The rhythmic rattling of the carriage wheels was gone. He was in Alder's bed, the early morning light filtering through the window, pale and unassuming. His breath hitched in his throat, his body drenched in a cold sweat, his heart still hammering against his ribs. The fear, the desperation, the profound humiliation of being so utterly outmaneuvered—it all lingered, clinging to him like a shroud.
It had been a nightmare. A vivid, terrifying nightmare, born from the "herbal tea" and the sheer terror of his situation. The dream of the mist, of Elias and Alder's notes, felt strangely real, but the chase, the police, Volkova as the driver—that had been the mind's cruel invention, playing on his deepest anxieties.
He sat up, trembling, pushing clammy hair from his forehead. The room was normal. Silent. Thomas and Grace were still asleep in their rooms. The house was safe. For now. But the dream's intensity, the sheer reality of the trap, left him shaken to his core.
He sat up, trembling, pushing clammy hair from his forehead. The room was normal. Silent. Thomas and Grace were still asleep in their rooms. The house was safe. For now. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the "herbal tea's" strange lingering awareness still a hum beneath his skin. He walked slowly to the window, compelled by the lingering dread of the nightmare.
And there they stood.
Exactly as in the dream. Two figures in dark coats, standing by a dark carriage, bathed in the pale, nascent light of a real, normal dawn. No crimson moon, no red aura, but the silhouettes were unmistakable. The police. Volkova. Waiting. Their forms were stark against the pre-dawn street, their presence as chillingly real as the nightmare had been vivid.
His heart plummeted, a cold, sickening drop. The dream hadn't been a dream at all, not entirely. It had been a premonition, a horrifying dress rehearsal for a fate that now stood waiting outside his window. The escape, the alleyways, the carriage, Volkova as the driver—that had been the dream's cruel twist, a projection of his deepest fears, but the core reality, the presence of the police, was terrifyingly true.
He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of the 'tea' still faintly on his tongue. The nightmare had been a warning, a glimpse into Volkova's cunning. He now knew that direct escape was likely futile against such an adversary. His strategy had to change. He couldn't outrun them, not if they anticipated his every move. He had to face them, to outwit them. He had to be Alder Wilson, the amnesiac scholar, more convincingly than ever before. But armed now with the unsettling awareness of the "herbal tea" and the chilling insights from his dream, he felt both more prepared and infinitely more terrified.