"I am the great Adair Reed," the frail man said, his voice a hoarse, proud declaration. He let out a strange, cackling laugh that was cut short by a fit of coughing. The constables held him firmly, guiding him toward a waiting vehicle.
Prescott watched them go, a deep sadness in his eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped slightly. The chaotic energy of the moment had faded, leaving a strange quiet in its place.
"How is he still alive?" Delia asked, her voice a shocked whisper as she came to stand beside Prescott. "The stories all said he was dead."
Prescott's gaze remained fixed on the retreating figure of the man. "The official story was that Adair Reed and his assistant died many years ago when their ship was lost at sea during a storm," he replied, his voice low and full of a strange sadness. "They never found his assistant's body." He took a slow, deep breath, the air whistling softly through his nose as he saw the departing carriage.
