While the city of Vanadeas was being swallowed by the biting cold, inside the Crime Management Office a handful of people still worked diligently through the night.
Nicholas, a clerk buried under mountains of paperwork, carried a stack of files ten folders high to his desk. He sat down and began to inspect each document carefully, line by line.
His department chief took a slow sip of coffee after stuffing another thick file under his desk. The atmosphere in the office was chaotic, phones rang, shoes shuffled, and voices rose and fell in disarray. Nicholas, tidy and reserved by nature, wasn't fond of noise but had no free hand to cover his ears. His desk was cluttered with complaints, draft amendments to city laws, and matters no one ever expected to read.
Crime kept growing, spreading deeper and darker every day. They called this realm the land of morality, yet they did everything to betray that very word. The law no longer cared about right or wrong. Nicholas, just another small man in a decaying society, could do nothing more than protect the tiny corner of the world he was given.
"Forget it."
He pushed away the pointless thoughts to focus on the endless work in front of him.
Page by page, the pile slowly shrank. His hands were starting to feel numb. Finally, the last document was signed off, at last, his desk was clear. The chaos would stop here, for now. Tomorrow was the day off he had waited for so long.
Outside, the snow had stopped falling. People hurried out of the building in clusters. Nicholas pulled on his black overcoat. Across the street, a small bakery filled the cold air with the scent of fresh bread. He waited at the crossing, the winter wind whipping his wavy shoulder-length hair into his eyes just as the pedestrian signal turned green. Luckily the speaker beeped loud enough this time, unlike last time. A dark blue sedan stopped to let him pass. He gave a small nod of thanks.
Nicholas bought two pretzels. Walking back to his flat, he let his mind drift to tomorrow's plan. He would take the Vanadeas-Senaya line out to the town of Selenaya, and from there return to his birthplace, the rural village where his mother, his childhood friends, and all the old memories still waited in the quiet countryside.
In the hallway leading to his room stood a pot of acacia. Its gentle fragrance lingered, proof of careful tending. Nicholas had always loved things that were cared for.
The wooden door creaked open. Inside, everything was neatly arranged before he left for work. Nicholas sat down on a plain wooden chair. Through the window, he could see the world beyond, crows gliding overhead, clouds tinged orange by the sinking sun. In the park below, people walked their eager dogs. There were so few cars on the road you could count them on one hand. It was a good day, for once, he didn't see a crime scene through that window.
The young man stood and began packing for tomorrow's trip.
------
In a quiet third-class carriage, the night rolled on. How many people would willingly travel to the remote countryside if not out of necessity? Nicholas noticed most passengers wore formal coats, likely on work duty even this far out.
When the iron wheels started to move, the train slowly dragged its long body off the platform. No one spoke much in the carriage, only faint breathing and the rattling window panes answered the night. The city's grey blocks melted away into open fields. Someone's eyes drifted beyond the glass, seeing old rice paddies, gentle morning sun, the same old shade trees by a family home that had never moved. There was nothing special there, but knowing he would stand in that place again was enough. Nicholas watched the landscape slip away behind the moving cars, his eyes reflecting a watercolor painting that existed for real.
In Les, the train's speed turned green leaves into quick strokes brushed across the sky.
The Kasni mountains rose rust-red under dry soil, snow whitening their distant peaks.
In Ruda, grand buildings lined the tracks. He didn't have to press his ear to the ground to hear the sharp, regulated pulse of city life there, but he had grown tired of that rhythm. Maybe it was time to break the chains, shed the burdens, and return to something plain and honest again. Wasn't that what this trip was for? Nicholas closed his eyes, drifting into half-sleep.
The train's shriek ripped him back awake.
A steam whistle howled across the empty night fields. Iron wheels clawed the rail, screeching a scar into the steel as the massive engine fought its own inertia. When the sudden brakes caught, their force shuddered backward through the metal bones of the cars. The whole train rattled like it was in pain. Hot steam hissed from the stack, wrapping the carriage in a thick white fog that muffled every sound to a hush.
Inside, the handful of passengers clung to the stiff wooden seats. Some reached out to steady the rattling windows as the glass trembled in its frame. Outside, soot-blackened panes showed only a ghostly line of bare trees and silent fields. The swaying lantern cast shadows on the walls, stretched, twisted, melting into the dark.
When everything went still, only the weary hiss of the locomotive remained. The rails underfoot were ice-cold. A man in a suit leaned out the window. It was so quiet he could hear only the winter wind teasing at his hair and his heartbeat pounding louder than it should on a night that suddenly felt too long.
------
The carriage door burst open, making a small boy flinch in his mother's arms. A man in a rough hooded cloak stepped inside, an old revolver gripped tight in his hand. His sharp eyes under the brim of a battered hat swept over the handful of passengers, hungry and hollow like someone with nothing left to lose.
Wallets. Watches. Necklaces. Everything was ordered thrown into a ragged sack. The steam still clinging to the air made each breath harder. Everyone kept their heads down. No one dared meet the gunman's stare. Nicholas didn't like playing hero, but the man in front of him looked like nothing more than a desperate petty thief, and Nicholas wanted to keep this from turning uglier than it had to.
Slowly, he rose from the stiff leather seat and stepped forward into the gunman's line of sight.
The hammer clicked back immediately.
"Sit down. Unless you'd rather catch a bullet to the skull," the man growled.
Nicholas just slowly raised both hands. His eyes were calm, cold embers on the verge of dying out. He glanced at the sack of stolen trinkets. They couldn't have been worth much. One hand shifted slightly, measuring the distance.
"This train's carrying something far more valuable, and I'm the one who handles it."
His voice was soft but steady enough to cut through the tense silence. He had learned this tone from years of delicate negotiations in the office.
He pulled out a file and laid it on the seat, hoping the gesture might lend him some weight. He slowly reached for an old pack of cigarettes from his overcoat pocket. Slow and clear, every motion forced the gunman's eyes to lock onto him, forgetting the others for just a moment.
"Look around. Most of these people barely carry a coin on them. Even if you rob them blind, it won't be worth the manhunt after. I want to keep this simple, no fuss, no blood."
He forced himself to hide the fear, though it still lingered in his voice with that barrel staring him down.
"Like I said, I manage the cargo on this train. And we're moving real goods tonight. I'll show you where it is, if you leave these people alone."
The gunman's finger twitched on the trigger. His eyes gave nothing away, he couldn't read what this quiet clerk was planning. But deep in Nicholas's weary eyes, a small spark said this wasn't just a plea to survive. There was a larger move at play.
The dull shine of the black revolver showed a faint Crime Mark, proof this gun had once ended someone's life and now carried power from the realm below.
But Nicholas didn't flinch. He'd seen men like this before. A gun was still just a gun if its wielder didn't know the darkness they held in their hands.