The carriage rolled forward at an even pace over the stone streets, wheels turning with a steady grind that echoed off the low buildings.
Black paint covered the outside, simple and unremarkable, while the inside held brown leather seats worn smooth from years of use. It was the sort of public carriage anyone might hail on an ordinary day.
The only thing that stood out was the zebra hitched in front. Its striped hide shifted with each step, and now and then a thin plume of white mist drifted from its nostrils into the afternoon light.
Inside sat the three investigators. The younger man broke the quiet first. "Senior Charles, why leave so soon? We hardly asked him anything."
Charles worked his gloves into place before answering. "His story lined up with what we already know.
Every word he gave was true." He glanced at the elderly woman beside him as he spoke. She gave a small nod, confirming it without a sound.
Charles went on. "He is just an ordinary man. No hidden ties we could find. And someone in our own ranks knows him personally."
The younger investigator's brow lifted without thought. Charles noticed and frowned. "You ought to break that habit."
The younger man looked puzzled. Charles kept his voice even. "Raising your brow at every surprise or odd thing does not suit this work. We do not sit in judgment over how victims live their lives."
The younger man straightened at once. "Sorry, Senior."
Charles nodded once and leaned back against the seat. After a stretch of silence he spoke again, voice lower. "Still, something about that young man feels off to me."
Both the younger man and the elderly woman turned toward him. "How?" the younger asked.
Charles stayed quiet for a moment. "He never once asked who we were or what our names were."
The younger man's brow creased. "That seems natural enough. We looked like investigators. Anyone waking up in that room would guess as much."
"That is why I cannot place it," Charles said. "Yet it still feels strange."
The carriage kept moving, the zebra's hooves striking the stones in a rhythm that filled the gaps between words.
Sunlight slanted through the small windows, catching dust in the air. Charles watched the street pass without further comment, the unease sitting quiet in his chest.
Roughly an hour after they left, Ronan was let out of the hospital. The staff had run more checks and found nothing left to keep him for.
They handed back his clothes Percy's clothes and the small bundle of belongings the investigators had gathered earlier. Ronan felt a quiet relief at that. Stepping into this place with nothing at all would have made everything harder.
He changed in the small side room. The white shirt had yellowed at the collar from many washes. Over it went a dark brown vest, its edges faded and one side showing neat stitches from repairs done by hand.
The black trousers were rough wool, loose at the waist, and the leather shoes beneath his feet were thinned along the soles from walking.
Nothing looked unclean. Percy had kept everything as tidy as possible, yet the wear showed through no matter how carefully it was mended. It was the clothing of a man who made do with very little.
Once dressed, Ronan stepped out onto the street. The afternoon air carried a chill that settled against his skin. He reached into the pocket and drew out the small brown pouch that served as Percy's wallet. Inside were twelve copper crowns.
He counted them twice. Percy's memories told him a silver sovereign was worth a hundred of these, while gold lumens belonged to merchants and those with more money. Twelve coins would stretch perhaps five days if he spent nothing extra.
He looked down the long stretch of street ahead. No carriage ride today. Every coin mattered now. Percy's work at the tailor shop paid just enough to live, four copper crowns a day, and missing even one day cut straight into that.
The shop was likely the reason his clothes still held together at all; Percy had quietly used leftover thread and tools there to fix his own things after hours. It saved what little he could, but new clothes were still far out of reach.
Ronan started walking, the pavement uneven under his worn soles. The city moved around him—people passing, carts creaking, the low murmur of voices from open doorways.
He kept his thoughts on Percy's days. Work through the daylight, a drink or two afterward, then home to sleep and start again.
It was a narrow loop, the kind that wore a man down without ever giving much back. The more Ronan turned it over, the more it echoed his own old life before any of this. Endless hours, small pay, the same streets day after day.
He let out a slow breath. "You really had it rough too, Percy." The words came out low, almost to himself, as the afternoon light thinned toward evening and the buildings cast longer shadows across his path. The further he walked, the more details stood out that Percy had long since stopped noticing.
Most of the buildings rose three or four stories high, built from dark stone and timber blackened by age.
Iron brackets jutted from walls to support hanging signs painted with boots, loaves of bread, mugs, and dozens of other symbols for those who could not read.
Thin trails of smoke drifted from chimneys overhead and mixed with the smell of coal, cooked meat, and damp stone.
A newspaper boy hurried past carrying a stack under one arm while calling out headlines Ronan could not quite make out. Across the street, a woman bargained loudly with a vegetable vendor over the price of onions.
Neither seemed remarkable, yet both reminded him that life here continued as though nothing strange had happened.
No one knew a man from another world was walking among them. No one spared him a second glance. To everyone passing by, he was simply Percy Valemont or they don't even care who he was .