Klara's gaze lingered on Adrian, and to her silent delight, he seemed… uncomfortable under it.
Not overtly, of course. This was Adrian Bellacorte, the Judge—his expression still carried that ever-present veil of indifference, the face of a man who could stare down the vilest of criminals without blinking. But she saw it. The subtle shifts. The faint stiffening at the corner of his mouth, the way his hand flexed on the arm of the chair as though caught off guard by being scrutinized instead of scrutinizing.
He didn't understand why she was staring at him—and that made it all the sweeter.
Meanwhile, the boy—Ian—dutifully answered her questions, reciting facts, times, and places with the methodical tone of someone who had rehearsed the account in his head countless times already. She made sure to give him her attention, nodding at appropriate intervals, but her eyes always slid back to Adrian in between. Watching him squirm under his own armor was far too much fun to resist.
Even Ronan noticed. The wolfish man smirked at his boss's predicament, flashing sharp teeth as he leaned back in his chair and let out a bark of laughter.
"Ha! Good to see the Judge take a dose of his own medicine," he snorted. "How's it feel, big man, when someone won't look away, eh?"
Adrian's lips twitched—just slightly, but Klara caught it. The tremor of contempt that he couldn't fully suppress. He reined it in a heartbeat later, but she had already seen it.
Her smile curved slowly, triumphant. Got you.
"I see," she mused aloud, voice lilting with feigned casualness. So the big bad Judge is useless when faced with something outside of his work and business.Her lips quirked upward as she tilted her head, savoring the moment. Finally, an edge over the frightening man. Finally, something human bleeding through that wall.
He hid truth well—better than most—but not perfectly. Not like the clown, who had total command over every twitch of his features, every ripple of his presence. Adrian's mastery was born of discipline, not innate cunning. Which meant his cracks showed if you looked long enough.
That… was attractive. Annoyingly so.
Klara's smirk widened a fraction.
She let him stew under her gaze a moment longer before redirecting, asking Ian, "So, you suspect that the Zreal those detectives saw was someone in disguise?"
Adrian's head tilted fractionally toward her, his voice flat. "...Detective. Please focus on your client."
"Oh?" she countered, eyes gleaming, her tone all professionalism but undercut by teasing amusement. "But aren't you this boy's current guardian? Doesn't that mean I should be conducting my business with you? You paid, after all."
His frown was small but visible. A tell. Another victory.
"Boy. Answer," Adrian ordered, closing his eyes again in that infuriating show of dismissal.
Klara smirked in silent victory, the tip of her cane tapping idly against the floor. Judge one, Detective two.
Ian adjusted the brown round hat in his lap, his expression steady despite the tension between his supposed guardians. "It's a possibility," he said carefully, "but I think it's too difficult. The risks would be immense. The party was at night, yes, and the lights weren't very bright—but most of the attendees were detectives. Detectives with keen observational skills. A wig, a beard, cosmetics… such things hardly escape their notice."
He paused, thinking, his brows furrowing. "Perhaps some kind of ability could do it. Something… beyond the ordinary. But even then, it seems unlikely."
Klara arched a brow. That was a careful slip, the kind of phrasing that brushed against things most people didn't dare put into words. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Adrian—eyes closed again, face composed. Ronan, by contrast, was juggling one of her paperweights as though this whole conversation were a tavern game.
Well, apart from these two, Klara thought dryly, watching the Judge and his wolfish shadow. Those two are walking proof that the world is stranger than most imagine.
When Ian saw her nod slightly at his reasoning, encouragement written in the faintest curve of her lips, he pressed on. "I believe the detectives truly saw Mr. Zreal—but he wasn't free. He was in a… controlled state. One where he couldn't send signals or ask for help." His voice tightened slightly, but he steadied himself. "The reason he didn't respond to my messages was his way of telling me something was wrong. That he needed help."
"A reasonable explanation." Klara folded her hands neatly over her knee, leaning back a little in her chair. The picture of composure. Inside, however, her mind ticked. Controlled. Not free. That's not ordinary language from a boy his age. He's either sharper than he lets on… or he's already brushed shoulders with the things I'd rather he hadn't.
Ian went quiet for ten seconds, the silence hanging heavy. Then he straightened, expression hardening with determination. "I'd like to entrust you with the task of investigating Mr. Zreal. Confirm his condition. That's all I ask. Just… confirmation."
His words carried the weight of someone who had rehearsed them again and again, the plea of someone too young to be burdened with such worries but carrying them anyway.
Klara felt a faint tug in her chest. She'd seen this sort of thing before—orphans, wards, apprentices left too early to fend for themselves. It never sat well with her, no matter how often she witnessed it.
She allowed the silence to linger a beat before rising to her feet. She held out her hand, crisp and professional. "I'll try to complete the investigation as soon as possible."
Ian's face softened with relief as he rose as well, taking her hand firmly. "Thank you. Truly. For your help."
With that, the boy stood and made his way toward the door, Ronan bounding up with his usual wolfish grin. "Don't worry, kid," the man chuckled, clapping Ian on the shoulder with perhaps too much force. "You've got the probable best detective in town on the case, eh? Well, second best—after me, of course!" His cackle followed them as he escorted Ian out.
That left only silence—and the Judge.
"…Detective," Adrian said at last, standing with his usual composed grace.
"Judge," Klara returned simply, inclining her head.
He moved toward the door, the faint creak of the floorboards marking his steps. For a moment, she thought that was the end of it—that he would leave with his usual cold detachment. But then, just as his hand touched the doorframe, he paused.
He turned back, his eyes locking onto hers, sharp as blades.
"I will be watching," he said softly, the weight of judgment in every syllable. "Do not make a fool out of yourself."
Klara rolled her eyes, though her pulse flickered at the provocation. "I won't. Be sure to judge me properly for a job well done, after."
A faint hum, more felt than heard, escaped him. And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Klara leaned back into her chair, cane tapping lightly against the floor as a small, private smile ghosted across her lips. So the Judge thinks he can provoke me. Watch me. Threaten me with judgment.
Her smirk deepened. Good. Let him watch. Because when this case is solved, it won't just be the boy who knows where to place his trust.
That Night, at 138 Rose Street, Backlund Bridge
Klara Moriarty adjusted the brim of her cap lower, shadowing her face against the thin wash of moonlight. The cheap, light-blue workman's outfit clung awkwardly to her frame, and the false beard along her jaw itched more than she cared to admit. Still, in the wee hours of the morning, disguise was survival.
The rough attire, the borrowed posture of a dockhand—they weren't just for anonymity. They were for blending into the undercurrent of Backlund, where shadows watched shadows and even the stray gleam of a polished boot could get one noticed.
From beneath the sprawling branches of an Intis parasol tree, Klara studied the house across the street, eyes flickering toward the steady glow of the elegant gas lamps.
Zreal's house.
The missing detective's story was already familiar to her: born in Southville, family and friends still there, he had carved out his own place in Backlund. No wife, no children, no ties save for two part-time maids who came every few days to clean.
It should have been simple. A missing man with no one to claim him but a ward. But Klara felt it—the itch between her shoulder blades, the too-quiet stillness of the street. Something wasn't right.
The terrace house before her was utterly dark. Pitch black, as though it had swallowed light whole.
Klara slipped her hand beneath her sleeve and let the silver chain spill down, the topaz pendulum dangling at its end. She closed her eyes, murmuring softly:
"There's danger inside.
There's danger inside."
She repeated the phrase seven times, letting the words settle like silt at the bottom of her mind.
When she opened her eyes, the pendulum was spinning clockwise. Slowly. Reluctantly.
"Danger," she muttered under her breath. "But not immediate. Not overwhelming."
That only deepened her unease. The pendulum wasn't lying, but she trusted her instincts more. Something worse was here. Not in the house, perhaps, but circling it. Waiting for her to step inside.
She exhaled, steadying herself. Inventory next. Tarot deck: secure. A few hastily made charms: poor quality, but better than nothing. Powder sealed in its pouch: useful for buying time if things turned ugly.
"Enough," she whispered, scanning the quiet street. Then, taking advantage of the silence, she crossed the cobblestones swiftly, boots striking once, twice, before she melted into the shadow of the wall.
No veranda, no yard, no garden. The house faced the street like a clenched jaw. She pressed her palm against the cold stone, eyes tracing upward. The water pipe was narrow but sturdy enough. A foothold, a climb, a quiet pull of her weight—and she was on the second-story balcony where damp laundry stirred faintly in the night wind.
Sliding a tarot card free, Klara eased it through the crack in the door and coaxed the latch open with the careful precision of a woman who had done this too many times. The lock gave with the faintest click, and she slipped into the corridor, shutting the night behind her.
The floor was bare wood, and she moved soundlessly across it, recalling Ian's rough sketch of the house's layout. Zreal's bedroom was ahead.
She tapped her molar lightly, calling forth Spirit Vision. Her eyes burned faintly as her vision shifted, cutting through the wood of the door before her.
Her breath stilled.
Three auras. Humanoid. Blurry but distinct. Each in different corners of the room.
"Lying in wait…" she mouthed silently. Ambush. But for whom? Ian? Or me?
The bedroom wasn't large. Yet three figures had chosen to crouch there like spiders in a jar.
Her instincts screamed again, harder this time. This wasn't just a simple snare for an unsuspecting detective. The pattern didn't fit. Something about it reeked of misdirection, as though the true danger was out of sight, waiting for her to step too deep.
Klara withdrew a step, her boots kissing the floor lightly as she retreated toward the balcony. From her pocket she withdrew a sliver of silver etched with markings—one of her attempts at charmwork from earlier that day. Crude, half-reliable. But still better than nothing.
Not Evernight's power, not anyone else's. Her own. Dangerous, yes, but necessary.
Lifting it between her fingers, she whispered the word in ancient Hermes:
"Crimson."
The silver grew cold against her palm. A thread of frost slid through her chest. She pressed the chill down, forced her body to move, and crept back toward the bedroom door.
The handle was cool beneath her fingers. She let the charm rest against her skin, infused it with a trickle of spirituality, and twisted the knob just enough to open a narrow crack.
With a flick of her wrist, the charm slipped into the room.
The door shut again. Her pulse ticked the count in her ears.
Three.
Two.
One.
She pushed the door wide and rolled across the floor in one smooth motion.
Silence. No sudden blades. No burst of gunfire. No rush of footsteps.
Only the steady breathing of three unconscious figures.
Klara rose slowly, keeping her back to the wall as her eyes adjusted to the faint crimson light filtering in from the moon. The room was ordinary enough: bed, closets, desk, sofa, coat rack. Too ordinary.
On the floor near the bed, a man in a black coat slumped unnaturally, asleep. Another figure slouched by the sofa, and a third leaned stiffly against the closet door. All of them unmoving.
Her gaze swept them once, twice, and then dropped to the bed.
A few strands of short, yellowish-brown hair lay across the pillow.
Ian's words whispered in her memory: Detective Zreal. Short, yellowish-brown hair.
"This should be it," Klara murmured. The words came out sharper than she intended, a blade meant to convince herself.
Pocketing the strands, she crossed to the sofa and sank down into it, the wood frame creaking faintly beneath her weight. The crimson light painted everything in a sheen of unease.
Her cane rested across her knees as she leaned her head back, closing her eyes for a moment. The case should have been straightforward, the danger contained to these three. But the air pressed heavy on her chest, like someone else was breathing over her shoulder just beyond sight.
A presence. Watching. Waiting.
Her hand tightened on the strands of hair.
This isn't just a missing man. Someone wanted me here. Someone wants me watching the wrong direction while they move.
A small, humorless smile curved her lips as she reached into her pocket for her cards.
"Deduction, my good man," she whispered to herself, voice low, eyes glinting beneath the brim of her cap.
And then, with a deep breath, she prepared to divine.