The fog was thick that morning. It crept in through the gaps of the shutters like a thief, laying a pall of pale white over Klara's modest but carefully maintained flat. For Backlund, fog was nothing unusual—still, to Klara, it felt oppressive, heavy, and clingy, like the city itself trying to remind her she did not belong here.
She sat at her dining table, fork in hand, glaring down at her breakfast as if it were a sworn enemy.
On the porcelain plate rested smoked salmon folded neatly over buttered brioche, the delicate pink fish glistening under the faint lantern light. A crystal dish of sugared berries sat at her elbow. The scent of dark coffee wafted from the mug beside her, mingling with the faint salt of the salmon.
It was far too fine a breakfast for a detective in the East Borough.
She cut into the brioche with more force than necessary, muttering under her breath as the butter oozed out.
"All this because of that man…"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Adrian. The so-called Judge of Backlund. He had shoved an obscene amount of money into her hands after their last endeavor—forty pounds, just like that. Enough to live comfortably for months, if she stretched it. Enough to eat like this, to breathe easier, to stop pawning old coats for rent.
And yet.
She stabbed a berry, its sugared skin popping beneath her fork.
It wasn't hers. It wasn't earned.
Sure, she had done her part, had worked, had investigated—but the way he had given it to her, so casually, so utterly indifferent to the significance of the sum, gnawed at her pride. Like she was some wayward stray tossed a bone.
She chewed the salmon slowly, bitter at herself for liking it.
"...It does have its merits," she muttered, conceding to no one. "Though why did he pay so much?"
The fog thickened against the windows. She leaned back in her chair, wiping her lips with a napkin, and let her thoughts wander. The luxury, the strange man who walked around with the air of final judgment itself, the way Ronan teased her relentlessly about the two of them being "peas in a pod." She shivered.
Klara had no time to indulge her musings. She pushed the plate away, reached for the folded newspaper on the counter, and tried to bury herself in mundane matters: talk of city infrastructure, reports of crime waves in the East Borough, advertisements for imported goods.
"Backlund really is too big…" she murmured, skimming through the latest article on borough expansions. "Every borough's its own world, and East Borough—hah, twice the size of Tingen."
She tapped the headline with her finger. Transportation schemes. Proposals for new vehicles, prototypes seeking investors. Her mind calculated idly: profits, time saved, convenience. The kind of thing Adrian would already know, she thought sourly.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The sound jolted her upright. Not a polite tap, not the rap of a courier. Heavy, insistent, like a fist hammering judgment on her very door.
Her hand darted toward the revolver tucked under the table. She steadied her breath, pushed her chair back with deliberate slowness, and stood.
"Who is it?" she called, already knowing the courtesy would be ignored.
Silence answered.
Klara's lips thinned. She smoothed down the front of her simple dress, straightened the collar, and pulled open the door.
A man loomed in the fog-filled threshold.
She recognized him instantly: dark skin, recessed eye sockets, the lean, hardy build of someone who lived by violence alone. She remembered him from the steam metro, chasing Ian. The memory sent a chill down her spine.
Meursault. An executioner of the Zmanger gang.
His black coat was far too clean, his silk hat too pompous for the way he stood—like a predator in borrowed clothing. His eyes raked her over with cold calculation.
"Excuse me, who are you looking for?" Klara forced herself to ask, voice professional, crisp, betraying none of the tension running through her. "Do you have a commission to entrust with me?"
Meursault's voice came out low and heavy, each word flavored with a thick highlander accent.
"Are you Detective Sherlock Moriarty?"
Klara inclined her chin. "Yes."
He nodded stiffly, expression unchanging. "I want to hire you to find someone."
She raised a brow, keeping her body angled ever so slightly toward her table, where her revolver still sat. "We can talk inside—"
"There's no need." His refusal cut through the air. Then his eyes sharpened, narrowing like the tip of a knife.
"The person I'm looking for is called Ian. Ian Wright. Bright red eyes. Fifteen or sixteen. Brown, old coat. Round hat of the same color. I believe you know him."
Klara let out a soft chuckle, crossing her arms.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Meursault ignored her denial. "He's a thief. He stole something from me. If you find him, you'll be paid at least ten pounds."
Her eyes flicked over his face, watching for a tell, anything to give him away. Calm. Too calm.
"You've provided too few clues," she said flatly.
"Thirty."
The number hung in the air. Klara tilted her head, mocking.
"Tempting. But I'm a professional. Confidentiality comes first."
Meursault's gaze hardened.
"Fifty."
Klara's laugh was sharp, derisive. "Not surprised. But it's still not enough."
For the first time, his expression faltered, confusion flickering behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, ready to ask—
"Your head."
The words came from behind him. Soft, measured, inevitable.
Before Klara could blink, a blur moved through the fog. Mrs. Sanders—sweet, wrinkled Mrs. Sanders that she had oh so talked with every morning, with her baskets of bread and warm gossip—appeared with a sword in hand.
Steel flashed.
A clean arc.
Blood sprayed across Klara's face in warm droplets. Meursault's eyes widened, his body jerking once before his head separated neatly from his shoulders. It rolled, thudding against her doorstep with sickening finality.
The body collapsed at her feet.
Klara staggered back, hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. "What—how—"
Her gaze darted to the familiar, gentle figure standing calmly with sword in hand, not a drop of blood on her apron. Mrs. Sanders.
The voice. That voice.
"...Is that you, Judge?" Klara whispered, arms wrapping tightly around herself, unsure if she was trembling from fear, shock, or relief.
The kindly woman's image flickered. For a moment she remained Mrs. Sanders, smiling faintly, the perfect neighbor. Then, like smoke dissipating, her form warped, dissolved—
And in her place stood him.
Adrian.
Tall. Imposing. Dark coat immaculate, silver eyes like knives cutting through the fog. The blade vanished from his hand as though it had never been. His presence filled the room, colder than the blood still dripping on her doorstep.
"I told you to protect yourself, didn't I?"
His voice was quiet, but it pressed against her chest, heavy as a stone.
Klara's throat tightened. She hated the way her knees weakened under that gaze, the way the warmth of salmon and brioche turned to ash in her stomach. She hugged herself tighter, glaring at him through the shiver crawling up her spine.
"...You can't just—" she began, then faltered, words tangling in her throat. The corpse lay at her feet. His head.
Adrian exhaled softly, his hand lowering to the weapon that was still slick with blood. A shift, a ripple of subtle power, and the blade bled away into something far less conspicuous—a plain cane, the polished handle gleaming faintly under the lantern light. He hooked it at his waist in one casual motion, as if it had always been there.
The faint red spatter across his coat was next. With a small, practiced gesture, he dabbed at the stains with a folded towel, his movements meticulous, deliberate. Then his eyes flicked toward her—unreadable silver, cool as the fog outside.
He stepped closer, lifting the towel toward her face.
Klara froze, instinct screaming not to flinch, not to let him close that gap. She took a single step back, chin raised in defiance, and wiped her cheek with the hem of her sleeve instead. The crimson streak smudged across the fabric, ugly and raw against the pale grey.
Adrian's brow ticked upward, the faintest of reactions, but he said nothing. He simply folded the towel once more, slid it back into his coat, and turned away.
A nod from him was all it took.
The door creaked wider, and Ronan slipped in, his grin nowhere to be seen for once. He gave Klara a mock salute, irreverence clinging to the gesture even in silence, before crouching at the corpse. With practiced ease, he unfurled a thick tarp, wrapping Meursault's remains like butcher's meat. Two more men in plain coats entered, faceless in their efficiency, and without a word hoisted the body up between them.
The sound of boots faded down the hall. The neighbors peeked, eyes peering out from behind half-closed curtains, but none dared speak. They only shook their heads and returned inside, as if this sort of procession were routine. As if Backlund itself had long accepted the Judge's shadow as part of its daily life.
The door clicked shut.
Silence filled the room like smoke.
Klara's arms crossed tightly over her chest, and she stared at him—at the man who had just turned her flat into an execution ground, at the man who seemed utterly unmoved by the blood still drying on the floorboards.
Adrian met her gaze in equal silence, cane resting idly against his palm, shoulders straight, calm as marble.
Her mind spun. Threads tied themselves together in the quiet, each question he'd asked her, each gesture that hadn't made sense at the time, now rearranging themselves into one clear and infuriating picture.
Her lips curled into a bitter smile.
"You used me."
The words cut sharp through the still air.
Adrian didn't deny it.
No flicker of surprise, no attempt at excuse. His silver eyes remained steady, watching her, absorbing her accusation like stone weathering rain.
Of course. He needed bait. He needed someone visible, promising, rising, someone to draw the eye of whoever hunted Ian. And so he had dangled her like a lure, placed coin in her hand, given her tools, whispered protection just enough to keep her in the game.
She was a detective, yes. But in his play, she was a pawn.
Adrian's mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Brilliant deduction," he murmured, voice soft, mocking and approving all at once. His gaze sharpened like the edge of a blade. "Now if only you had used the same brilliance to kill him immediately."
Her fists clenched at her sides. "I… We could have used him, Adrian! He wasn't the top of this chain and you know it. He had names, contacts—leverage. You threw that away."
"I know." His tone was flat, immovable. "But this will put a pause to their crimes."
"That's not—" she snapped, words rising like sparks.
"This," Adrian cut across her, voice dropping, weight pressing into the single word, "will send them a message. To stop. Or else."
His hand rested lightly on the head of his cane. A subtle gesture, yet the weight of it was undeniable, a reminder that to him, justice wasn't patient. It was final.
Klara bit her lip until the taste of iron filled her mouth. He was impossible. Frustrating. Arrogant. And yet… and yet, in the cold edges of her mind, she knew there was truth in his method.
She hated that she had to respect it.
A sharp scoff escaped her throat. She turned on her heel, the wooden floor creaking under her step. Her coat swirled behind her as she reached the door, refusing to let him see the tension trembling in her shoulders.
"You're coming with me, Adrian Bellacorte," she said, voice clipped, commanding.
Behind her, silence. Then a soft, amused exhale.
"And why," he began, tone touched with disdain, "would I—"
She spun back on him, glare like fire. "Did I stutter, Bellacorte?"
Her voice cracked like a whip in the fog-heavy room.
For the first time, Adrian's brow furrowed. His gaze locked onto hers, silver steel against burning green, neither side willing to bend. The weight of his authority pressed against her, cold and suffocating, but she stood her ground, chin lifted, jaw clenched, eyes daring him to dismiss her.
The silence stretched taut between them.
Finally, Adrian's shoulders shifted, the faintest sag of resignation. His hand left the cane. He sighed, low and almost human, before muttering—quiet, reluctant—
"Yes, ma'am."
Klara blinked once, surprise breaking through her defiance, though she masked it quickly. She inhaled through her nose, squared herself, and gave a sharp nod.
"Good boy."
The drizzle hadn't let up all morning, painting Backlund's streets in a washed-grey hue. The rain wasn't heavy, but it lingered, the sort of rain that clung to coats and hair and carried the city's stink—coal smoke, horse manure, and damp stone—further into one's bones than any downpour.
Klara adjusted the hem of her jacket with one hand, muttering a curse at the fog that pressed down like a woolen blanket. Normally, on her own, this would've been a nightmare of elbows and parasols jabbing from every direction. Crowds of strangers eager to push her aside as if she were invisible. Stray vendors barking, cabmen shouting. A suffocating swarm of bodies and voices.
But today was different.
Because Adrian Bellacorte walked beside her.
And with him came distance.
It wasn't that he said anything—no threats, no scowls, no booming presence. But his sheer figure, the dark trenchcoat fitted with precise lines, the subtle weight of the cane (disguised blade) at his waist, and those pale eyes that seemed to slice straight through fog and man alike… people moved.
Crowds parted without realizing it. Carriages slowed, giving them space. No one dared press against his shoulder in the tightly packed metro. Even the pickpockets, those wiry ghosts of East Borough, vanished like smoke at the mere twitch of his gaze.
For Klara, the walk was… comfortable. Maddeningly so. She didn't want to admit it. She hated admitting it. But she hadn't had a walk this easy in weeks.
Her only betrayal was the tiny smile tugging at her lips as she stepped out of the metro and into Sird Street, fog curling around the cobbles like something alive.
"You're smiling," Adrian muttered without looking at her. His tone was the same—flat, low, a constant murmur that left one guessing if he was irritated or merely stating a fact.
Klara coughed into her fist, flicking rain from her bangs. "No, I'm not."
"You are."
"Maybe I just enjoy the rain."
"You hate the rain."
She shot him a side-eye glare. "Do you always keep such obsessive notes on people's preferences, Judge?"
His pale eyes finally met hers, one brow raised as if to say of course. Then, with infuriating calm, he looked ahead again, letting silence swallow them.
Klara huffed. "You're a nuisance."
They arrived at Unit 9, a narrow townhouse squashed between two others. Its bricks were dark with damp, windows fogged over. No sign of life save for a faint line of smoke curling from the chimney.
Klara rapped the doorbell string. No sound. Just a limp tug of the cord.
"…broken?" she murmured, peering at it.
"Faulty design," Adrian said, matter-of-fact.
Of course he'd have an opinion on that too.
Just as she reached to knock, faint footsteps echoed inside. Heavy, unhurried. The door creaked open, and standing there was a man who looked less like an inventor and more like a weary worker. Thin frame, greased sleeves, tired lines beneath eyes that had seen too many nights of tinkering.
"Yes? Who are you looking for?" His Loen carried a soft provincial burr, not unpleasant, just plain.
Klara dipped her head slightly, her voice carrying its practiced lilt of charm. "Mr. Leppard, I presume?"
The man blinked, then nodded. "That's me."
"I hear you've been working on a new kind of transportation vehicle." Her smile curled. "And I'm very interested."
For a heartbeat, suspicion flickered in his eyes. Then came the spark—hope, feverish and bright. He stood straighter, pushing the door wide.
"Come in! Please, come in."
The house was chaos. Tools scattered across every flat surface. A wrench on a chair. A box of screws left teetering on the edge of a table. Books stacked precariously with scraps of diagrams jutting out. The smell of oil, grease, and stale bread clung to the air.
Klara took it all in, resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose. Adrian followed her silently, eyes scanning not the mess but the exits, the shadows, every corner that might conceal threat. Always the sentinel.
"Tea? Coffee?" Leppard asked, running a hand through his messy hair. "Ah, wait, I'm out of tea… No coffee either. Damn. Forget it."
Klara chuckled softly. "That's quite all right. We didn't come for the refreshments."
Her tone carried warmth, but Adrian's stare remained fixed on the man, heavy enough to make Leppard stumble over his next words.
"Yes, yes, of course. Well, you wish to invest, yes? How much—"
Klara raised a hand, stopping him mid-babble. "Not yet. First, I want to see the machine."
Leppard blinked, then smiled sheepishly. "Right, right. How careless of me. Of course."
He rummaged under a pile of papers, producing a sheet of contract parchment. "Just one formality. A non-disclosure agreement—so you don't steal the design."
Klara leaned on the edge of a chair, smirking. "Paranoid, aren't you?"
"Necessary." His eyes sharpened, and for a brief moment, Klara saw the steel beneath the bumbling surface.
Before she could respond, Adrian had already stepped forward. With a flourish too clean to be anything but practiced, he withdrew a fountain pen from his coat, signed the paper, and set it back down.
Leppard blinked at the bold, efficient scrawl of Adrian Bellacorte. Then at Klara.
Klara sighed theatrically. "Always ruining my fun, aren't you, Judge?" But she signed anyway.
"Good. Good." Relief softened Leppard's shoulders. He beckoned them. "Come, I'll show you."
The back room looked less like a workshop and more like a battlefield. Components everywhere. Cogs rolling loose on the floor. A chalkboard full of diagrams that looked halfway between genius and insanity. And in the center, looming like a half-born beast, was the machine.
It stood squat and boxy, half the height of a carriage, with four thick wheels bound by chains. Crude pedals jutted out where a driver might sit. The whole thing reeked of ambition and desperation.
Klara's eyes lit up.
"This," Leppard said, voice trembling with pride, "is a horseless vehicle. No need for a team of mares, no need for fodder or stables. Just human strength. The driver pedals here, the chains turn the axles, and the wheels carry it forward. With rubber fittings, the ride is smoother than anything the market currently provides."
Klara circled it slowly, eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovery. "You mean… a carriage powered by people instead of animals."
"Yes!" His voice cracked in excitement. "Exactly! Think of the savings. No more horse feed, no more manure, no more reliance on stable boys—"
"Think of the exhaustion," Adrian cut in, his voice flat. "Four passengers in that weight? The driver will collapse in under a mile."
Leppard faltered. Klara smirked.
"Well, he has a point." She leaned against the edge of the machine, rain-damp hair falling across her cheek. "But don't sulk, Mr. Leppard. Every invention starts crude. It just takes a sharper eye to shape it."
"And you have that eye?" Adrian asked, his tone somewhere between genuine curiosity and quiet challenge.
Klara turned her head, grinning up at him. "Maybe I do."
Then she looked back at the machine, imagination running wild. "Picture this: no horses, no endless costs, no filth. Just machines gliding down the streets of Backlund. Entire fleets of them. Carriages without reins, carrying people faster than the post."
Her voice had risen, quick and bright, like a spark catching flame. She turned to Adrian, eyes wide, almost daring him to scoff.
He didn't. He only watched her, silent, unreadable.
Klara faltered slightly, her excitement meeting the cool wall of his gaze. She exhaled sharply and threw up her hands. "Fine, don't indulge me. Be your usual annoying self."
The corner of his mouth twitched—barely.
"Steam could work," Adrian murmured finally, examining the crude axles. "A smaller engine, reinforced body. Not this."
Leppard frowned. "I don't have the money for that. Nor the parts."
"You might," Klara said smoothly, stepping close and brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve. "If the right investor took a liking to you."
Hope flared in his eyes again.
"How much?" he asked breathlessly.
Klara tapped her chin, pretending to ponder. "Depends. Let's say… one hundred pounds."
Leppard's face nearly split in joy. "For that, I'd— I'd give thirty-five percent of the shares! For the bicycle version, at least."
Klara's smirk widened. She turned to Adrian, standing so close she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes.
Then, with deliberate playfulness, she rose on her toes and lightly slapped his cheek with two fingers.
"Hear that, big guy? Be a dear and draft us a contract, will you?"
Adrian's gaze lowered, glacial, his cheek unmoving under her touch. For a moment, the silence between them thickened.
Then he exhaled slowly. "… Fine."
"Good." She pivoted back to Leppard, then added, as if it were an afterthought, "Oh, and he'll invest two hundred pounds instead. But we're only taking fifteen percent."
Adrian's head turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "… That doesn't seem fair."
"Got it?"
"… I said it doesn't seem fair."
She locked her glare with his, refusing to blink. "Got. It?"
His jaw flexed. Finally, he sighed through his nose and muttered, "… Yes."
"Good boy," she said sweetly, patting his arm as if rewarding a pet.
Leppard, oblivious to the battle of wills happening inches from him, nearly bounced with glee. "Marvelous! I'll get the papers ready right away—ah, thank you, truly thank you! This will change everything!"
Klara watched him scurry about, then leaned slightly toward Adrian, her voice low enough only he could hear.
"You see, Judge? Sometimes the world doesn't need your blade or your cold truths. Sometimes all it needs is a little charm."
Adrian didn't answer. But the faintest sound reached her ears. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a chuckle. Something in between.
And Klara decided—for today—that was victory enough.