The apartment was small, cramped in the way that only Backlund apartments could be — high ceilings that pretended at grandeur while the walls still creaked and moaned with every carriage that passed outside. The fog had seeped into the wood, making the room smell faintly of dampness no matter how many candles were lit.
Klara let out a long, tired sigh and leaned back into her chair, pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose. She didn't want to sigh again — she'd been doing that far too often lately — but here she was, caught in the same old rhythm.
Across from her stood Adrian. Towering, as always, coat immaculate, gloves adjusted with surgical precision. The man looked as though he'd stepped straight out of a painting meant to intimidate lesser mortals.
"This boy," Adrian said in his calm, deep voice, "is going to work with you from now on."
Klara's flat stare could've cut glass. "…What do you even mean?" she muttered, each word dragged out with deliberate slowness.
"I mean exactly what I said," Adrian replied evenly, tugging at the cuff of his gloves. "From now on, Jonas will work with you."
Klara's eyes narrowed into sharp slits, flicking away from the towering man toward the figure beside him.
Jonas.
The boy looked… rough. That was the polite word. In truth, he looked closer to a half-dead mummy than any proper teenager. His frame was wiry, malnourished, skin stretched too thin over old scars and fresher wounds that hadn't been properly treated. Some had scabbed over badly, others just looked… dry, like he'd left them to heal on their own, as if even bandages were a luxury.
Klara winced inwardly. She could imagine the pain of fighting with those wounds. Yet the most telling thing wasn't his scars, but the way he stood. His shoulders twitched, his frame shook subtly, as though he was trying to hold himself together with sheer stubbornness. And his eyes — they darted anywhere but at Adrian, refusing to meet the imposing man's gaze.
Klara tilted her head slightly, studying him more. …He looks like he might be the same age as my siblings, she thought grimly.
And then, without another thought, she moved.
On her toes in a flash, Klara reached out, pinched Adrian's ear between two fingers, and twisted.
The imposing figure of the judge actually leaned down, muttering, "Ow. Ow, ow—"
Klara's smile was sharp, sweet, and venomous as she spoke in a voice dripping with sugary poison. "What exactly did you do to this boy?"
Even Ronan, lounging lazily at the side, let out a quiet chuckle. He turned his head away, his grin wide and mischievous as Adrian actually stammered.
"I… uh—"
"U… Uh?" Klara twisted his ear again, harder this time, making the towering man buckle further. "Answer the question."
Jonas stared at her then. Not with fear, not with scorn — but with something different. Respect, sharp and sudden, flickered in his hazel eyes. Yet just as quickly, his expression fell. His lips pressed tight, eyes turning away, his face closing off as though he'd remembered something that hurt.
Both Klara and Adrian caught it. Neither spoke of it.
Finally, Adrian said it. His voice was low, clipped, as though the words themselves weren't easy. "…I made him face the Mirror."
Klara's eyes sharpened further. She didn't entirely understand what that meant, but she knew enough to recognize the weight in it. Whatever the Mirror was, it wasn't kind.
"And why," she asked, her smile widening as her fingers pinched tighter, "would you do that?"
"To determine if he deserved a second chance."
The simplicity of the answer nearly made her pause. Nearly.
Adrian straightened again, regaining his composure, and Klara was forced to let go of his ear. He flexed his jaw once, adjusting his gloves again before extending a hand to her.
Klara raised an eyebrow at the sudden formality but accepted the handshake anyway.
The moment their hands clasped, the taps began. Adrian's gloved fingers pressed into her palm, small deliberate pulses of Morse code.
The boy needs a fresh new start. Take care of him.
Klara's brow arched, her green eyes narrowing as she tapped back, Why me?
You're saying no?
Her lips pressed together in a thin line. Don't put words in my mouth.
He needs to see life, not death.
The taps ended. Adrian released her hand.
Klara looked at him for a long beat, then let out a quiet scoff, rolling her eyes. "…You're insufferable."
"Jonas here worked for Meursault," Adrian continued, his voice shifting back to business as if nothing had happened. "We still don't know what they are planning, but I'll assume your lack of report means you weren't able to get anything useful."
Klara crossed her arms, scoffing again. "…Well, he did work for an ambassador but…" She smiled wryly, tilting her head at Adrian. "…I doubt the judge would kill and risk diplomatic issues."
Adrian grunted low in his throat — a sound of agreement. "Precisely why we must be more cautious." He turned, his coat shifting with the motion. "Me and Ronan will continue to monitor the boy. Jonas will be protecting you."
"…Thanks for dragging me into your mess, I guess," Klara smirked, her sarcasm sharp.
To her surprise, Adrian let out a low chuckle.
"You're welcome," he said simply, tipping his hat.
Behind him, Ronan froze, then exploded in laughter. "THE JUDGE LAUGHED?? THE WORLD IS ENDING EVERYONE!" He threw his arms wide in mock hysteria. "HIDE YOUR CHILDREN, HIDE YOUR WALLETS!"
Klara rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might get stuck. But a small smile still tugged at her lips as she pushed the two men out the door.
The lock clicked shut behind them. Silence settled.
Klara leaned against the wood for a moment, breathing out. Then she turned back into the room.
Jonas was still there. Still standing with his gaze downcast, his hands clutching his own arms like they were the only things tethering him to reality.
Her smile softened. She stepped closer, her hand lifting slowly, deliberately, before settling on his head. She ruffled his messy hair gently.
Jonas flinched — a small, sharp twitch — but he didn't pull away.
"Come on," Klara said warmly. "Let's go eat. That idiot of a judge paid me handsomely, so let's dine out."
Jonas hesitated, his voice quiet, almost lost in the damp silence of the room. "…Okay."
Klara grinned, eyes bright with mischief. "And call me big sis, okay? You'll get punished if you call me anything else. Oh—" she tapped her chin, pretending to think. "You can call me sissy wissy too if you want."
Jonas deadpanned, his hazel eyes lifting just enough to meet hers. "…I'll stick to big sis, thanks."
Klara laughed — light, warm, bubbling in the stale air. "Smart boy."
And for the first time, Jonas almost smiled.
The walk home had been loud — louder than Klara was used to, mostly because Jonas had finally opened his mouth and raised his voice a little. A full stomach seemed to wake up whatever scraps of fire were still buried in him.
"You really need to eat a lot more, you know?" Klara scolded as they rounded the corner toward her apartment, wagging a finger at him like some schoolteacher.
Jonas, for once, didn't just mumble. He actually argued back, his voice sharper, less frail. "I ate enough. I couldn't even breathe by the end of it!"
"Are you a girl?" Klara shot back immediately, unlocking her door with a smirk. "You should be able to eat three times more!"
Jonas blinked, deadpan. "…That doesn't even make sense."
"It does," Klara insisted, opening the door with a flourish. "Because I said so."
Jonas groaned under his breath, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.
Klara was ready to throw another quip his way when she froze.
Standing right in the doorway, as though she'd been waiting, was Julianne — the maid from next door. Her crisp black-and-white uniform was neat as ever, but her hands twisted in front of her apron, and her eyes darted nervously between Klara and Jonas.
"Good evening, Mr. Moriarty," Julianne said, her voice tight with traces of fear. "Mr. and Mrs. Sammer wish to invite you over to discuss something."
Klara blinked, then tilted her head. Hmm? What's this about… ah. Maybe they're curious, concerned about why the judge of Backlund has been showing up at my door so often. She thought wryly, sighing inwardly. Figures. Adrian is basically a disaster even as a partner. His MMR is so high he scares away potential teammates, so I get matched with dangerous people instead. Lovely.
Still, she plastered on her brightest smile. "Of course. Thank you, Julianne. We'll be right over."
Jonas gave her a questioning look, but Klara just patted his shoulder and guided him next door.
The Sammer home smelled faintly of polished wood and pipe smoke. The parlor was warm, the fire lit, shadows dancing across wallpaper patterned with faded roses.
Luke Sammer — stout, balding, with a pencil-thin mustache that made him look perpetually smug — stood as soon as they entered. His wife, Stelyn, delicate and pale with auburn hair pinned neatly back, sat stiffly on the sofa beside him.
"Good evening, Ms. Moriarty," Luke said with a genial chuckle as he extended a hand. "I only just learned that you were a private detective. That's quite unbecoming as a neighbor."
Klara laughed, waving her hand dismissively as she took his shake. "Oh, I'm not sure it's the job for me yet. I'm still keeping my options open."
Then she gestured at Jonas, who stood awkwardly just behind her. "This here is my little brother, Jonas. He'll be living with me from now on."
Jonas stiffened at the word brother, but to his credit, he only ducked his head and gave a small, respectful nod.
Luke's laugh came out a bit awkward this time. "So I've heard… it's nice to meet you, Jonas. I hope you'll like living here."
"…Thanks," Jonas muttered, his voice low but audible.
The couple's eyes flicked between them, still visibly uncomfortable, but Stelyn recovered first. She gestured politely. "Please, have a seat."
Klara and Jonas sat, Klara with a casual grace, Jonas with the awkward stiffness of someone who wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch the furniture. Tea was served.
The small talk began.
"I'm very curious," Stelyn said at last, folding her hands on her lap. "How many commissions does a private detective receive in a week, and… how much can they earn?"
Klara smiled wryly, leaning back in her seat. "It really depends. Some weeks are good, some weeks are miserable. Like farms — good and bad harvests, you know?" She lifted her cup, sipping lightly before adding, "Last week I earned five pounds and five soli. But after last night's incident… let's just say I might've made a loss."
As if she hadn't heard that last part, Stelyn continued, "If you can maintain that income, you'd live quite comfortably here in Cherwood. Five pounds a week means you wouldn't need to sublet another room. You could hire a maid, listen to a symphony every other week, or attend the theater. Once a week, you could play tennis or squash, or dine in a fine restaurant. Of course—" she lifted her chin slightly "—if you're preparing for marriage, five pounds a week still falls short. Truly decent would be seven."
Klara arched a brow. "Seven pounds, huh? Noted." She turned to Luke with a sly smile. "And I heard from your wife that you work at Coim, but I admit I'm not entirely sure what its business is?"
Luke smiled, clearly pleased to be asked. "Anthracite and charcoal."
Klara nodded as though she understood more than she did. "Ah, that makes sense. A solid business."
Luke puffed his chest slightly, warming to the topic. "In Backlund, salaries vary depending on industry and position. A top manager at the Bank earns five thousand pounds a year. For me…" he chuckled, "about four hundred thirty to four hundred forty, including bonuses."
Klara whistled low. "Not bad at all."
Jonas, beside her, sipped at his tea silently, though his eyes flicked with quiet calculation.
Luke leaned forward, his genial tone faltering as his hand dropped to his knee. It trembled slightly. He cleared his throat, reached down, and gently placed a suitcase on the coffee table between them.
The weight of the gesture shifted the air.
"Speaking of money…" Luke began, voice low.
Stelyn's cheeks pinked faintly. She leaned in, her voice shy, almost hesitant. "Um… Miss Klara… are you and… Sir Adrian… eloped?"
The words dropped like a stone in the room.
Klara, mid-sip of her tea, choked.
"PFT—!" She spat the tea straight at Jonas, who ducked so fast his chair nearly tipped. The boy reappeared a moment later, shoulders shaking as he stifled laughter into his sleeve.
"W-what! No!" Klara's face burned red as she waved her hands wildly. "He's just an… an annoying… nuisance!"
"Why would you even think that!" she demanded, her voice climbing an octave.
Stelyn ducked her head, muttering a flustered, "Sorry…" She fidgeted with her skirt before gesturing at the suitcase. "It's just… well… he sent this earlier and… we couldn't help but wonder. Maybe you… had his child?"
Klara froze. Jonas froze.
Luke, looking more awkward than ever, flipped open the suitcase.
Inside, neat stacks of pounds gleamed under the lamplight. Not tens. Not twenties. Hundreds. Dozens of bundles, lined like soldiers.
Jonas' mouth dropped open. His mind seemed to short-circuit on the spot. "…Big sis," he whispered hoarsely. "This stack has… like… a hundred pounds. No—five hundred." His eyes widened, flat and lifeless. "There's… more than ten stacks here…"
Klara stared, dumbfounded, her tea cup still shaking in her hands. "…What is this," she muttered, almost to herself.
Luke sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "He told us to take two stacks as payment for your room. And… to help you out. We couldn't help but be curious about your relationship with him, given the amount."
Klara shakily reached out, fingers trembling as she plucked a note tucked into the middle of the suitcase. She unfolded it.
Use this sparingly.
—Adrian
Klara's eye twitched.
"I… I'm sorry for his stupidity," she muttered, bowing her head quickly.
But in her mind, she was screaming.
IS HE STUPID? WHERE DOES HE EVEN GET THIS MUCH MONEY? HOW!? WHY!? ADRIAN, YOU BIG DUMB OAF, YOU'RE GONNA MAKE THE IRS COME AFTER ME! THIS CAN'T BE LISTED UNDER PAYMENT ANYMORE—!
Somewhere in Backlund, the judge sneezed.