Steam curled from the chipped cup in Klara's hand as she sat with her chin tucked against the rim, pajamas wrinkled and hair half-tamed into a loose bun. The cotton was patterned in faded pinstripes, a shirt that hung loose at the collar and sleeves rolled awkwardly as though she'd gotten frustrated halfway through tidying herself. The bottoms were mismatched—navy shorts from summer, tugged on over black stockings. Fashion icon of Minsk Street, she thought dryly, sipping her bitter coffee as she stared out the window.
Her eyes flicked downwards.
To the wall beneath her window.
Obvious scrapes scarred the stone, climbing up in jagged ladders, whole chunks missing where someone had clearly tried to climb. It looked like a drunkard's attempt to scale into a lover's room, only ending in bruised ribs.
Her eyebrow rose. "If I hadn't seen this, I'd just assume a normal night happened." She muttered, sarcasm thick as her coffee.
Her gaze shifted further, across the street.
The entire block was cordoned off with rope and hollow-eyed coppers. Melted glass clung to cobblestones in globs like frozen syrup. Lamp posts sagged, bent at grotesque angles, blackened with soot. Scorch marks branded the stone walls. And then—worse than all that—the line of bodies.
White sheets stretched over their forms. Some too short. Some twisted into heaps that the constables clearly hadn't wanted to touch yet. The officers themselves looked miffed, as though their day had been ruined by paperwork, not by the charred corpses at their boots.
Klara sighed. The sound fogged her glass.
She set the cup down, stripped the pajamas, and threw on casual clothes: cream blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, suspenders slack at her shoulders. Something simple. Neutral. Her detective's uniform for the not-so-professional clients.
When she opened the door, her flat expression met the sight of three very different men lounging across her workspace.
Jonas was sunken into the sofa, wearing fresh clothes she'd bought yesterday. The kid looked better but still too thin, dark rings under his eyes. His cane was propped against his knees, fingers tapping restlessly against it.
Ronan sprawled sideways in an armchair, boots on the table, flicking a knife up and down with the air of someone juggling an apple. His grin was sharp, teeth flashing even without words.
And Adrian—of course Adrian—was hogging the other sofa entirely. Coat draped over half the armrest, boots muddying her rug, his head tipped back in deep sleep like this was his house. His dark hair fell into his face, softening nothing, and his chest rose with a steady rhythm that only irritated her further.
"…What happened last night?" Klara asked flatly.
She punctuated it by slapping Adrian's head as she dropped onto the sofa beside him.
The man stirred, groaning low. "…Isn't it obvious?" he muttered, voice thick with sleep as he dragged himself upright and wandered toward the kitchen like a tenant looking for milk.
"Some people attacked," Jonas answered instead, frowning as he leaned back, letting the cushions swallow him. "We all think they're targeting you and me, big sis."
Klara tilted her head at him. "Couldn't sleep?"
Jonas shot her a stare flat enough to nail her to the wall. "…Could you, if you were sleeping besides him?"
Klara blinked. Then muttered, "…touché."
The three of them—detective, delinquent, and mad dog—turned in unison toward Adrian, who stood in her kitchen as if he owned it. He was holding her glass cup now, water swirling inside, one eye faintly glowing silver.
"…Why would they be after me though?" Klara rubbed her temple, muttering to herself. Her first assumption was Ian Wright, but Ian was already hidden under Adrian's protection. Zreal's corpse? No, she'd just found the body, not made it. Mersault? Not her blade either.
"Isn't it obvious, detective?"
Ronan's cackle broke the thought. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin wide enough to split his face. "They're targeting you 'cause you're favored by the man they hate!"
Klara raised an eyebrow.
Jonas sighed. "He's right. The one who hired me… he really didn't like Adrian." His voice tightened, but he pressed on. "I think we all know what that means."
Silence followed.
And then, together, as if rehearsed, all three pairs of eyes turned toward Adrian.
The judge stood quiet, staring into the cup, faint silver glow reflecting off the water's surface. His posture was casual, but the air around him prickled.
"…The man sees everything," Klara whispered, unease crawling up her throat. "…and not only that, no truth can hide from him."
Ronan burst into a howl. "Oooohhh, he told you already? Damn, didn't know you were smooth like that, detective!" His laugh bounced across the room.
Klara rolled her eyes.
"Detective."
Adrian's voice cut across Ronan's noise. Klara turned with a distracted hm?
"You removed your bathroom mirror?" he asked, tone flat.
Klara froze. Stared. Blinked. "…What?"
Adrian's silver eye dimmed as he turned his head slightly. "You should really start lessening your time in the bathroo—"
He didn't finish.
SLAP.
The sound rang sharp through the room. Adrian's head turned with the force, hair falling back into his face as his cheek bloomed red.
Klara huffed, arms crossing tight as she marched to the window, staring out with her back turned. Her face burned, and she hugged herself to hide it.
Behind her, Jonas smirked faintly for the first time since the night. Ronan cackled outright, knife spinning faster in his hand.
Adrian blinked slowly, one hand rising to rub the sore mark on his face. He looked confused. Genuinely, utterly confused.
Ronan's laugh came first—sharp, bouncing, almost falling off his chair with how hard he slapped his knee.
"Nice one, dude! Didn't think you had it in you!"
He was grinning at Adrian's reddened cheek like a wolf who'd just seen blood in the snow.
Jonas, on the other hand, slumped forward with a laugh, palm pressed to his stomach as if holding in a wound.
"Why'd you admit it?" His voice was so flat it hurt. "You're so dumb for that, man."
That one stung more than Ronan's mockery.
Klara turned—arms crossed, glare sharp as a blade—her cheeks still betraying pink, though she willed it away.
"Just drop it, okay? Let's get back to the matter at hand."
Her voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the air. Ronan leaned back with his hands up, still smirking. Jonas just sighed, muttering something too quiet to catch.
Adrian—stoic, as if none of this noise was new—exhaled long and deep. He stood straighter, tugging at his gloves until the leather creaked. The man moved like clockwork gears grinding back into their proper place.
"Based on the information I gathered from our attackers," he said calmly, "they were hired and trained by the Intis Ambassador. Bakerland Jean Madan."
The name dropped heavy, like a stone into water.
Klara's lips pressed thin. She strode forward until she was toe-to-toe with Adrian, chin tilted up, staring into his eyes as though daring them to glow again.
"…What else did you get?"
Adrian blinked once, slow.
"Nothing else. Aside from the fact they were looking for Ian Wright. Apparently, he has something the ambassador wants. What, exactly, is unclear."
Klara hummed low in her throat, frown deepening. "I see."
Adrian's hand twitched at his side. "I could try to use my abilit—"
"Don't you dare use that against that child, Adrian."
Her words cracked sharper than glass. The glare that followed would've made anyone else falter.
Adrian? He only sighed, one gloved hand rising in mock surrender. "Understood."
Klara crossed her arms tighter, heat still crawling her neck. "That ability of yours is…" Her words tangled before she spat them out. "Forget it. Just don't use it unless it's absolutely needed."
Adrian tilted his head, considering her with a gaze that felt like it measured more than her words. He nodded once.
"…What do you propose then, detective? They'll keep coming if we don't act."
"I know that." She turned away, pacing. "But I'll find a way without… that."
Her voice was firm, but inside her chest, her heart ticked like a time-bomb. Fear laced every syllable, but she masked it with her usual iron.
"Very well," Adrian said. His voice was soft, tired almost. "Then I'll leave Ronan to patrol the street at night. Until you come up with your brilliant plan."
Ronan's laugh barked from the side. "Ooooh, night patrols. I'll make a lovely watchdog." He twirled his knife like a baton.
Klara ignored him. Her shoulders sagged the slightest. "…Thanks."
Silence stretched. Adrian lingered, gaze distant, one eye faintly shimmering silver again. His fingers flexed against his glass of water, as though reading the ripples.
Jonas and Ronan exchanged glances, the boy frowning, the madman grinning.
"I'll return in a few days' time." Adrian's voice broke the lull as he walked toward the door.
Klara's head jerked up. "…Don't do anything stupid."
"Please." Adrian didn't look back. "Even I won't kill the ambassador just for you, detective."
That tone—half reassurance, half insult.
He paused at the threshold. Tipped his hat.
"I'll be looking for cases you can solve. Can't have you lounging around doing nothing." His voice dipped, dry and careless. "You'll get fat."
The door shut.
The echo of his boots faded down the street.
Klara stood frozen for two seconds. Three. Her breath caught in her throat before heat surged into her cheeks. Her fists clenched tight enough to ache.
Behind her—
Ronan exploded into laughter, the kind that bent him double.
"WWOOWW! That's the first time I've heard him talk so much in one go!" He slapped his knee, tears practically forming at the corner of his eyes. "Detective! You really should tell me your secrets!"
Klara spun, hair whipping over her shoulder, glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Shut it."
Jonas groaned into his hands. "…This group is doomed."
Klara stomped toward her room, throwing the words over her shoulder like knives. "…Maybe get him drunk, I don't know."
Her bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
Ronan still chuckled, leaning back into his chair, knives twirling between his fingers. Jonas muttered something about ulcers and exhaustion.
And Klara, behind the safety of her door, leaned against it with her forehead pressed to the wood. Her breath trembled, heart still pounding from the words, from the glare, from him.
Too harsh? she thought bitterly. …Or not harsh enough?
And the doubt, like smoke, wouldn't leave her lungs.