Walking into the dark alley, a man suddenly shuddered, his body slowly crouching as he shriveled, a wild grunt escaping his lips.
His hand, wrinkled, his eyes cloudy, hair turning stark white, he was aging and deteriorating at an accelerated pace.
Soon, all that remained of him was an almost skeletal corpse, a haunting contrast to the youthful vitality he had just moments ago.
---
The following morning, the police assembled in the central area of the alley on Dorset Street, Spitalfields, East London.
"What's the victim's name?" asked one of the detectives.
The police officer spoke gently.
"The victim's name was Jack, 22 years old. He had no known family. He worked at the docks but came here looking for a new career opportunity, only to meet his end, shriveled and lifeless."
The detective gave a quiet nod.
The officer continued, "He... he came to me once, needing money. Quite introverted, he was, asking a loan from an officer."
The detective glances at his partner before turning his gaze back to the police officer. "Anything else?"
The officer shook his head firmly.
Louis let out a quiet sigh. "Alright. Thanks for your help, officer."
With a brief bow, the officer turned and rejoined his colleagues, their low voices fading into the background.
Louis opened his mouth to speak, but Kuldeep cut in first. "It's him. Or… it. Whatever that thing is."
Louis said nothing, his expression unreadable.
Kuldeep's eyes lingered on him for a moment, searching for a reaction. Then, without another word, he strode toward the witness who had reported the body.
"Mrs. Quinn, do you recall the face of the man who climbed through the roof?"
The lady trembled as she caught sight of the turban-wearing man, quickly lowering her gaze in response.
"No, officer, he was wearing a hood, and his back was hunched, but the hood completely obscured his face."
Kuldeep glanced at Louis and gestured for him to take over the investigation, as his own presence was clearly intimidating the witness.
Louis stepped forward calmly, his stern expression unchanging. He paid no attention to the witness's unease, speaking firmly and continuing his questions. Yet, even he was unable to extract any significant answers.
Tired of asking the same questions over and over, he stepped aside into the alley and lit a cigarette, letting the smoke curl upward while Kuldeep continued with the investigation. He cast a glance at Kuldeep, who was doing his best to appear nonthreatening. Yet his attire and strange appearance marked him as different, and that strangeness unsettled the witness.
The man hesitated, reluctant to speak, but still made an effort to answer.
"I noticed his hair strands, streaked with grey, as he dashed from one building to the next."
Kuldeep nodded, finally sensing a breakthrough, though he kept his composure.
The man went on, "That's all, officer. I'm sorry, I don't know anything more."
"It's alright. You've done enough," Kuldeep said gently, patting the man on the shoulder before jotting the description down in his notebook.
Louis stood in the alley, smoking in silence, lost in thought. He had already written to his mentor and was waiting for a reply, hoping it would come soon. A strange intuition gnawed at him, a sense that his own case and his mentor's were somehow connected. He could not explain why he felt this way, nor place his finger on the reason, but the unease lingered all the same.
Kuldeep hurried into the alley, notebook in hand, filled with the testimonies he had gathered from the witnesses. His boots clattered against the stone pavement as he strode toward the man lost in a haze of smoke and thought. Yet Louis was so deeply absorbed that he did not even turn at the sound of footsteps drawing closer.
Kuldeep cleared his throat to catch his attention.
"The suspect has gray hair, possibly old. Some witnesses noticed wrinkled hands as he fled. The police are collecting the strands of hair he left behind. At the very least, forensics will be able to run a DNA profile on him."
"Good work," Louis muttered as he set his cigarette down and crushed the bud beneath his heel. He paused, then glanced at Kuldeep. "Sorry, it's a habit." He bent down, picked up the stub, and slipped it into his pocket. "I'll dispose of it."
Without another word, Louis stepped toward the waiting carriage. The driver opened the door, and Louis climbed inside, settling back with a tired motion. The carriage jolted forward, the sound of its wheels filling the quiet street as it carried him away.
Kuldeep remained standing, watching until the carriage disappeared. The whole exchange left him in a daze, uncertain what just happened.
In the carriage, Louis leaned back, his eyes fixed on the dim street beyond the window. He muttered to himself, voice low and uneven.
"An old fellow. What can an old fellow achieve by killing people in such a way? Is it the work of some crazed scientist? Or something beyond reason? A supernatural hand, perhaps. A devil worshipper, chasing shadows. And if the devil exists…" He trailed off, tapping his fingers against his knee, lost in the spiral of his own thoughts.
The driver did not look back, and the sound of the wheels kept the silence between Louis's broken questions.
The carriage slowed, its wheels clattering against the uneven cobblestones. Louis sat still for a moment, staring ahead, before leaning toward the driver.
27 Redford Crescent, Bloomsbury, London
"Here," he said, pulling a few coins from his coat pocket and pressing them into the driver's hand. The driver nodded without a word. Louis stepped down with deliberate care, his boots striking the stone step with a soft thud.
He stood for a moment, adjusting his coat against the cool evening air. Before him rose a narrow, brick townhouse, three stories tall, its dark red bricks weathered by years of London rain. A wrought iron railing bordered the small stoop, and a single gaslight above the door cast a warm, flickering glow. Heavy oak panels framed the door, polished but marked with faint scratches from years of use.
Louis placed a gloved hand on the brass knocker, rapped twice, and stepped inside. The sound echoed softly through the narrow entryway, where a faint scent of leather and old paper lingered. Inside, the house was quiet, lined with bookshelves and dim light, the air carrying the weight of solitude.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving only the muffled sound of carriage wheels fading into the distance.