Hans leaned back, exhaling quietly. Outside, the world blurred into a smear of color, washed-out hills, a flicker of lightning, the faint silhouette of a cathedral half-swallowed by mist.
Marcus broke the silence first.
"You know what's funny?" Marcus shifted in his seat. "People like him. The ones who refuse to contract, who'd rather pray than bind. "They still expect mercy, like the gods ever rewarded weakness."
Hans didn't answer. His reflection stared back at him from the glass, tired eyes ghosted by the passing light. The lights in the carriage dimmed as the train entered a stretch of forest. The rhythm of the wheels softened to a steady whisper.
Then the intercom crackled:
"Next stop: Saint-Aldric District. Arrival in five minutes. Please prepare your belongings and present identification upon inspection."
A beat of silence followed.
Hans reached into his coat, pulling out a small, old compass that clicked open and shut. Click. Click. The sound fell into rhythm with the train's motion.
Marcus glanced over, brow raised. "Huh. The reports were right — you still carry that thing?"
"Old habit."
"Old habit or old guilt?"
Hans didn't answer. Just another click.
"You never did tell me what really happened back then," Marcus pressed. "That case outside Calais. The one with the girl."
The older detective froze, compass motionless between his fingers. For a moment, the sound of the rails seemed distant, swallowed by memory.
"You've read the report," he said quietly. "There's nothing left to tell."
Marcus smirked. "There's always something left."
"Not when you've buried it properly."
That earned a dry laugh from Marcus, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You keep saying that, but you don't strike me as the burying type."
Hans let a faint smile slip. "You got me there."
Marcus blinked, caught off-guard by the answer.
The train began to slow, brakes groaning against the damp rails. The smell of rust and wet stone drifted in through the cracks.
Hans rose to his feet. "We're here."
The familiar weight of a new case settled over him, no heavier than the last. No lighter, either.
The train gave a long, metallic sigh as it rolled into Saint-Aldric Station. Steam hissed across the floorboards, curling between boots and luggage like breath on a cold mirror.
Marcus stretched as he stood, his coat slung lazily over one shoulder.
"You'd think after all that talk about progress, they'd finally retire these steam relics," he muttered, stepping down onto the damp platform.
Hans followed, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the iron beams above.
"It's not coal anymore," he said evenly. "The conductor fuels it himself. I heard he made a contract with the God of Fire."
Marcus blinked. "Firebound? They're still using people for that?"
Hans gave a faint shrug. "More efficient than engines, apparently. The Bureau says it keeps costs down."
Marcus snorted. "Right. Nothing says efficiency like burning a man's life away for a train schedule."
Outside, the faint lights of Saint-Aldric shimmered through the fog. Pale and distant, as if the city itself were holding its breath. The forest gave way to cracked walls and rain-slick cobblestones, all glistening under the dull glow of gas lamps.
Hans felt a quiet weight settle in his chest. The air was thick, humid, heavy. Like the city remembered remnants of the dark pasts.
Marcus glanced around, smirking.
"Charming place. Wonder if the locals still sacrifice goats to the rain."
"Don't start," Hans murmured.
"What? I'm being optimistic."
They made their way toward the exit gate. Near the billboard, a mother and her young son stood reading a news poster beside the station schedule.
A Demon Outbreak Halted by a Single Man — The Chaplain of the Iron Creed.
The boy's eyes gleamed.
"Mum, when will I be like him? I want powers too."
The woman frowned, pulling him away. "No, you don't. Those people are dangerous. Come on."
The boy left with a sulk, his small reflection vanishing into the fog.
Marcus scoffed. "See that? Even now, people envy what they can't have. Poor kid's already dreaming of making a pact one day."
Hans's tone stayed calm. "He's a child. It's normal to admire what he doesn't understand."
Marcus laughed, sharp and dismissive. "And the beggar from earlier? He's long past that age. Still waiting for a miracle, still a pathetic bastard."
Hans stopped walking. His voice dropped, quiet but firm. "What do you have against beggars, really?"
"Nothing," Marcus replied, his eyes glued at the old train "But begging doesn't contribute to anything. Not to the city. Not to anyone."
Hans turned slightly, eyes narrowing. "And the ones who do contribute? The overworked, the contract-bound, the dying? You think they're doing better?"
Marcus's smirk faded. "Power doesn't make you rich. It makes you useful. Big difference."
He tapped a finger against his temple. "That's what people don't get. The gods don't choose saints, Hans. They choose tools. You, me, them. All hammers in someone else's hand."
Hans studied him for a moment. "You talk as if you're fine being used."
"Better used than useless."
Marcus's tone carried no humor this time. Only the faint echo of belief, or resignation. Hans said nothing. The fog swallowed the rest of their words.