A thick plume of hot steam billowed into the air as the Kings Borough line steam commuter locomotive pulled slowly alongside the Westgate station platform, braking with a heavy screech of iron wheels against the rails. Compartment doors swung open, venting the scent of engine lubricant and dry coal steam into the chilly platform air.
Leon stood up first, stepping half a pace forward while gesturing politely with his hand to invite Florence to step inside. The two took adjacent seats near the window. Before long, a long whistle pierced the night air, and the commuter train began to move forward—jolting gently before gliding through the dimness of the West Ring toward Bloomsbury Avenue, Kings Borough.
Inside the cabin, the clatter of iron wheels against rail joints formed a soothing, monotonous backdrop. Cool air from the ventilation slots mingled faintly with the cold sandalwood scent of Leon's coat and the fragrance of rose and dried herbs clinging to Florence. Florence leaned her back against the wooden bench backrest, letting her fingers rest quietly in her lap. Beside her, Leon sat upright, resting his hands on his thighs, gazing straight out into the darkness along the track beyond the glass.
The commuter train slowly ascended a wide, arching stone viaduct toward the northeast. From behind the softly vibrating glass window, rows of building facades and the glow of gas lanterns at the intersections below drifted past. The red bricks gradually receded behind them, replaced by the grand silhouettes of the Whitehall government district. In the distance, the clock tower of Christopher Cathedral, emitting a dim glow, loomed through the night mist.
Florence glanced through her round glasses at the rows of marble pillars fronting the ministry buildings, then slowly turned her face away and rested her back against the wooden seat again.
"A view that is never pleasant," Florence murmured softly, her voice calm yet cold.
"Magnificent white pillars carved from hatred, fear, and coercion," she continued, closing her eyes.
Leon remained silent. As a man who had known her for a long time, Leon understood well the wounds and reasons behind the woman's cold hatred toward the government. He simply kept his gaze fixed out the window, allowing a silence full of understanding to fill the space between them.
The train surged on through the night, leaving the cold silhouette of Whitehall's bureaucracy behind. Approaching the border of Inner Ring second quadrant and The northern borough, the commuter plunged down into the mouth of a dark tunnel, cutting beneath the increasingly busy city streets. From inside the subterranean carriage, the roar of steam echoed off the brick walls before slowly subsiding as the locomotive braked smoothly at a clean granite platform lined with polished red granite pillars at Charter Station, at the edge of Bloomsbury, Kings Borough.
Twenty minutes of travel on the evening of Chronos were complete. s.
Upon ascending the exit stairs past the grand station hall, the night air felt cool and clean. Accompanied by a gust of wind, faint melodies floated softly in the distance, blending harmoniously with the rhythmic clatter of horses' hooves along the grand expanse of Bloomsbury Avenue's main thoroughfare.
The street stretched remarkably wide, paved with neatly swept grey granite stones that reflected the warm glow of tall, brass-columned gas lanterns. Private carriages gleaming with black and navy-red varnish glided gracefully, drawn by tall horses with shiny coats. Along the sidewalks, curved glass shopfronts displayed silk dresses, antique jewelry, and lithographic posters for theater plays adorned with intricate vine motifs. People passed by wrapped in fine wool coats and shining top hats, enjoying the pulse of nightlife that had just begun.
"This area never changes," Florence murmured softly. The tip of her leather boot touched the smooth granite surface, while her blue eyes took in the street lanterns' glow from behind her round glasses.
"Yeah, as it should be," Leon replied casually, adjusting his pace to walk side-by-side with Florence.
Their destination, Brasserie de la Paix, stood grandly at the corner of an intersection. Dark oak double doors paneled with stained glass welcomed their arrival, opened by a neatly uniformed doorman. Warm air scented with rich butter, aged wine, and fresh flowers instantly swept away the chill of the main street's night—blending with faint chamber music floating down through the spiral staircase, where the soft chime of piano keys joined the graceful friction of a violin and the low hum of a cello playing a serenade.
In the foyer, a middle-aged maître d' in a black tailcoat bowed respectfully behind a wooden console table where a large leather-bound ledger lay open.
"Good evening, Monsieur, Madame. Under what name is the reservation?" he asked politely, his Westerian sounding formal with a characteristic nasal Gaulenne accent.
"Bertillon," Leon replied calmly.
The man turned the pages of the ledger with the tip of his gloved index finger, then looked up with a broad smile.
"Monsieur Bertillon. Please, follow me," the man said, gesturing politely with his white-gloved hand.
Beside the console table, an attendant from the cloakroom stepped forward to greet them. Leon removed his top hat and charcoal coat—revealing his grey wool suit and the holster on his right hip—and handed them to the attendant.
Florence unfastened the pearl pin holding her hat, handing over her chiffon-netted hat and cream coat to reveal her honey-blonde hair neatly braided at the nape of her neck and the elegance of her dark emerald dress. In return, the attendant slipped a flat, numbered brass token into Leon's palm.
The maître d' turned and guided them across the ground floor. The dark marble-floored room functioned as an exclusive aperitif bar. Several bourgeois guests in evening wear sat quietly on low velvet sofas, enjoying aperitifs like sparkling wine and chilled aromatized, fortified wine from sleek crystal glasses while awaiting their tables. The atmosphere on this lower floor was calm and orderly, filled only with the faint clinking of silverware and hushed conversation.
The two were then guided toward a curved staircase carpeted in deep maroon. At the foot of the stairs, Leon bent his left elbow slightly forward, offering his arm politely.
Florence returned the gesture, her silk-gloved fingers resting lightly on the sleeve of Leon's wool jacket, while her left hand slightly lifted the hem of her emerald dress to keep it from sweeping the steps. As they ascended the stairs, the sound of bowed strings and piano keys from the upper floor grew clearer and richer.
The second floor they passed felt much quieter, thick with the scent of dry tobacco cigars and distilled aged brandy. Along the dimly lit corridor lined with dark damask brocade walls, frosted-glass paneled oak doors were tightly drawn behind heavy velvet curtains—a row of private dining rooms where businessmen, politicians, and distinguished figures held private banquets away from public view.
Their footsteps continued to be guided up the next turn of the spiral stairs until they finally arrived at the top floor.
A quiet, authoritative luxury instantly greeted their view as they stepped inside. The high-ceilinged room exuded an intimate elegance without feeling pretentious. In a corner of the room, a small ensemble—consisting of a pianist, two violinists, and a cellist—was performing a solemn classical serenade on a low wooden stage. The polite melody blended harmoniously with the warm scent of walnut wood, the glow of brass wall lamps with frosted glass shades, and the subtle clatter of silver cutlery. .
Round tables were spaced generously apart to preserve the privacy of the guests' conversations, each draped with a thick white linen tablecloth that hung gracefully almost to the dark polished floor. Atop each table, heavy silver cutlery gleamed softly beside a small porcelain vase holding a single fresh white rose.
They were escorted to a table for two right by a wide, arching glass window. A pair of sheer white lace curtains were pulled neatly to both sides, unveiling a full panorama of the main street's night from high above. From behind the warmth of the upper floor's glass, Bloomsbury Avenue stretched vast below—rows of gas lanterns lined up straight like a string of golden-yellow pearls, horse carriages gliding peacefully across the granite wet with residual rain, and across the street, the lush foliage of Bloomsbury Central Park appeared like a peaceful, dark shadow beneath a blanket of night fog.
Leon gently unclasped his arm, taking half a pace to pull out a carved wooden chair for Florence before taking his seat opposite her.
Once seated, his fingers drew a silver-chained pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. 6:58 PM. He snapped the watch shut and stored it away.
Florence smiled faintly. She began to slowly remove her silk gloves, placing them beside the porcelain vase at the edge of the table.
A waiter in a black suit approached noiselessly, pouring cool water from a crystal carafe into a pair of stemmed goblets, placing a small dish of rich butter alongside a basket of warm wheat bread wrapped in a linen napkin, then bowing as he withdrew to prepare the first course.
The gentle scraping of violins and the hum of the cello playing the serenade floated politely from the stage in the corner of the room, filling the quiet pauses between the silver clatter of surrounding tables.
Florence gazed out through the arched glass window toward the glowing street. The room's warm air loosened a few strands of her honey-blonde hair from the braided bun at her nape. Her slender fingers lifted softly, tucking a stray lock behind her ear with an elegant motion.
Leon, sitting across from her, paused for a moment.
His gaze was fixed on Florence's silhouette washed in the ambient light of the wall lamps—her calm neckline, the silver glint of her round glasses, and her face glowing softly in the light. He was suddenly caught off guard.
"You look..." Leon trailed off.
His sentence halted awkwardly. His fingers tapped the edge of the linen tablecloth for a second before he cleared his throat softly to compose himself.
"...I mean, you look different tonight," Leon continued, his tone forced back to a flat demeanor.
Florence turned back toward the table. The corners of her lips lifted into a subtle, teasing smile.
"Just different? Are you sure?" Florence probed casually, looking straight into the man's eyes.
"...Uhum, yeah. By the way, how is Lucien?" Leon cleared his throat once more, pretending to adjust the cuffs of his suit jacket.
"He's doing well. Yesterday afternoon he received his acceptance letter from the university." Florence let out a soft huff at the clumsy topic change, leaning her back against her chair.
"Is that so? Then pass along my congratulations to him," he replied, tilting his head slightly.
"Of course," Florence answered softly.
"I will also be accompanying him there for about three weeks." she continued.
"Three weeks? Why so long?" Leon raised an eyebrow.
"I moved my annual research evaluation schedule up to October," Florence said, adjusting her glasses.
"You know how harsh the journey gets in December," she added, picking up her stemmed goblet of cool water.
"I don't want to make the round trip twice in that kind of weather this year," she concluded before taking a slow sip.
"Did the university agree to it?" Leon asked, taking a sip of his own drink.
"Well, they had to agree—after all, they're the ones who need my evaluation," Florence remarked with a subtle, confident smirk.
Leon cleared his throat softly, a fleeting smile touching the corner of his lips.
"Of course, Mrs. Faraday," Leon murmured, setting his goblet down.
The man then reached into the inner pocket of his grey wool suit jacket, revealing a small, palm-sized square wooden box—plainly dark-varnished—and placed it on the table directly in front of Florence.
"Happy late birthday," Leon said softly.
Florence was stunned for a moment.
"You always remember, don't you," Florence murmured, her head tilting slightly with a look of amused warmth.
Leon merely looked at Florence with a gentle gaze, letting the warm harmony of the serenade hang between them for a moment.
Florence shifted her gaze back to the object on the linen tablecloth. Her slender fingers touched the wooden corner, which felt solid and smooth beneath her skin.
"What is it?" she asked curiously, looking up at Leon.
"Just open it," Leon replied casually, leaning back against his chair.
Florence pushed the brass latch on the side of the box until the lid lifted. On a cushion of dark velvet lay a chunk of solid black stone about the size of a walnut, with clean, smoothly angled cleavage planes. As Florence observed it closely under the glow of the table lamp, the surface that initially appeared pitch-black instantly refracted a deep ruby-red glow from its core—solid, cold, and pristine without any internal cracks.
"A chunk of pure black amber?" Florence whispered enthusiastically, lifting the cold stone.
"You got this from the Eastern Continent? Across this entire Continent, people usually can only find tiny powdered fragments—and even then, the purity is quite low." She rotated the chunk slowly under the lamp's light.
"Yeah, back when I led the expedition in the Eastern Continent," Leon answered, taking a sip of his drink.
"The permafrost wall was extremely hard. I asked the expedition workers to chisel it, but almost all of it crumbled into powder. That was the only piece that remained intact." he continued.
Florence smiled faintly, gazing at the ruby-red glow at the stone's core before looking up at Leon.
"This is more than enough to make several bottles of 'Everlasting Ink,'" Florence murmured.
"Thank you, Leon." A warm, beautiful smile appeared on Florence's face.
Leon looked at her smile for a split second, then shifted his gaze toward the goblet in front of him, clearing his throat softly and taking another sip.
"Not a problem," Leon replied flatly.
Florence smiled subtly, closed the box again, and stored it away.
Right after that, a waiter in a black suit stepped closer. He bowed respectfully before lifting the silver cloche from the serving tray, placing two white porcelain bowls resting on silver saucers in front of them.
"Excuse me, Monsieur, Madame," the waiter said.
"Consommé de volaille—clear poultry broth with thyme. Please enjoy it while it's warm." he continued.
A thin wisp of savory, herb-scented steam wafted softly over the table. The waiter bowed formally once more, then stepped back a few paces, allowing them to enjoy their starter.
Their dinner proceeded casually amid light conversation and the soft clinking of silver cutlery. The finished bowls of consommé de volaille were soon replaced by the main course—a portion of canard rôti au vin rouge, roasted duck breast coated in a rich red wine reduction sauce, accompanied by celery root puree and autumn vegetables. The waiter poured a little Domaine de Divisii into their crystal goblets; the soft, fresh berry aroma of the Gaulenne red wine balanced the rich duck meat perfectly.
Time slid past imperceptibly through the changing plates, until their table transitioned to dessert: a pair of golden caramelized pear tarte tatin portions and two cups of hot black tea with a fresh jasmine aroma.
In the corner of the room, the classical serenade slowly drew to a close with a long, solemn bow of the cello. Polite applause from the guests accompanied the string musicians as they stepped down from the stage.
Shortly thereafter, five young musicians stepped up onto the low wooden stage. A pianist sat at the black grand piano, flanked by a wooden clarinet player, a sturdy man cradling a large double bass, and a young man behind a simple percussion set with a pair of wire brushes in his fingers.
In front of them stood the vocalist—a man in his thirties wearing a neat suit. He walked casually toward the side of the piano.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted warmly, his baritone voice smooth and polite beneath the curved wooden ceiling.
"My name is Frank. My colleagues and I come from West Mach, bringing a bit of a new rhythm that is currently growing on our western coast. This first number is a composition by my good friend, Howard. A song about floating away from the earth, flying free to join the moon."
Frank offered a subtle smile, then tapped out a gentle tempo for his partner behind the piano.
The piano keys chimed solo to open the tune—a series of relaxed, unexpected swinging chords, far removed from the waltzes and serenades that usually filled the room. Florence, having just set down her goblet, paused, her head tilting slightly as she watched the stage with curiosity. A few guests exchanged glances, feeling unfamiliar with the melody's progression that sounded unusual to the ears of a formal dining hall.
However, that bewilderment was quickly swept away as the brush wires swished across the snare surface with a soft, constant beat, followed by the deep plucking of the double bass strings anchoring the room's pulse. The clarinet blew a low, curving accent offering warm accents between the beats, before Frank's vocals slid in.
"Fly me to the moon"
"Let me play among the stars…"
"Let me see…"
Frank's voice resonated calmly and effortlessly. He sang, projecting his notes tightly and intimately to every corner table. His vocal articulation swung flexibly, delivering verses about dancing among the stars with a sweet syncopated rhythm. The stiffness among the guests gradually melted away. Rhythmic tapping of shoes began to sound softly beneath the white linen tablecloths, and polite smiles bloomed on bourgeois faces carried away by the novelty of the music.
"The rhythm is quite nice," Florence murmured softly, watching the vocalist's relaxed movements.
Leon turned slightly toward her.
"Yeah. Do you like it?" he asked.
"Yeah, it's pleasant hearing a new genre," Florence replied, lifting her goblet and taking another sip.
Leon glanced at her with a brief smile, then redirected his focus toward the musicians on stage.
Florence leaned her back against her chair, letting the blend of the vocalist's voice and the soft hum of the clarinet caress her ears. Her gaze drifted toward the large arched glass window beside their table, where the scattered lanterns of Bloomsbury Avenue below glowed like a constellation of stars beneath the night sky. A peaceful smile touched her face as she set her goblet down, enjoying the conclusion of a meal that felt perfectly fluid.
Toward nine o'clock in the evening, they concluded the banquet. After Leon settled the bill, the two descended the spiral staircase to the ground floor. Leon exchanged the brass token to retrieve his charcoal coat and top hat from the cloakroom, while Florence received her cream wool coat and chiffon-netted hat.
Both stepped outside to meet the increasingly quiet night air of Bloomsbury Avenue. Instead of heading straight to the commuter station, they crossed the quiet granite street toward Bloomsbury Central Park opposite the main thoroughfare.
The city park stretched vast in the heart of the borough, presenting an open natural landscape that split the dense urban architecture. The park featured wide pedestrian paths, rows of giant elm trees whose canopies intertwined over the walkways, and rolling lawns left to flow naturally beneath the dim light of wrought-iron gas lanterns. In the distance, the silhouette of an arched stone bridge and an artificial lake gleamed quietly under the thin night fog.
A cool draft swept over their coats as their shoes stepped onto fine gravel beneath the leafy trees.
"Thank you for tonight, Leon," Florence said softly, tightening her wool coat slightly, letting its warmth blend with the night air.
"And for the gift," she added, turning toward Leon.
Leon walked casually beside her, both hands tucked into his charcoal coat pockets.
"I just wanted to celebrate your birthday," Leon replied calmly.
"A while back, I didn't get the chance," he murmured softly, looking straight down the path.
"So consider this amends for being late," he added in his typical flat tone.
Florence smiled subtly at the man's honesty.
"Oh, right. My grandmother sent her regards to you before," Leon continued, remembering the old woman's message.
Florence turned briefly, her smile softening
"Mrs. Bertillon? How is she?" she asked.
"Great. Still as hale and healthy as ever," Leon replied casually.
"I'm glad to hear that. Please give her my warm regards," Florence replied, looking back at the path ahead.
"Sure, I will," Leon acknowledged with a small nod.
Florence smiled faintly, enjoying the unpretentious warmth flowing between them as they strolled through the dim Bloomsbury Central Park.
Leon slowed his pace slightly. His hands remained deep in his charcoal coat pockets, appearing hesitant for a moment before he cleared his throat softly.
"Flo..." Leon called, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.
Florence turned slightly, looking at Leon's profile from behind her round glasses
"Yes?" she replied.
Leon drew a short breath.
"Have you ever thought about—"
"HELP! MUGGER! MY BAG—"
The question was abruptly severed in mid-air.
SHLUCK!
"AAAAAHHHH!!!"
A hysterical scream from the sidewalk outside the park gates was suddenly cut short by the sickening sound of a blunt stabbing thrust.
About a hundred meters across the wrought-iron gate, a man in a dark coat forcefully snatched a handbag from a young woman in evening dress. To eliminate any chance of being pursued or yelled at further, the man ruthlessly plunged a dagger into the woman's abdomen without hesitation, pulled it out in a flash, and dashed off, disappearing into a narrow, dark alley beside a theater building.
Without wasting a single second, Leon and Florence surged forward together, dashing toward the source of the scream.
"HELP!"
"It hurts... p-please..."
A choked groan escaped the young woman's lips, both her blood-stained hands clutching her abdomen. Her body twitched and thrashed on the sidewalk, pumping fresh red blood that rapidly soaked her silk evening dress. The more wildly she moved in panic, the faster her breathing gasped and blood washed over the granite stones beneath her.
"P-please..." her whimpers grew fainter, drowning between her faltering breaths.
Leon, arriving first, immediately knelt beside the victim, though he held his fingers back for a moment from the gaping stab wound in her abdomen. His left hand moved swiftly under the back of her neck, supporting her head to keep it stable and ensure her airway was not choked by blood.
"Help... me..." the woman whimpered softly, her trembling pupils staring into Leon's cold face.
"Flo, come quick! Use your perception!" Leon called sharply without turning, his voice laced with urgency.
Florence arrived seconds later and instantly knelt beside the victim. Uncaring of her emerald dress sweeping the cold sidewalk stones, she gently gathered the woman's head into her arms. Her silk-gloved fingers caressed the woman's temples, wet with cold sweat, guiding her head to rest comfortably against her chest and arm.
"Shh... calm down, you're safe now," Florence whispered softly and reassuringly, putting her voice right against the ear of the violently shivering woman.
Florence slowly closed her eyes. She influenced the woman's consciousness through the touch of her palms cradling the victim's head, channeling the authority of Perception from Truth Uniqueness directly through the woman's nerve points in a split second.
The woman's perception was forcibly realigned by Florence's will through that touch. Florence manipulated her mental perception to instill the absolute conviction that the piercing cold in her abdomen was merely an illusion, and that her body was in a complete state without any injury whatsoever.
In a single breath, the panic gripping the woman vanished instantly.
Her muscles, previously tense, abruptly went limp and relaxed. Her hands slowly slumped onto the sidewalk, her eyelids blinked softly, and her ragged breathing gradually became calm and controlled. The sound of her whimpers vanished, leaving silence over a body now lying submissively and peacefully in Florence's embrace.
"Now, Leon," Florence whispered.
Once the woman's body was calm, Leon positioned his hands. He hovered his right hand a few inches directly above the torn fabric and the gaping stab wound in the victim's abdomen.
His blue eyes glinted cold. Leon took a breath, spreading his fingers slowly, before rotating his wrist counter-clockwise in a circular motion.
In the void between Leon's palm and the woman's body, a transparent glow slowly materialized. A glowing, illusory clock dial hovered in a translucent antique bronze hue—revealing etched numerals and a pair of ancient clock hands on its surface. Fine gear wheels at its core shifted softly, releasing a mechanical click and the submerged ticking of a watch—a reversed tick-tock sound ticking backward in the air like an antique pocket watch mechanism being wound backward.
Along with the reverse rotation of the temporal dial, the flow of time upon the wound distorted in tandem.
The pool of red blood that had seeped onto the street and the woman's body was instantly sucked back into the wound like water droplets defying gravity. Under the canopy of the glowing, transparent antique bronze clock, severed muscle fibers, ruptured blood vessels, and skin tissue torn by the dagger blade drew together to close once more. Even the torn silk threads of her evening dress knitted themselves back together, unifying every severed strand as if it had never been cut.
From between the closing edges of the wound, fine reddish particles—dirt and rust flakes from the dagger blade left inside the abdominal cavity—were slowly drawn outward, lifting against gravity and floating motionless in the air directly beneath Leon's palm.
Within seconds, the transparent clock dial faded slowly into the air just as the tear in fabric and flesh closed seamlessly. The suspended rust particles instantly fell onto the granite stones.
The temporal manipulation of Rewind had completed its task. As an ability Leon manifested upon reaching Phase Three of Time Uniqueness—a branch ability rooted in the Authority over Interval acquired upon completing his First Advancement—this power forced past conditions to overwrite the present, pulling back the local flow of time within a focused area until not a single trace of the fatal hemorrhage remained. It was a mechanical, unforgiving reversal rather than a miraculous healing; by dragging every ruptured tissue and severed nerve backward through the blade's exact trajectory, the process would have subjected the victim to the agony of the stab a second time—inducing fatal shock had Florence not intervened with her Perception to sever the pain from her consciousness beforehand.
The woman was saved, now lying peacefully under the protection of Florence's mental manipulation, which kept her consciousness stable.
Leon lowered his hand, then stood upright with a deliberate movement. His gaze locked coldly onto the mouth of the dark alley where the attacker had vanished. His right hand moved swiftly beneath his grey wool jacket, drawing out a silver-plated revolver from his holster, cocking its hammer with a cold metallic click.