The door to the cabinet groaned under the rhythmic, desperate blows of a locksmith's axe. Inside, the creature known as Edward Hyde paced like a cornered rat, the oversized frock coat of Henry Jekyll billowing around his shrunken, twitching frame.
He heard the voice of Gabriel Utterson from the other side—stern, loyal, and utterly convinced that his friend Henry was being held prisoner by a murderer. "Jekyll!" Utterson cried. "I demand to see you!"
Hyde let out a low, guttural snarl. He knew the game was up. The impure salts were gone. The last vial of the transformative serum sat on the desk, but without the original batch's peculiar flaw, it was nothing more than flavored water. He would never be Henry Jekyll again. He would be taken to the gallows as a common killer, the murderer of Sir Danvers Carew.
With a hand that trembled with both malice and terror, Hyde unscrewed the cap of a small phial of Potassium Cyanide. As the wood of the door finally splintered, revealing the grim faces of Utterson and Poole, Hyde tilted his head back. The bitter almond taste scorched his throat. He fell, a twitching heap of deformity, as the world of London fog spiraled into a crushing, absolute black.
******
Henry Jekyll did not wake to the fires of the pit.
Instead, he found himself standing upon a floor of polished glass that stretched into an infinite horizon of soft, golden light. Above him, the sky was not a sky, but a choir of radiance—thousands of Angelic beings whose wings sounded like the rustle of a billion silk pages.
Before him sat a Throne. He could not look at the occupant directly; the majesty was like staring into the heart of a thousand suns.
"Lord," Henry whispered, falling to his knees. His voice was his own again—the cultured, warm baritone of the physician, not the rasp of the beast. "I have come for my judgment. I am a murderer. I am responsible for the death of the innocent Carew and the soul-shattering trauma of my dear Hastie Lanyon. Cast me into the darkness. I seek only atonement."
A voice like the movement of galaxies resonated through his very marrow. "Henry Jekyll," the Presence spoke, and there was no anger in it—only a profound, cosmic curiosity. "You speak of sins, but I see a man who sought to understand the architecture of the soul. You meant no harm. The emergence of the 'other' was an accident of chemistry—a risk inherent to the seeker. A scientist must be allowed to fail."
"But the blood on his hands..." Jekyll sobbed.
"Is not yours to carry alone. I will not grant you the fire you seek. Instead, I grant you a continuation. Science is a gift, Henry. Do not abandon it."
The light intensified, beginning to pull at Jekyll's spirit.
"Where are you sending me?" Henry cried out, shielding his eyes. "What is required of me?"
"A test," the Voice replied, and Jekyll could almost feel the warmth of a divine smile.
"What kind of test? How will I know if I have passed?"
"That, dear Henry, is for you to figure out."
The golden world exploded into a blinding white flash. The singing of angels transitioned into the sharp, rhythmic chirping of cicadas. The cold glass under his feet became soft, damp earth and pine needles.
Henry Jekyll opened his eyes. He was no longer in the presence of the Almighty, nor was he in the morgues of London. He was lying in a small wooden cottage, the air smelling of wisteria and mountain mist. He looked at his hands—they were small, smooth, and the sleeves of a dark blue kimono hung loosely off his fifteen-year-old arms.
Beside him lay a single sheet of parchment. On it, written in his own elegant hand, were the words: The impurity was Sodium Iodide.
Henry sat up, his heart hammering. He felt young, vibrant, and full of life—but deep in the cellar of his mind, he heard a familiar, low chuckle. Hyde was still there, curled in the dark, waiting for the moon to rise.
******
The morning air of the Taishō mountains was crisp and thin, a sharp departure from the soot-heavy fog of London. Henry Jekyll stood in the center of the small cottage, his mind recalibrating to the physical sensations of a fifteen-year-old body. He was young again, his skin smooth and his joints fluid, yet the weight of his past failure remained a heavy anchor in his chest.
He moved toward the back of the dwelling and discovered a room that defied the simplicity of the mountain woods. It was a sanctuary of science, equipped with modern chemistry kits, glass retorts, and a vast array of alchemical reagents that surpassed even his laboratory in Old Cavendish Square. Henry moved from jar to jar, his heart leaping as he read the labels: sulfur, phosphorus, and the specific salts he had utilized in his previous life.
Then, he found the prize he sought. Tucked behind a row of beakers was a lead-sealed container clearly labeled Sodium Iodide.
A cold shiver of relief washed over him. He finally possessed the "impurity" that had once been his undoing. With this specific salt, he could synthesize his serum with perfect precision. He would never run out of the medicine required to keep Edward Hyde chained within the basement of his soul. He immediately set to work, the familiar clinking of glass and the pungent smell of ozone grounding his frantic thoughts.
Once the serum was secured and stored in a small leather belt pouch, Henry faced a more practical dilemma. He looked down at his reflection in a polished bronze mirror; his indigo kimono was absurdly loose, the sleeves hanging like flags from his adolescent frame. He checked the cupboards, only to find that every spare garment was sized for a grown man, entirely unsuitable for his current stature.
While Henry was a scientist and a gentleman rather than a weaver by trade, his natural curiosity had often drawn him to the company of his servants. He had spent many evenings in London observing the meticulous work of his tailors and housekeepers, learning the mechanics of cloth as a casual hobby. That knowledge now became his salvation.
In the corner of the room sat a manual treadle sewing machine. With the steady, disciplined hands of a surgeon, Henry began the transformation of his wardrobe. He measured the heavy silk, cut away the excess, and guided the fabric through the needle. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the machine echoed through the quiet woods as he resized each piece of clothing.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Henry stood dressed in a perfectly fitted kimono and haori. He looked into the mirror once more. He was clearly a British boy, his Western features and pale complexion striking against the traditional Japanese silk. He knew he would look like an "odd one" to the locals, but by tailoring his clothes to perfection, he hoped to show a level of respect and social grace that would ease his integration into this new society. He stood ready to face the world, though he could still feel the low, familiar pulse of Edward Hyde pacing within him.