"How did you know all that about me?" Alan asked, voice steady but heart thudding. "My full name, my sisters, and even my age..."
Elias said nothing. He simply looked at Alan, unblinking, amused, and the corners of his mouth slowly curled into a faint smile. Not mocking, not kind. Just... knowing.
Alan stepped forward. "I asked you a question."
Elias didn't respond. Instead, his gaze shifted toward the open door. A subtle breeze pushed through the moment, carrying with it the muffled chaos of the street outside.
"The street's kind of busy today," Elias said casually, brushing dust off his dark navy coat. "Looks like it's time for me to go."
"You're ignoring me," Alan muttered, and he frowned.
No reply. Elias stepped toward the door, as if the confrontation didn't exist at all.
Alan clenched his fists. "If you don't answer me right now, I'll report you to the police."
That finally earned him a glance.
"Even if you do," Elias said, nodding toward the street. "Look. So many people."
Alan followed his gesture. The crowd outside had grown, men in soot-streaked uniforms, mothers dragging children past steam-spewing exhausts, nobles riding by in lantern-lit carriages. All of them are busy, distracted, and Unaware.
"You're ignoring everything," Alan snapped. "I asked you a question, and you think this is some sort of game? Is it fun, having a stranger know everything about you? Is that funny to you?"
Elias's expression didn't change. But his eyes, sharp as razors beneath his fringe, seemed to slightly soften.
"We're colleagues now," he said, finally. "You're not fully one of us yet... So I won't reveal too much information," he said, glancing at the ceiling as though something unseen watched them, "you have to find it yourself."
Alan's irritation surged, his voice rising, layered with both frustration and a strange, gnawing fear. "Then I'm not doing it. I don't care if I see that damn creature again, I'm not joining you."
Leaning lazily against the doorframe, Elias tilted his head. "Too bad," he said, almost playfully. "You're already part of the Night Clerks. Besides, I was only doing an investigation. I just wanted to trac..." He stopped himself. "Never mind. I'll get going, bye."
Alan's breath caught. "Wait! You didn't even give me a proper response!"
But Elias had already stepped through the door.
Alan rushed after him, his boots thudding heavily against the floor, and pushed out into the street.
But Elias was gone.
People filled the road, shouting, muttering, hawking wares. The artificial glow of overhead lanterns bathed them in flickering yellow, and the scent of oil smoke was thick in the air. Angry voices. Worried faces. But no sign of the man in the navy coat.
Gone. As if he had never existed.
Then Alan looked down.
A pigeon stood quietly at the edge of the steps, its gray feathers streaked with soot. In its beak was a letter sealed with wax.
Alan blinked. The seal was broken. The letter is already addressed.
"To: Alan Moriarty, Recruited by Elias Ashford"
His pulse spiked, he snatched it aggressively, hurried back inside, and slammed the door shut.
Sitting at the kitchen table, he unfolded the letter with stiff fingers.
"Meet me in Dowling Street 53, near the old church. You'll find a bookstore with crooked windows. The bookseller wears gray pants and uses a cane that looks expensive, but I assure you, it's probably cheap, Hahahaha. Anyways, just give him this letter.
You have 3 days to decide.
If not... I'll visit you again. Personally."
– E.A."
Alan leaned back in his chair. A long breath escaped him. His eyes narrowed.
"What an asshole..." he muttered.
He folded the letter again.
Then the thought came, unwanted and persistent.
But I have three days... Should I really do it, or not?
Alan let out a heavy breath and slumped over the table. One arm sprawled across the wood while his other hand pressed against his forehead, tilting his head in silent exhaustion. He stayed like that for a moment, then a low, rumbling growl broke the silence.
His stomach.
The tension from earlier must have drained him more than he realized. Stress, fear, and questions, his body was catching up.
He stood and dragged his feet toward the living room.
But as he reached the threshold, he stopped.
His eyes swept across the familiar walls, the hallway to his right, the half-lit furniture, the worn carpet, and the coat rack by the door. All ordinary, yet none of it felt normal.
Memories flashed. The grotesque, tentacled head looming in his mind's eye. The black shadow peering into his room from the hallway. The impossible smile of Elias Ashford. The name: Night Clerks.
Alan's breath hitched. His face twisted with unease, a sharp edge of distress breaking through his blank stare.
His stomach growled again, louder this time.
Shaking the thoughts off with a mutter, he moved to the kitchen corner. He spotted the small loaf he'd bought from Ms. Anny just yesterday. He grabbed a plate and a knife, slicing the bread in half with practiced care. One piece on the plate, the other back in its wrapping, saved for lunch.
He sat, bit into the bread, and chewed slowly.
"Ms. Anny doesn't disappoint... taste, price, quality," he murmured between bites. "Very cheap. I should give her extra, but oh well. She's already getting old."
The bread was warm, soft in the middle, slightly crisp on the outside. A brief comfort.
Once finished, Alan stood and went to the sink. He filled a small pot with tap water and set it to boil on the stove. As he waited, he rummaged through the cabinet and found a chipped mug with a faded floral design. When the water bubbled, he poured it carefully into the mug and took a small sip.
"Refreshing," he muttered, eyes half-closed. "Perfect for everyday. If I had tea, it'd be ten times better."
After drinking, he rinsed the mug, washed the plate and knife, then stored the remaining bread in the coolest part of the kitchen. He dried his hands with a cloth and stood still for a moment, staring down the hallway.
Then softly, under his breath.
"Have mercy on us, Lord Almighty."
He darted down the hallway and pushed open his bedroom door.
Silence.
But the unease was immediate.
The room was just as he left it, bed slightly unmade, desk untouched, the small mirror on the wall reflecting the same dull interior, but Alan couldn't shake the feeling that something else had been here. Or was still here. Watching. Waiting.
His chest tightened.
He stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the corners and the shadows.
Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.
But something in the air was wrong.
The unease still lingered, clinging to Alan's chest like a damp cloth. But this time, a small determination sparked inside him.
He marched across the room and yanked the curtains open. Harsh artificial daylight spilled in. Then, with a creak, he pushed the window wide, letting in the chill breath of underground air.
The weight lifted.
Relief washed over him, sudden and inexplicable.
He let out a breath and sat down in the wooden chair by his desk. For a few moments, he simply sat still, eyes drifting across the dull corners of the room. Then his mind returned to everything, the grotesque figure, the shadow at the door, the stranger named Elias, the letter, the monsters
I won't forget this. Not even the smallest piece.
He reached into the drawer, pulled out a pen and a scrap of aged paper, and jotted down words he barely understood. Notes, Experience, Names, and Feelings.
After a while, he stood, folded the paper, and tucked it under a loose board beneath the desk.
Then, grabbing the day's newspaper from the hallway table, he headed for the bathroom.
Moments later, he sat on the toilet bowl with pants around his ankles, shaking the newspaper open like a gentleman in a café. A strange ritual in a stranger world. Headlines flashed by, coin shortages, minor riots, another noble's funeral. Nothing surprising.
He finished, stood up, pulled up his trousers, and moved to the sink.
The cold water reached his fingers. He washed his hands, then splashed water on his face, the chill jarring him awake. He looked up and stared into the mirror.
A pale reflection stared back.
Black hair tousled, light brown eyes dulled by fatigue, skin just a shade too wan.
That's me, he thought.
He dried off and walked back to his room.
From the closet, he took out a white long-sleeved shirt and buttoned it slowly. He followed it with a cheap, scuffed tuxedo jacket and a black tie, frayed slightly at the edges. His boots were too heavy, so he swapped them for a pair of worn-out shoes that had more dust than polish.
He turned to the mirror again and straightened his tie, brushing down the dust and creases.
"I don't know if I should really go... I don't know what I got myself into," he muttered. "But what I need is money."
He paused, eyes sharpening with purpose.
"I'll go to Dowling Street 53. Immediately."
He grabbed his faded top hat from the wall hook and placed it over his head. Then, reaching for the pocket watch resting on his desk, he clicked it open, cracked glass, slow ticking, and slipped it into his coat pocket.
One last breath.
Then Alan walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped outside.