Alan walked through the veins of Dowling Street 53, where smoke, chatter, and the scent of roasted roots filled the air.
The streets had returned to life, vendors yelled over one another, peddling mechanical trinkets, rusty keys, dream incense, and stale paper lanterns.
Shadows danced on the cobbled ground beneath gaslights that flickered against the dull ceiling of the underground sky.
At the heart of it all stood the Church of the Almighty, towering like an iron spine against the soot-stained skyline.
Alan kept his head low, eyes scanning for something out of place, a possible sign, A detail, an instinct feeling.
He paused at a crossing, glanced left, then right.
A tram hissed past like a metallic serpent. The streets around the church were lined with bookstores, too many.
Why would there be four bookstores near a church? He thought, scratching the side of his head in irritation. His fingers crinkled the folded letter in his coat pocket. He pulled it out once more, the paper soft with overuse.
> "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 sighed through his nose and muttered under his breath, his lips curling with dry sarcasm.
"This guy... Even in letters, he manages to sound like a smug bastard."
His brow twitched. He folded the letter again, tighter this time.
"Crooked windows, gray pants, Cheap cane that looks like it's expensive," he repeated flatly, like reading a recipe for madness.
He shook his head, trying to knock the irritation loose, and pushed forward.
Then he saw it.
A bookstore nestled beside the church, half its sign covered in ivy, the name etched in faded copper:
Dreamers Journal.
The building itself was oddly elegant, almost out of place, but the windows… they were unmistakably crooked, like glass trying to escape the frame.
Alan narrowed his eyes.
"…Why would a beautiful store have windows like that?" he muttered.
Still, he reached for the doorknob.
It turned with a soft click.
The moment he stepped inside, he squinted.
Light, unnaturally bright, flooded the space. Not gaslight. Not lanterns. It was... something else.
Ahhhhhh, why is it bright in here.
The light stabbed into Alan's eyes like a white-hot needle.
He winced, throwing an arm over his face, staggered by the sudden brilliance that poured from the store like a flood of sunlight in a world that had forgotten what light was.
He barely made out a silhouette rushing toward him, footsteps light and careful on the wooden floor.
A soft voice, laced with concern.
"Are you okay? Did I blind you? Please... say something."
Alan lowered his arm slowly. His vision was still bleeding with afterimages, but shapes began to emerge, blurry lines resolving into bookshelves, shelves into spines, spines into titles. The glow dimmed, as if responding to his recovery.
"I'm okay," he muttered, rubbing his eyelids. "Just wasn't expecting a lighthouse."
The figure before him sharpened. A man stood there, young, maybe in his twenties, with cobalt-blue hair that shimmered faintly under the lights.
He wore gray pants and a worn brown coat, sleeves slightly too long, and leaned casually on a cane with a polished handle that looked far too extravagant for the rest of his outfit.
His silver eyes gleamed with a peculiar softness.
Alan blinked at him.
"Uh... hello. Are you the bookseller here?"
The blue-haired man gave a small smile and a nod. "Yes. I own this place. Though the windows, " he gestured lazily toward the crooked glass panes, "could use fixing."
Alan raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking to the bizarrely bent windows.
Then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You don't really look like someone who's lived through the 'poor bookstore owner' life."
The man chuckled, dry and amused. "We just met, and you're already judging me, stranger, you're a bit harsh."
He turned and walked toward a table stacked with papers and teacups, his cane tapping softly on the floor with each step.
"So," he said over his shoulder, "why are you here?"
Alan followed, hesitating only slightly before reaching into his coat. His boots creaked against the polished wood as he stopped in front of the table. The bookseller tilted his head.
"I was... forced to deliver this to you," Alan said, pulling out the letter and holding it between two fingers like a dead insect.
The man took it without a word and unfolded it with a practiced flick.
Alan glanced around while he read.
The place was immaculate, almost too immaculate. The bookshelves were perfectly aligned, the wood unscuffed, the air clean and free of dust. There was no sign of decay, no creak in the boards, no scent of mold. It was as if time didn't dare touch this place. But those windows… bent, warped, as though something outside had tried to break in-or something inside had tried to escape.
His fingers brushed against a nearby spine. He walked, trailing his hand across the books, reading their titles in silence.
"Sleep Peacefully Is Key."
He frowned. Is this self-help or something different?
Then another:
"Dream Ritualistic Nature."
Alan reached out, pulled the book from the shelf. His eyes widened at the name etched in gold on the cover:
Dream Ritualistic Nature — By Elias Ashford
His lips twisted into a crooked smile.
"Of course it's you," he muttered. "Even wrote your own book... You arrogant bastard."
Though from the title alone, it sounds interesting and tempting to read. He thought.
"It's interesting, isn't it?"
Alan jumped.
The blue-haired man stood to his left, too close, too quiet-no footsteps, no warning. As if physics took a break when he moved, and pondered.
What the hell just happened, he didn't make any sound nor vibrations, I must remain calm.
Alan stepped back, feigning calm. "You... read the letter?"
The man nodded, gently tucking the letter into his coat. "Yes. Looks like you're the one Sherlock picked."
What does he mean by that? The book that I used to read?
Alan tilted his head. "Pardon? 'The Sherlock'? Like... from Books?"
The man offered a small smile. "My Name's Murphy Goslan. And no, not fiction. 'The Sherlock' is what we call Elias Ashford. Aka, that smart bastard, as you so nicely put it."
Alan scratched his head, puzzled. Is this some weird initiation thing?
Murphy cocked his head. "No, this isn't normal. We don't do dramatic recruitments. But it was Sherlock who asked for you... which is unusual. He never cares about recruiting people."
His eyes scanned Alan's face.
"I wonder why he chose you."
He turned and began walking, waving a hand casually. "Anyway, welcome to the Night Clerks. You've got one task to complete before you're in for good. Follow me."
Alan frowned, frustration and confusion building in his chest.
Did he just read my mind, or even what I was gonna say?
"...Did you just read my mind?"
Murphy stopped, half-turned with a sly grin.
"Yes. But don't worry, I won't reveal anything about you."
Alan's fist clenched instinctively,.
He can read my mind then he could read informations about my families and things about me.
Murphy added, as if swatting away a fly:
"We don't care what you've done or who you were. What happens to you is your choice, not ours."
The tension in Alan's shoulders loosened, just a bit.
Is it really a good choice, are they really safe, do I just accept it... Fine... I'll just accept it, I'm the one responsible for things, and my family safety.
He exhaled. "Fine. What do I need to do?"
Alan glanced at Murphy, forcing a resolve that hadn't fully formed yet.
His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with a flicker of resistance, but he nodded. "Okay."
Murphy gave a half-smile, the kind that said nothing but understood everything. "Just follow me. You'll meet the others along the way… maybe even Elias Ashford, if he's not sulking in his room."
They moved through the narrow passage behind the counter. Dust motes floated like lazy rays in the slivers of light coming from crooked windows. Wooden floorboards gave tired groans beneath their steps.
Murphy halted at an old, iron-framed door covered in etched symbols, curves, angles, and shapes that shifted subtly when Alan blinked. He tilted his head, eyebrows pulling together.
"Go ahead," Murphy said. "Open it."
Alan hesitated, his hand hovering near the handle. "What… is this?"
"A controlled Schrödinger's Cat," Murphy said, matter-of-factly. "If you believe someone's behind it, then someone is. If not, this door doesn't even exist."
Alan tilted his head, and pondered.
Something like that exist? Everything here isn't normal.
Alan turned to him, half expecting a smirk, but Murphy just nodded toward the handle again. The symbols faintly glowed as Alan touched the cold metal.
"What you believe is what you reveal," Murphy added, as the door creaked open. "But this cat? It's in a cage we built."
Beyond the door was not a room but something that isn't normal, a sprawling interior that defied the shop's modest exterior. Polished floors reflected amber light from chandeliers hung high above. Curved staircases wound like elegant serpents, and hallways stretched far, an interior of a mansion.
Everything I have experienced up to this point is far from being normal, what did I just go myself into.
Alan blinked. "This… this can't be real."
His fingers pressed into his temple as if massaging the confusion out of his skull. "Where are we?"
A sudden voice shattered the awe.
"THIS is the Headquarters!" a familiar voice boomed.
That was that bastard voice, the voice of Elias Ashford. Alan pondered.
Alan's eyes snapped to the second-floor. There, waving wildly with a wide grin and absolutely no sense of formality, stood Elias Ashford, The Bastard Himself.
Murphy sighed under his breath. "Unpredictable as always."