Act 3 - Staging

The door of the old puppet workshop creaked softly as Cedric and Eliza entered. A heavy smell of wood glue, paint, and old dust filled the air. The inside of the workshop was a bizarre mix of art and chaos. Puppets in various stages of completion hung everywhere – some still headless, others intricately painted and adorned with delicate details. The light streaming through the dirty windows made the scene seem almost alive.

Behind a workbench cluttered with tools, wood shavings, and half-finished puppets, sat an elderly man with snow-white hair. His hands, worn from years of labor, moved steadily over a small marionette, polishing its head. He looked up as the door clicked shut, and his watery blue eyes seemed to pierce through Cedric and Eliza for a moment.

"George Holloway?" Eliza asked firmly.

The man set the marionette aside and wiped his hands on an oil-stained cloth. "That's me," he said, his voice calm but brittle, like old wood. "And who are you, barging into my workshop uninvited?"

Eliza pulled out her badge. "Detective Eliza Cole. And this is Cedric Ashwell. We're investigating the Puppeteer case."

George's gaze lingered on Cedric, his eyes narrowing. "I know that name. Ashwell..." He trailed off and nodded slowly, as if recalling something. "Your family is rather well-known."

Cedric's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

George gestured to two rickety wooden chairs in front of the workbench. "Sit down. But I don't know how much help I can be. Everything I know about that madman, I've read in the papers."

Eliza and Cedric sat as George settled behind the workbench, picking up the marionette again, almost as if it were a shield against reality.

"We've heard you once had an extraordinary student," Eliza began. "Someone with a passion for puppetry. Can you tell us about him?"

George paused, the marionette in his hands suddenly seeming heavier. "Ah... yes. There was someone. A boy. Talented—so talented it was almost eerie. He could move the puppets in a way that made you forget they were just wood and strings. As if they were truly alive."

"What was his name?" Cedric asked, his voice sharp.

George hesitated, his eyes drifting to one of the marionettes hanging on the wall. "I don't remember anymore. It was a long time ago, and the boy was... peculiar. Reserved. He didn't talk much, but when he did, his words were hard to forget."

"Peculiar?" Eliza repeated, her curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by that?"

"He had a darkness in him," George replied softly. "Something you could feel when you were near him. It was as if he saw the world differently—as if he found in the puppets something that was missing in the real world. He loved them. But he loved them in a way that was... wrong."

Cedric leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the table. "What do you mean by 'wrong'?"

George paused, as if searching for the right words. "He often talked about how people were no different from marionettes. That they were all held by strings—strings you could pull if you just knew how. And sometimes... sometimes, I felt like he didn't just think about it. He wanted to try it."

A heavy silence fell over the workshop, broken only by the faint creaking of the hanging puppets. Eliza's gaze shifted to Cedric, who was staring intently at the man, his expression razor-sharp.

"Did you ever see him again?" Eliza asked finally.

George shook his head. "No. One day, he just stopped coming. No goodbye, no explanation. He vanished, as if he had never existed."

Cedric stood abruptly, his hands clenched into fists. "That's it? Vague talk about a student whose name you don't even know? Do you have anything that will actually help us find this lunatic?"

George lowered the marionette and looked at Cedric with a strange expression—a mix of sympathy and weariness. "I understand your pain, boy. But sometimes, people leave no traces. Sometimes, they're like shadows, leaving only a fleeting impression before they disappear."

Cedric gritted his teeth, turning away as he rubbed his fingers against his temple. Eliza stood and placed a hand on his arm. "Cedric, calm down. We're here to find answers, not to assign blame."

George cleared his throat and looked at them both. "If you truly want to know what I think, here's what I'll say: the Puppeteer isn't working alone. No one does something like this alone. There are always spectators. Always someone clapping."

Cedric turned back slowly, his eyes glinting. "What do you mean by that?"

George shrugged. "Some people enjoy it. These... productions. There's a certain fascination with the macabre that always attracts an audience. Maybe you should look there for your answers."

Eliza nodded slowly. "Thank you, George. That's helpful."

"I hope so," he said quietly, reaching for the marionette again. "But I'll warn you—this trail doesn't lead to answers. It only goes deeper into the dark. Oh, and take these." George handed Eliza two slips of paper, both seemingly coded messages. "I'm not very good at deciphering things. I found these at my door this morning. Maybe you'll find them useful."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful," Eliza said as she calmly tucked the letters into her pocket.

As Cedric and Eliza headed toward the door, George gave them one last look. "You'd be better off waiting until tomorrow," he called after them. "It's dangerous after dark."

Cedric paused for a moment but didn't turn around. "We're going now."

Eliza followed him, her brow furrowed. "Cedric... what if he's right? Maybe we should wait."

"I'm not spending the night with some creepy old man. Who knows what he's up to?" Cedric replied coldly, not bothering to consider how George might feel.

George smiled faintly. "That's no problem at all. There's a lovely hotel nearby where you can stay," he said, brushing past Cedric and pointing to an elegant building.

Cedric finally relented. "Fine."

The heavy entrance doors of the hotel swung open softly as Cedric and Eliza stepped inside. The lobby was laid with polished marble floors that reflected the warm light of the chandeliers. Landscape paintings in gilded frames adorned the walls, and a faint lavender scent lingered in the air. The building felt like a relic from a bygone era, its grandeur still intact despite the weight of time.

The reception desk, made of dark, glossy wood, was manned by an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-40s. She greeted them with a polite smile as they approached.

"Welcome to Kensington Manor Hotel," she said in a smooth voice. "How may I assist you?"

Eliza stepped forward, setting her handbag on the desk. "We need two rooms for the night. Separate rooms." Her tone was businesslike, almost curt.

The receptionist pulled out a well-maintained leather ledger and began scanning for available rooms. "Of course, Miss. I have two rooms on the third floor, side by side. Will that suit your needs?"

"Perfect," Eliza replied, casting a brief glance at Cedric, who stood behind her with his hands in his pockets, his gaze coolly surveying the lobby.

"Your names, please?" asked the receptionist, picking up a fountain pen.

"Cole and Ashwell," Eliza answered without hesitation.

The woman noted the names and placed two small keys on the counter, each attached to a metal tag. "Rooms 312 and 313. Breakfast is served in the dining hall starting at 7 a.m. Shall I have your luggage brought up?"

Cedric scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "We'll manage."

"As you wish," the receptionist replied with a slight nod. "The lifts are just down that corridor." She gestured toward a wide hallway at the end of which stood an ornate elevator with intricate lattice doors.

Eliza thanked her politely, took her key, and walked toward the elevator, Cedric following silently. The faint clicks of Eliza's heels echoed on the marble floor, while Cedric's steps were noiseless, his thoughts far from his surroundings.

The elevator was old-fashioned, its cabin adorned with intricate designs and a mechanical control panel. Eliza pressed the button for the third floor, and the lattice doors closed with a soft creak. The lift jolted slightly as it began to ascend, and the two stood in silence. Cedric's eyes were fixed on the numbers moving above the door, as if searching for something only he could see.

When they reached the third floor, the lattice doors opened with a metallic clatter. The hallway was dimly lit, with thick carpeting that muffled their footsteps. Cedric and Eliza walked wordlessly to their rooms, which were side by side.

Standing in front of her door, Eliza turned to Cedric. "Tomorrow morning, 8 a.m. We plan our next move."

Cedric gave a silent nod, inserting his key into the lock and opening the door to room 312. "Sleep well, Detective," he murmured before disappearing behind the door.

Eliza sighed, shaking her head slightly before unlocking her own door.

Cedric entered the small but tastefully furnished room and closed the door behind him. The walls were painted in a soft cream color, and a large bed stood at the center, flanked by elegant nightstands. A vintage lamp cast a warm glow, but Cedric barely registered the details.

He tossed his jacket onto a chair, kicked off his shoes, and sat down at a small desk near the window. His eyes fell on the cigarette butt in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out, rolled it between his fingers, and placed it on the desk without lighting it.

His thoughts returned to the conversation at the workshop. George Holloway's words echoed in his mind: "There are always spectators. Always someone clapping."

Cedric pressed his hands to his temples. "Damn madness," he muttered, exhaling deeply. He pulled the encrypted letters from his pocket and stared at them, but his eyes couldn't focus on the text. Finally, he set them aside and collapsed onto the bed, his arms spread wide.

"Always someone clapping," he whispered again before closing his eyes.

Eliza let the door click shut behind her and leaned against it briefly. She took a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair, glancing around the small yet cozy room. Her thoughts were clear and focused, but a nagging unease lingered deep inside.

"What's your plan, Puppeteer?" she murmured to herself, hanging her coat on a nearby hook. She reached into her bag, retrieved the two letters, and set them on the nightstand. For a moment, she stared at the encrypted messages, as if willing them to reveal their secrets.

Finally, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out her phone. Opening a secure note-taking app, she began jotting down points for the following day. She knew she needed rest, but rest felt like a luxury she couldn't afford.

"Tomorrow," she murmured softly, "we need to be one step ahead."

With that, she set the phone aside, adjusted the alarm on the nightstand, and lay back on the bed. The light remained on, but her eyes slowly closed as her mind churned through the events of the day.

Cedric pushed open the dining room door and stepped inside. It was 7:30 a.m., and the golden morning light streaming through the tall windows softened the room's otherwise rigid atmosphere. The dining area was elegant but almost too formal—white tablecloths, gleaming silverware, and a buffet that looked more like an exhibit than a meal. Only a few guests were awake, scattered across tables, either deep in conversation or silently focused on their plates.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and hunched his shoulders as he made his way to the buffet. His gaze stayed firmly on the food, as though ignoring the people around him might make him invisible. Don't let them stare, he thought. The idea of someone approaching him made his skin crawl.

Picking up a plate, he slid it along the row of warming trays. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon. His movements were mechanical, almost bored, until an elderly man beside him broke the quiet.

"Excuse me," the man said with a polite smile, "could you pass me the tongs for the rolls?"

Cedric froze for a moment. His hand trembled slightly before he picked up the tongs and handed them over without making eye contact. "Here."

"Thank you." The man nodded kindly, but Cedric ignored him, turning away and heading for a table at the edge of the room. He sat down, glanced briefly at his plate, and began eating without a word.

As he chewed, he noticed a waitress setting a coffee cup in front of him. He hadn't ordered it. She smiled softly, but Cedric didn't meet her gaze. He muttered a gruff "Thanks" before returning to his food. The waitress's smile faded as she walked away.

A noise interrupted his thoughts: a toddler banging a spoon against the table as it was being fed porridge. Cedric looked up and saw the family seated a few tables away—a young couple, both looking exhausted but smiling as they tried to soothe the child.

The clanging grew louder, more rhythmic, increasingly annoying. Cedric felt his patience fraying. His fingers drummed against the table, his jaw tightening. Finally, he called out in a cutting voice, "Could you get that under control? Some of us are trying to eat in peace."

The couple stared at him, surprised. The woman scooped the child into her arms, while the man, visibly irritated, opened his mouth to respond. But Cedric was already standing, carrying his plate back to the buffet. The stares of the other diners burned into his back, but he ignored them, his thoughts spinning. I don't care. They just need to be quiet.

By 8:00 a.m., Cedric stood in the hotel foyer, as agreed with Eliza. The minutes dragged on, and his eyes darted repeatedly to the clock above the reception desk. Where is she? He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching guests come and go.

A young woman with a suitcase passed by and gave him a shy smile. Cedric didn't return it, turning away as though the brief eye contact might suffocate him. The familiar pang of social anxiety stirred in his chest—not fear, exactly, but a gnawing discomfort with any interaction he couldn't control.

8:15. Still no Eliza. Cedric began tapping his foot on the marble floor, his patience wearing thin.

8:30. The elevator doors finally opened, and Eliza stepped out. She looked tired but freshly showered, her damp hair neatly styled. She wore a simple yet elegant outfit that fit perfectly. Her movements were hurried as she approached Cedric.

"Sorry, I overslept," she said, adjusting the strap of her bag.

Cedric crossed his arms. "Half an hour late. Great start to the day."

Eliza shot him a mildly irritated look. "Some of us take more than five minutes to get ready."

"Or half an hour for their routine," Cedric muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.

"Do you want to start bickering, or do you want to get on with what we came here to do?" Eliza's tone was sharp, her words clipped. Cedric raised an eyebrow but said nothing, silently following her toward the door.

The sun, despite the rain, had climbed higher in the sky as they approached the workshop. A faint breeze carried the scent of rain and city streets. Eliza walked ahead, with Cedric following in his usual silence.

The workshop door was ajar. It was a small change, but one Cedric noticed immediately as they walked down the street. He stopped abruptly, staring at the half-open door, his eyes narrowing. Eliza caught his sudden halt and followed his gaze.

"That's not a good sign," she murmured, drawing her service weapon and cautiously stepping forward.

Cedric followed, his hands clenched into fists. A strange feeling settled in his chest—a mix of foreboding and anger. The workshop felt silent, too silent. Even the faint creak of the hanging puppets was gone.

They stepped inside, and the air felt different. It was colder, heavier, as if the room itself was aware of what had happened. The familiar scent of wood and paint was overpowered by a metallic tang Cedric recognized all too well.

Blood.

Eliza froze as her eyes landed on the workbench. George lay on his back in front of it, his eyes wide open. His face was twisted into a grotesque grin, as though he had been forced to smile in his final moments. His hands were unnaturally bent, as if pulled by invisible strings.

"Damn it," Eliza whispered, lowering her weapon. She crouched beside the body, quickly inspecting it, though the truth was obvious. George was dead.

Cedric stood motionless, his gaze fixed on George's lifeless form. Anger surged within him, building until it was almost unbearable. "That bastard..." His voice was low, almost a growl. "He used him. Like another puppet in his twisted game."

Eliza looked up, her brow deeply furrowed. "Cedric, we need to secure the scene. We can't just—"

"We don't have time!" Cedric snapped, his eyes blazing with fury. "He's toying with us, Eliza. Every damn second we waste gives him more time to pull his strings. George is dead because of us."

Eliza wanted to argue but stopped herself. She knew Cedric was partially right. The police would arrive later. But if they didn't act now, the Puppeteer would continue unchecked.

"What do you want to do?" she asked quietly as she rose to her feet.

Cedric didn't respond to her directly. Instead, he scanned the room as though searching for something. His eyes landed on a marionette hanging on the wall—the one George had been working on the day before. A thin wire was looped around its neck, and from the wire dangled a small note, tied into a neatly bound manuscript. The title was scrawled in flowing, handwritten script across the cover:

"The Final Solo"

Eliza swallowed hard as she carefully reached for the manuscript. Cedric, meanwhile, kept his focus on George's lifeless body, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"This... this is what he left behind," Eliza murmured as she opened the first page of the script. The words were meticulous, crafted with an artist's precision. It was a blend of descriptions and stage directions, each word dripping with the macabre signature of the Puppeteer.

Scene 1:

The stage is a place of creation, where wood and soul merge. The artist, a solitary man, works on his masterpiece—a final touch, a last brushstroke. But he is interrupted as the audience departs. Their footsteps echo through the streets, and the curtain falls prematurely.

Scene 2:

Darkness enters, and with it the true puppeteer. Invisible strings seize the artist, pulling him from his workshop and onto the stage. There is no resistance. Only silence, broken by a soft whisper: 'One last dance, George. Just for me.'

Scene 3:

The artist becomes the instrument. His hands, once breathing life into wood, are now guided as though they are marionettes themselves. His limbs contort into unnatural angles, a smile painted onto his face. It is a smile for an audience that will never be present.

Scene 4:

The final note is played, and the curtain falls. The stage remains empty, but the audience will know the performance never truly ends.

Eliza snapped the script shut with trembling hands. "This... this isn't a clue. It's a goddamn confession."

Cedric snatched the manuscript from her, his expression hard as stone. He skimmed the pages, his eyes growing darker with each line, his lips pressing into a thin, tight line.

"He planned it, down to the smallest detail," he finally said, his voice a cold whisper. "He didn't care that we were here. George was meant to die from the start."

Eliza tried to say something, but Cedric abruptly turned and stormed toward the door. "Cedric, wait!" she called after him, but he didn't stop.

Outside, Cedric lit a cigarette with trembling hands, taking a deep drag before exhaling the smoke in a slow, shaky breath. His eyes stared into the void, his thoughts racing.

"He's using us," he muttered, more to himself than to Eliza, who had followed him outside. "We're just pieces in his twisted game. But I won't let him pull my strings."

"Cedric, we need to think this through," Eliza said, her voice calm but firm. "If we charge ahead without a plan, we'll be playing right into his hands."

Cedric turned to her, his eyes blazing with anger. "Think this through? George is dead because we weren't here! Because we thought we had time!" He threw the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his heel. "No, Eliza. There's no plan. There's only him. And I'm going to find him."

Eliza wanted to argue, but she knew there was no reaching Cedric in this moment. She sighed deeply, watching as he strode down the street, his shoulders rigid with suppressed fury.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

"Back to the safehouse."

The London sky was heavy and gray as Cedric and Eliza made their way back to the safehouse. The light drizzle turned into a downpour, rain cascading in thick streams. Cedric pulled his coat tighter, his steps sharp and resolute, while Eliza followed in silence. Both wrestled with the events at the workshop, but their ways of coping couldn't have been more different.

Cedric lit another cigarette, even as the rain threatened to drench it. His hands shielded the fragile flame, smoke curling into his face. His breathing was labored, his expression stormy.

"I know what you're going to say," he muttered finally, not looking at Eliza.

"Oh? And what's that?" she asked, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets.

"That I need to calm down. That anger won't help us." His voice was sharp with bitterness, the words cutting like knives. "But you don't understand. You don't have a goddamn clue."

Eliza stopped in her tracks, rain pouring down on her. "You think you're the only one who's lost someone?" Her voice was calm but piercing. "You're not, Cedric. And if you keep acting like you're the only one who's hurting, you'll lose even more."

Cedric let out a bitter laugh, rough and cold. "And what am I supposed to do, huh? Breathe deeply and think of rainbows? No, Eliza. That bastard killed George, and he'll keep killing until we stop him. And for that, I need to stay angry. Because if I don't..." He trailed off, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. "If I don't, I'll lose everything."

Eliza said nothing. She knew there was no point in arguing with him now. Instead, she started walking again, and Cedric followed, their footsteps echoing against the slick cobblestones.

When they pushed open the door to the safehouse, they immediately felt that something was wrong. The room was eerily still—too still. The usually bustling headquarters of the Unchained felt deserted, almost ghostly.

"Rupert?" Eliza called into the darkness, her voice echoing off the walls. There was no answer.

Cedric stepped inside and immediately pulled a flashlight from his jacket. The beam swept across the room, illuminating abandoned chairs, a half-full glass of water on a table—and a white envelope lying on the map of London.

Eliza carefully picked up the envelope, her hands trembling slightly. Cedric stood rigid beside her, his eyes fixed on the envelope like a predator eyeing its prey.

"Read it," he said sharply.

Eliza opened the envelope, pulled out the neatly folded paper inside, and began to read aloud:

"Every performance demands sacrifice. You have stepped onto the stage, and now you see what it means to stand in the spotlight. George was the first, an artist unwilling to let go of his craft. And now Rupert, a man who valued art above loyalty. He was a brilliant actor, but every production needs its climax. I thank you for the inspiration."

Eliza froze as she read the final lines. "Rupert is dead," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Cedric snatched the paper from her hands, his eyes scanning the words. When he finished, he crumpled the note and threw it to the floor. "That damned bastard..." His voice grew louder until it exploded into a scream: "THAT DAMNED BASTARD!"

He kicked the table, sending a coffee cup flying into the wall, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Eliza stepped back, startled by the force of his outburst, but she said nothing. She let him rage, let him scream.

"Two people, Eliza!" Cedric bellowed, his voice raw. "Two people we could have saved if we hadn't been so goddamn slow!"

"Cedric..." Eliza began, but he cut her off.

"No!" He turned to face her, his expression twisted with fury and pain. "You don't get it. It's not just about George or Rupert. It's about the fact that we're always too late. This bastard is leading us by the nose, and we're doing nothing!"

"We're doing everything we can," Eliza said calmly, her eyes steady as they met his. "But if you let your anger consume you, you'll be the next person we lose."

Cedric's breathing was heavy, his hands trembling. But he said nothing more. Instead, he pulled out a fresh cigarette, lighting it with shaky fingers and taking a deep drag.

Eliza watched him, her gaze cool but tinged with sympathy. "We need to keep going," she said finally. "Rupert wouldn't have wanted us to give up."

Cedric gave a curt nod, his eyes fixed on the map. "Then let's keep going," he muttered. "Before anyone else dies."

The two began planning their next steps as the darkness of evening fully enveloped the safehouse.

The creaking of the old safehouse echoed in the tense silence. Cedric had just sat down again, the cigarette between his fingers, while Eliza frowned at the map. The Puppeteer's note lay crumpled at the edge of the table, a silent accusation of their past failures.

Then, a knock echoed through the room.

Both of them flinched, the charged atmosphere exploding into sudden action. Cedric dropped the cigarette, stomping it out hastily as he grabbed a heavy tool from a nearby table. Eliza placed a hand on the weapon at her hip, her gaze locked on the entrance.

"Stay back," Eliza whispered, her tone firm. Cedric scoffed, ignoring the command as he stepped past her. "I'll handle this."

The knock came again, hesitant this time, almost apologetic.

Cedric shot Eliza a brief glance before yanking the door open. Outside stood a young man, barely in his mid-twenties. His face was pale and gaunt, with shy eyes behind thick glasses. He wore a thin jacket that did little to shield him from the pouring rain and clutched an old backpack tightly to his chest.

"Who the hell are you?" Cedric's voice was cutting, almost aggressive. He scrutinized the man with suspicion, ready to interpret his every move.

"Uh… Marcus," the young man stammered, stepping back slightly, his hands raised as if to show he wasn't a threat. "Marcus Sterling. Um, Eliza… Detective Cole contacted me."