Chapter Two: You’ve Come to the Wrong Place—Or Maybe Not?

The second hand of the clock clicked forward with a soft tick, echoing in the stillness of the room. Lorian paused, one hand on the drawer, the other still hovering over the glass jar of mutant ants.

Outside, rain tapped gently against the fogged windows, a constant, ghostly rhythm. The sun had long since disappeared beneath the grim horizon, and in its place loomed a curtain of grey fog so thick it seemed to breathe.

He glanced toward the wall clock again. 6:41 PM.Another day of nothing—except for that strange girl Elsa, who had run out the door with that half-baffled, half-indignant look on her face. Now, to his surprise, there was someone else knocking.

Odd. No one should be visiting this late in East London. Not unless they were lost. Or very determined.

He clenched and relaxed his hand, feeling the strength running quietly beneath his skin. The blood in his veins—no longer merely human—flowed differently now. He no longer feared what might be waiting on the other side of the door.

"Hold on," he called out, then stood and walked toward the entrance.

Opening the door revealed a tall, gaunt man with immaculate posture and a well-kept mustache. His bowler hat gleamed with fresh polish, and his black coat was pressed to perfection. Everything about him whispered money—and servitude.

The man smiled politely and bowed slightly. "Good evening. I represent Mr. Oliver Winston, a notable philanthropist and proprietor of several housing estates across London—"

SLAM.

Lorian shut the door in his face.

Behind it, he called out lazily, "Sorry, no space. Already got enough ghosts in here."

There was a pause. Then came another knock—firmer, faster.

Lorian cracked open the door just an inch. "Yes?"

"I'd like to hire your services," the man said quickly, his expression unchanged, as if having doors slammed on him was routine.

"It's after business hours," Lorian said coolly. "I charge extra."

"I understand," said the man with a small nod. "You'll be compensated."

Moments later, the two sat across from one another in Lorian's cramped office. The scent of over-steeped tea filled the room. The glass jar containing the mutant ants now rested safely out of view.

"I'm Rudolph Hill," said the man, resting his bowler hat neatly on his lap. "Personal steward to Mr. Oliver Winston. Mr. Winston has recently encountered... a most troubling situation."

Lorian raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His fingers traced the rim of his teacup.

"A man in his service," Rudolph continued, "Jack Arnold—longtime employee, trusted valet—was found dead this afternoon. There was a note. Signed by him. The handwriting has been preliminarily confirmed."

"And yet?" Lorian asked.

"My employer isn't convinced," said Rudolph, folding his hands. "Jack Arnold was… meticulous. Quiet. The kind of man who ironed his socks and polished the undersides of shoes. He wouldn't have left things... unfinished. Especially not like this."

"You're saying it looked like suicide, but something feels off."

"Precisely."

Lorian leaned back, the chair creaking slightly under his weight.

"You could've gone to Scotland Yard. They'd eat this up—'mysterious death in a wealthy estate.' Why me?"

Rudolph's lips curved slightly. "Because you don't ask questions that can't be answered. And because you're discreet."

"That's one way of putting it," Lorian muttered.

Rudolph reached into his coat and placed a bulging leather wallet onto the desk. It landed with a solid, reassuring thump.

Lorian didn't flinch, but his eyes glinted. The weight of money had its own gravity.

"You've come to the right place," he said, finally.

The ride out to the Winston estate took nearly an hour. Lorian sat in the backseat of a luxury carriage car, its leather interiors far too pristine for the roads they were bouncing over.

Outside, the city fell away, replaced by fields of fog and shadow. Here and there, an oil lamp flickered, briefly illuminating twisted trees or crumbling walls.

Rudolph drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping thoughtfully to the rhythm of classical music from the car's tinny speaker.

"You might want some details," he offered, glancing into the rearview mirror.

"Go ahead."

"Jack Arnold, age twenty-seven. Originally from Plymouth. Been with Mr. Winston since '83. Promoted last year to chief valet and household steward."

"Sounds like a model servant."

"He was," Rudolph said. "That's what's strange. Loyal. Private. He kept to himself, didn't drink, didn't gamble. Books were his only vice."

"And he was found dead today?"

"In his quarters. Room 104, staff wing. A housemaid named Louisa discovered the body around 4 PM. The police were called immediately, but Mr. Winston—currently bedridden—asked that I seek additional expertise."

"Which brings you to me," Lorian murmured, watching the trees slide past the window like silent witnesses.

"You'll find the estate in excellent order," Rudolph continued. "Though staff numbers have been reduced. Budget cuts. Still, everything important remains intact."

"And the body?"

"Hasn't been moved."

Lorian nodded once, silently reaching into his coat pocket and brushing his gloved fingers across the glass vial tucked inside. The ants had stirred, sensing the shift in his thoughts.

He wasn't just taking this job for the money.

There was something else—something cold and strange that tugged at the back of his mind. A whisper of possibility. A hint that the corpse might not be entirely… still.