Chapter 10: The Shilling

East London—grimy, loud, and breathing with the rhythm of chaos—was nothing like the genteel streets of Kensington or the polished offices of Westminster. It was a city within the city, cracked at the seams, its bricks soaked in soot and blood. In the fog-slicked alleys and smoke-choked backstreets, secrets festered like mold in a damp cellar.

To outsiders, the East End was a warning.

To insiders, it was home.

The Black Frelyn Café looked like a place where soup came in dented tin bowls and you counted your change twice. A stained wooden sign hung above the door, its paint peeling in strips like dead skin. The bell chimed with a hollow ring as the door opened.

Two figures entered.

The taller man wore a deerstalker cap and a long, well-fitted coat that hung off his shoulders like it belonged on someone richer—or deader. His black scarf wrapped high up his neck, obscuring half his face. Sharp grey eyes scanned the room in a single sweep.

Behind him followed another man—broad-shouldered, rigid, pale. His step was unnaturally silent, his eyes too calm for someone who'd recently returned from the grave.

Lorian and Jack.

They didn't belong here. Which was exactly why they came.

The café's interior was bathed in weak gaslight. Men hunched over their meals, most with the slouch of exhaustion and the silence of men who'd learned it was safer not to speak. A barkeep cleaned the same glass for the third time. In one corner, a scarred man shuffled cards by himself.

Lorian chose a booth tucked beside a fogged window. Jack took the opposite seat, eyes low, posture deferential—still adapting to the role of a servant, despite no longer being truly human.

"Sir," Jack began quietly, "why are we here?"

Lorian loosened his scarf slightly. "To work."

Jack blinked. "What kind of work, exactly?"

Lorian offered a faint smile. "Collecting unpaid debts."

Before Jack could respond, a waitress appeared at their table with a notepad and a tired expression. "What'll it be?"

"One beef stew," Lorian said. "Fried fish—double portion. Bacon, pea soup, and two pints of ale."

She wrote it all without flinching. "Coming right up."

As she walked off, Jack leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Are we really here just to eat?"

Lorian chuckled under his breath. "Jack, this city runs on secrets and sin. The food's just camouflage. We're looking for something—or someone."

Jack said nothing, but his shoulders squared slightly. The idea of hunting, even in this strange new form, gave him a sense of purpose.

"Do you think Winston suspects anything?" he asked after a pause.

Lorian tapped a finger on the table. "If he's truly what we suspect—something more than human—then yes. He might already know your body's not where he left it."

Jack grimaced. "I hated lying there, pretending to be dead."

"You weren't pretending."

"Fair point."

The waitress returned with their drinks. Two foaming pints of amber ale. Jack eyed his warily. "Do we still drink?"

"You can try," Lorian said. "Just don't ask what happens after."

Jack took a cautious sip. To his surprise, the bitterness tasted almost familiar.

They sat in silence for a while. Lorian's expression remained unreadable, but his eyes scanned the café with quiet intent. In the far booth, two dock workers murmured something about a friend who'd gone missing. Near the window, a woman counted coins and looked ready to cry.

"Do you feel that?" Lorian asked suddenly.

Jack looked up. "Feel what?"

"The hunger here. Not ours—theirs. Desperation. It leaks from the walls."

Jack nodded slowly. "This place is… rotting."

"Which makes it fertile ground," Lorian said. "Where rot festers, new things grow. Cults. Deals. Powers that don't belong to God or Parliament."

Their food arrived moments later. Greasy, overcooked, but hot. Jack found it oddly comforting.

"You ever wonder," Lorian said between bites, "what kind of man you'd have become if you hadn't died?"

Jack paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "I think… I would've kept working. Maybe married someday. Saved enough to leave the city."

Lorian nodded. "You still can."

Jack blinked. "You think so?"

"Not the same way. But you have time now. More than most."

Jack looked down at his pale hands, flexing his fingers.

After the meal, Lorian called the waitress over again. "Bill, please."

She handed him a folded slip. "Eight pence."

He slid her a shilling. "Keep the change."

She blinked, surprised. "Thank you, sir."

But before she could walk away, Lorian flicked another shilling between his fingers.

"I'm looking for someone. Or something. People have been disappearing—dockhands, beggars, kids. Heard anything?"

The waitress hesitated. Her smile faded, replaced by something colder. "That kind of talk isn't free."

Lorian pushed the second shilling across the table. "That's what this is for."

She glanced around, then leaned in. "There's a name whispered around here. 'The Pallid Choir.' Nobody knows who they are. Just that when they come asking questions, someone disappears."

Lorian's eyes narrowed. "And no one's seen them?"

"No one living," she said, straightening up. "If you're smart, sir, you'll forget you heard anything."

As she left, Jack murmured, "Should we follow that lead?"

Lorian leaned back in his seat.

"Oh, we will," he said softly. "But not tonight."

He glanced out the window again, to the street choked in mist and shadow.

"Tonight, we watch the city breathe."