The Shaw Mansion stood tall on the eastern hill of Nayga. A gentle, dignified place wrapped in the silence of old nobility.
Soft candlelight spilled through arched windows, reflecting against the rain-glazed glass. The house smelled faintly of lavender and burnt wood.
Inside the dining hall, the atmosphere was calm but heavy. A calmness which carried authority. Liam Shaw sat at the head of the long wooden table, a half-eaten plate of roasted goose in front of him.
He was dressed in a dark navy suit, collar slightly loosened, his hair perfectly parted. His relatives and two merchants sat across, whispering about business, smiling with the fake charm of polite greed.
"Benson," Liam said softly, not raising his voice, "pour the wine."
Benson, a thin, gray-haired man with injured hands nodded quickly. He hurried forward, nearly tripping on the polished marble. As he poured the wine, one of the merchants snorted. "Your servant looks ready to faint, Lord Shaw. Do you feed him or starve him to devotion?"
The others laughed. Benson's face turned red as he set the bottle down. Liam didn't laugh. He just looked at the merchant for a long second, eyes calm, a faint smile touching his lips.
"I find hunger," Liam said, "a very efficient teacher of loyalty."
The table went silent. The merchant cleared his throat awkwardly and pretended to sip his drink. Benson bowed his head and stepped back.
Dinner continued in muted chatter. When the guests finally left, their carriages disappeared into the rain. The mansion fell quiet again. The sound of the clock ticking spread in the hall.
Benson stood by the corner, holding the tray with the leftover dishes. Old rice, wilted vegetables, cold meat. That was his meal. He hesitated, eyes flickering toward Liam.
"Fifty coins this month," Liam said without looking at him. "Same as always. Be grateful the roof doesn't leak on your bed."
"Yes, my lord," Benson murmured.
"Good," Liam said. He stood, walking toward the tall glass doors that led to the balcony. Rain shimmered on the edges of his suit as he stared into the storm.
Then, quietly, as if to himself, he added, "You should go to bed, Benson. Tomorrow, bring roses from the lower garden. She'll be visiting again."
Benson paused. He nodded obediently. "Of course, my lord."
As the old servant disappeared into the corridor, Liam leaned on the balcony rail, his reflection fractured by the rain.
He took his hand in his pocket, he took out a silver locket and inside it, a lock of black hair tied with silk. He smiled faintly. "Tomorrow night, my love," He whispered.
....
At the old Shaw Estate, a place long sealed off by the city's inspectors. The yellow caution ribbons flapped weakly in the wind as Albert Newton stepped through the half-open door with Harriet Clover beside him.
Inside, the air smelled of mold, wet fabric, and burnt oil. Dust clung to the furniture like frost, and the silence was so deep it made the faint sound of their boots resound unnaturally.
Harriet lifted the lantern. "Looks like they didn't clean up much since the inspection. Sukho, the rich die messy too."
Tom didn't answer. His eyes scanned everything around there cautiously. The fallen picture frames, the broken teacup on the floor, dried trail of blood leading from the study to the hallway.
His gloved hand brushed the desk, revealing
outlines of disturbed dust. Someone had been here after the police left.
"This isn't just a murder," Tom muttered quietly, his detective tone flat, analytic. "It's a statement."
Harriet frowned. "Statement?"
Tom crouched beside the chair where the corpse had been found days ago. A dark stain on the carpet marking the spot. "The killer didn't take anything. But look here.…" He pointed at a small smear of color on the armrest — a faint pink hue. "Makeup. Pastel."
"Pastel?" Harriet leaned closer, his brows furrowing.
"Yes. It's the same type used in old-style cosmetics, mostly worn by stage performers or nobles' partners. Whoever did this…. came prepared. With makeup already on."
He looked around again noticing a tipped-over candlestick, the faint scent of perfume under the decay. Something about it was deliberate and careful.
"Three brothers," Tom said, standing slowly. "Cliff, Liam, and Kinder Shaw. The dead one was their uncle — Roderick Shaw. The one who funded the family when they had nothing."
"Then family business gone bad?" Harriet guessed, brushing dust off his coat.
"Most likely, family debt paid in blood," Tom replied, voice flat but coldly human.
A metallic gleamed under the study table. Tom kneeled and reached underneath. His fingers closed around a cold handle — a pistol, engraved with initials: L.S.
He froze for half a second. Harriet noticed. "What is it?"
"Just a broken latch," Tom lied smoothly, slipping the weapon inside his trench coat before the inspectors arrived. He knew better than to hand over something that could rewrite the entire investigation.
"Let's check the attic," Harriet said, already moving toward the staircase.
Tom stayed a moment longer, staring at the dust swirling in the lantern light. There was something about this house. They were not alone there. Yes, right now. Tom could feel a paranormal spirit through his Face's vision.
He whispered under his breath, "Liam Shaw…. what are you hiding?"
Then, with his usual calm composure, he followed Harriet up the creaking stairs, boots sung in rhythm lightly.
Upstairs, the floorboards creaked under every step. Harriet Clover wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as he shifted through an old cabinet, its drawer had stiff with age.
"Not much up here," he muttered, flipping through yellowed ledgers and torn pages of family accounts. "Either someone cleaned this place too well or—"
He stopped. Outside the window, through the blur of the dusty window, something moved.
Did I saw a face of something outside?
Harriet thought it was a reflection of himself. But the shape didn't match his to him. The person stood across the narrow street, barely was visible through the haze, wearing a black coat that reached the knees, a top hat angled low enough to hide their face.
Lightning flashed and the figure turned, looking directly at him.
Harriet's pulse jumped. "What the hell—?"
He saw the swift movement of the figure, moving away from there.
Without a thought, Harriet slammed the drawer shut, scattering papers across the floor and darted to the window. The latch snapped open under his weight as he pushed through the rain and leapt down the short slope outside, boots landing hard on the muddy ground.
"Hey! Stop!" he shouted but no reply.
The figure was already running. Their boots splashed water, coat flaring behind like a shadow given life. Harriet followed, slipping once as his foot hit a slick cobblestone but he didn't slow down.
They ran through narrow alleys, past flickering street lamps that barely held against the wind. The stranger was fast, too fast, weaving through the crowd that had gathered under awnings to escape the rain. Shouts erupted as Harriet shoved past vendors and umbrellas, trying to keep the silhouette in sight.
He caught glimpses of the coat's hem, the glint of polished shoes, the faint outline of a gloved hand brushing raindrops from the hat brim.
Harriet's breath came heavy now. "Stop! Police matter! You are under the Police for interfering in sealed area!" he yelled, even though he wasn't sure anyone could hear him.
The figure turned a corner into a crowded plaza. Harriet followed, pushing through the mass of people. When he emerged from the other side, heart pounding, the alley was empty.
He looked around but nothing. No footprints on the slick stone. No suspicious shadow moving. Just the steady rhythm of water hitting ground.
"Where….?" he breathed, frustration burning in his chest.
However, Harriet hurrily returned to the estate.
Water ran down the cracked windows like sweat on aging skin. Harriet pushed open the front door, the hinges giving a low moan, and stepped back into the darkened hall.
"Newton?" he called out, voice resounded.
Only the hollow groan of the wood answered.
He frowned. Albert Newton had gone up to the basement before the chase. Harriet wiped the rain off his coat and walked across the creaking floorboards, calling again, "You up there?"
The basement door stood slightly open, the smell of damp earth wafting from below. He descended the steps slowly, his lantern cutting through the dust and cobwebs.
"Newton.…?"
Nothing came or happened.... for a moment.
Then a hand slammed on his shoulder.
Harriet spun around, nearly dropping the lantern.
Tom stood behind him, calm as ever, coat collar turned up, hat shadowing his eyes. "You look like you saw a rat with bazooka," he said lightly.
Harriet exhaled hard. "Damn it, Newton! Where were you?"
Tom tilted his head. "Washroom. Why? Miss me already?"
Harriet ignored the sarcasm, his tone was uneasy. "Someone was here. While you were up there. Said if we dig deeper into this case.... they'll kill us both."
Tom's eyes flickered, sharp for just a second. Then he looked away, adjusting his glove. "Empty threats. People like that always talk first."
"I don't think so." Harriet's voice trembled slightly. "Whoever it was — they know something about the murder for sure."
Tom stunned out of nowhere. Just long enough for Harriet to notice.
The lantern flame wavered between them, shadows twitching along the damp walls.
Tom finally smiled, tired curve of the lips. "Then we're in the right place," he murmured.
Upstairs, a door creaked open on its own.
Harriet turned his head toward the sound, but when he looked back. Tom was gone again.
Only the faint smell of garlic and tobacco lingered.