The silence of The Oxford Club was a constant pressure in Foster's mind. He had laid the foundations, but it remained a hollow structure.
His focus was split between the frustrating lack of progress on Elara Vex's disappearance and the stagnant emptiness of his club roster. He found himself walking the city in a state of heightened awareness, not just as a policeman, but as a hunter for anyone who might fit the impossible criteria for his fledgling organization.
—
It was on a drizzly Saturday, during a rare day off spent with Ortego, that the first echo of a future member rippled through his world. They were at the market, Ortego chattering about a school project while Foster's eyes automatically scanned the crowd, a cop's habit.
His gaze snagged on a flash of vibrant ginger hair. It was the same young woman he'd seen walking with her dogs weeks ago. Today, she was standing at a flower stall, her two dogs—a scruffy terrier mix and a lanky hound, sitting patiently at her feet. She was haggling cheerfully with the vendor over a bunch of sunflowers, her laughter cutting through the market's din. She wore a simple but well-made dress, and her energy was a pocket of undeniable light in the dull afternoon.
He filed the sight away once more, another trivial moment in a city full of them.
—
The following Monday at the station, a break finally came in the Vex case, though not the kind he wanted.
"Security footage from a pharmacy two blocks over from her lab," Neil said, calling Foster over to his terminal. He looked tired but triumphant.
"It's not on the city grid. Private system. Took some… persuasion to access."
He tapped a key, and an unclear black and white video played. It showed Elara Vex, her lab coat still on, purchasing a box of throat lozenges.
The time stamp was 6:12 p.m., eight minutes after she left work.
"So she was fine then," Foster said, a lead weight of disappointment in his stomach.
"Wait," Neil murmured. "Watch the reflection in the window."
Foster leaned in. In the dark glass of the pharmacy window, reflected behind Elara, was the silhouette of a man. He was tall, wearing a long coat, and stood unnaturally still, facing her direction.
As Elara finished her purchase and turned to leave, the reflection showed the man taking a single, synchronized step forward.
"He followed her?" Foster asked, his pulse quickening.
"The camera angle ends there," Neil said, frustration edging his voice. "But I enhanced the reflection before it cuts out." He zoomed in digitally, the pixels blurring and reforming. The image was poor, but one detail was clear.
The man's coat had a distinct, sharp pattern on the cuffs. A series of interlocking lines.
It wasn't the same as the bone chip symbol, but it shared its geometric nature. It was a thread, thin as a hair, connecting a missing chemist to the hidden language of the city.
"Can you run that pattern against anything? Database of uniform suppliers, tailoring guilds… anything?" Foster asked, his voice tight.
"On it," Neil said, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. "It's something."
It was more than something. It was a signature. And Foster was now certain Elara Vex's disappearance was not voluntary.
—
That evening, the weight of it all drove him back to the Aethelstan Club and Social Foundation. He needed the silence, the space to think.
He sat in the reading room, the journal's contents cycled in his mind. Resonance points. Attenuation protocols. Was Elara Vex a part of that? A "concession" the journal had mentioned?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the membership secretary, Mr. Sterling, crossing the foyer with a well-dressed, older gentleman. They were speaking in low, respectful tones.
The gentleman was Mr. Withersby from the historical society, the one the detectives had mentioned. The rumor.
"...and the High Ancient Mandate requires the Oak Room for Tuesday evening, Mr. Sterling," Withersby was saying. "A private deliberation."
"Of course, sir. It will be prepared." Sterling replied smoothly.
Foster watched them, a cold clarity settling over him. This was real. The H.A.M. was not just a name in a ledger; it was a force that made the club's staff jump.
And they were meeting Tuesday.
The urge to somehow listen, to be a fly on that wall, was so powerful it felt like a physical ache.
He was so consumed by the thought that he barely registered the well-dressed man with the gold-rimmed glasses entering the club and heading straight for the membership desk.
Foster saw him exchange a few quiet words with the receptionist, who then produced the heavy club registry. The man—Grayson Wolfe, though Foster didn't know it—opened it, his eyes scanning the list of clubs with the casual authority of a man reviewing his own assets.
Foster saw his brows furrow slightly. He knew the man had found the entry for The Oxford Club. His eyes lingered for a moment on the alias listed beside it: The Lonely Saviour.
A faint, unreadable frown crossed his face before he closed the book and proceeded into the depths of the club, leaving Foster with a heart that was suddenly pounding.
Someone had noticed. Not the man, perhaps, but the alias.
He left the club soon after, the drizzle having turned into a proper rain. As he walked, his mind was a whirlwind of connections: the geometric pattern on the follower's coat, the H.A.M.'s upcoming meeting, and the first flicker of attention on his empty club.
—
He arrived home, soaked and pensive. As he hung his coat and headed upstairs, his eyes fell on the desk. Driven by a need for grounding, he opened the bottom drawer and took out the blood-stained notebook.
He didn't open it. He just held it, the rough, stiff cover a brutal anchor to his own brutal truth. This was why he was doing all this. This was the core of the mystery.
He was playing a dangerous game with players he couldn't see, for stakes he didn't fully understand. But the game was finally, undeniably, beginning.