"Do not let him sleep."
The voice came from the dark, measured and calm, as though speaking to the room rather than to any man within it.
In the dim chamber, the smell of damp earth lay thick in the air, heavy with mold and something metallic beneath it. The walls sweated faintly, old stone weeping in places where mortar had long since surrendered. A single lantern hung from a hook near the ceiling, its flame unsteady, throwing restless shadows that crept along the corners and refused to settle.
Against one wall stood a clock.
It was an old thing, taller than a man's chest, its wooden casing scarred by age and neglect. Each second passed with a deliberate insistence.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The sound was too loud for such a small room, as though the clock were counting more than time.
Blood fell from the edge of a chair, slow and patient.
One drop.
Then another.
The liquid traced a careful path down the leg of the chair, gathered briefly at the bottom, and surrendered itself to the stone floor below. The rhythm of it nearly matched the clock, though not quite. There was always a hesitation, as if the blood were deciding whether it wished to fall at all.
A man sat bound to the chair.
His hands were cuffed in front of him, wrists reddened where the iron bit into flesh. The cuffs were secured not to the chair itself, but to a heavy ring bolted into the floor, an old restraint, unused for years until tonight. The man's posture was rigid, more from discipline than comfort. His breathing was shallow but controlled, the slow inhale and measured release of someone trained to remain conscious despite pain.
He wore a police uniform.
The coat was dark blue, its brass buttons dulled by grime. The collar was slightly askew, disturbed by rough handling. His hat rested on the small table before him, placed there with an almost ironic neatness, as though someone had taken care to respect the object if not the man.
Blood streaked the side of his face.
It ran from a cut near his temple, sliding past his cheekbone and jaw before dripping from his chin. The wound itself was not deep, but it bled freely, untroubled by attempts to staunch it. His eye on that side was swollen, half-lidded, blinking slowly as though struggling to focus.
The man did not speak.
He listened.
The clock.
The blood.
The lantern.
His own breathing.
When the door creaked open, the sound carried far too clearly.
Two figures entered, their footsteps soft but deliberate against the stone. They did not rush. They did not whisper. One of them closed the door behind them with care, ensuring it latched properly before turning back to the room.
The taller of the two set a small object on the table.
It was a necklace.
The chain was thin and darkened with age, the metal unfamiliar. Hanging from it was a flat pendant etched with strange, angular symbols. They were not ornate, nor decorative. They appeared functional, almost deliberate in their ugliness, lines intersecting in ways that made the eye reluctant to linger.
The man in the chair did not react.
The shorter figure leaned forward, resting gloved hands on the edge of the table.
"Look at him," the man said quietly. "Still holding himself like he's on duty."
"Habit," the other replied. "Or denial."
There was a pause.
Then the shorter man spoke again, his voice firm but not unkind.
"Kid. I know you're still in shock from what you saw. Anyone would be. But you're going to have to pull yourself out of it."
The man in the chair blinked.
"Because right now," the voice continued, "you're the main person of interest in this case. And the fact you just happened to be there—well. It doesn't work in your favor."
The lantern flickered.
"Talking," the man said, "is in your best interest. I don't want to clean another body tonight. And I don't want to put a fellow rookie in a cell."
A pause.
"But the evidence," he added, tapping the table lightly, "is not looking good."
The man in the chair lifted his head.
That was when the story finally became mine.
I am Alistair Blackwood.
And that was the moment I realized I might never leave that room as the same man who entered it.
The clock's ticking felt louder once I acknowledged it. Each second pressed against my skull like a measured accusation. I swallowed, my throat dry despite the blood still slipping down my face.
I had been a constable for precisely fourteen days.
Two weeks in uniform. Two weeks of early mornings, aching feet, and learning which streets to avoid after sunset. I was not seasoned. I was not important. I was barely known.
And yet here I was, cuffed to a chair in a room that smelled like something dug up too early.
I tried to think.
That, I suppose, was my mistake.
Because thinking brought it back.
Not clearly. Not in sequence. Just impressions—fragments that refused to assemble into sense. The way the air had felt wrong. The sound that had not belonged to any natural thing. The certainty, deep in my bones, that what I had witnessed could not be reconciled with the world I understood.
I tightened my jaw.
Am I dreaming?Or did something truly happen?
The shorter man snapped his fingers in front of my face.
"Blackwood," he said sharply. "Are you listening?"
I nodded.
It was an instinctive gesture, drilled into me before my name had ever been stitched onto a uniform. He studied my face for a long moment, as though weighing whether the nod meant anything at all.
"Good," he said at last.
He reached for a folder on the table and opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Daguerreotypes.
The kind that required patience and stillness, their silvered surfaces catching the lantern light at awkward angles. He slid them across the table one by one, turning each so I could see.
The first showed a familiar street near the river. Gas lamps. Wet cobblestone. Two figures caught mid-step.
One of them was me.
The second was closer. My face was turned slightly toward the lens, expression unreadable even to myself. Beside me stood another man, taller, broader, his posture confident.
My partner.
The third photograph made my stomach tighten.
A man lay sprawled across a velvet-backed chair, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were open. Too open. His expression was frozen somewhere between surprise and recognition.
The shorter man tapped the photograph.
"Count—pardon me—Duke Lockwell," he said. "Deceased."
He shifted the next image forward.
"And this," he continued, "is your friend. Your partner. One of Lockwell's regular paydays."
I stared at the photograph.
I could not bring myself to look away.
"Lockwell is dead," the man said. "Your partner is missing. And you were seen at the scene."
My breathing slowed. I forced it to.
"We have three witnesses," he went on. "All of them swear they saw you on Lockwell's estate the night of the murder."
He leaned closer.
"Do you know how incriminating that is?"
I said nothing.
"Yet," he added, straightening, "for reasons I can't yet put my finger on—it doesn't add up."
The taller man, who had remained silent until now, adjusted his gloves.
"That's why we're here," he said quietly.
The shorter man nodded.
"So," he said, sliding the folder back toward himself, "help me help you. Talk to me."
Silence stretched.
The clock marked it faithfully.
I closed my eyes.
Then I opened them.
"Alright," I said.
My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Steadier than I felt. Lower.
"This is what happened."
I paused.
"But before that," I added, "you need some context."
The lantern flickered again.
And somewhere deep within the city above us, something shifted—unnoticed, unacknowledged, but no longer dormant.