There was nothing in front of his open eyes except endless darkness, which only lasted for a few seconds when he automatically reopened his eyes.
drip-drip-drip.
Rain cascaded from the edges of the umbrella, Xerxes was holding tightly in his gloved hand. The polished wood of the umbrella's handle felt smooth.
Above him, the sky churned in shades of slate gray and deep black, with clouds smothering the pale glow of the moon. The street was slick and reflective, cobblestones shimmering with scattered pools of water, mirroring the faint gaslights that lined the perimeter. The dim, flickering light throws long, distorted shadows of passersby and the occasional carriage rumbling past, its wheels splashing muddy water onto the uneven pavement.
Xerxes stood just outside the heavy oak doors of a police station, his figure stoic yet weary. His dark overcoat clung to him in the damp air, the fabric absorbing the faint mist that refused to be kept out by his umbrella. The brim of his hat dipped low, shielding his eyes, but rivulets of rain still managed to trail down his face, cool against his skin.
He shifted slightly, gazing out across the nearly deserted street. The air smelled of wet earth, coal smoke, and a faint metallic tang. In the distance, the faint clop of a horse's hooves and the creak of a cart briefly interrupted the rhythmic sounds of rain against stone. Xerxes exhaled, his breath visible in the chill night air, and glanced at the pocket watch in his other hand. It was past midnight.
Xerxes turned to the oak doors; the polished brass handle of the door felt foreign under his gloved hand, the ridges smooth but unfamiliar. With a steady breath, Xerxes pushed the door open. The heavy oak creaked, revealing the dimly lit interior of a station. Gas lamps hissed softly, their pale yellow glow casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The air inside was thick with the mingling scents of damp wool, ink, and faintly lingering tobacco smoke. Papers rustled faintly in the unseen breeze created by the opening door.
He stepped inside, the heels of his boots clicking against the worn floorboards; his hand brushed against the coat rack, where he instinctively placed his dripping umbrella, the motion automatic.
The station was bustling in a muted way. Through the open archway leading to the main investigation room, a young constable leaned over a desk, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, the sound of his quill scratching against the parchment filling the air. Another officer walked past, carrying a stack of folders that teetered precariously in his grasp. Yet no one seemed to acknowledge Xerxes as he stood there, as if he were invisible—or as if they simply expected him to already belong.
"Sergeant," came a voice, crisp and businesslike, breaking through his disorientation.
A man spent in service. The man's expression held no familiarity, no recognition, but his tone carried an unsettling certainty. "We've been waiting for you. The team's gathered in the back room."
Xerxes blinked, his mind fumbling for context.
"For me?" he questioned uncertainly.
"Yes, Sergeant," the man said as he led him down a narrow hallway lined with notice boards pinned with faded wanted posters and maps. Xerxes glanced at them, but the faces and locations felt foreign, unanchored to any memory he could summon. The gaslights flickered slightly, casting fleeting shadows that seemed to dance and shift as they passed.
As they approached the door at the end of the hallway, muffled voices drifted through, low and serious, punctuated by the occasional sharp exchange. The man opened the door without knocking, stepping aside to let Xerxes enter.
Inside, four figures sat around a broad wooden table scattered with papers, maps, and a few smoking pipes left abandoned in ashtrays. The room was dim, lit by a single overhead lamp that cast a warm but insufficient glow, leaving the corners cloaked in shadow.
They all looked up as he entered, their faces reflecting varying degrees of expectation, curiosity, and quiet urgency. A woman in a dark, practical dress leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her sharp eyes studying him. To her left, a wiry man tapped a pencil against the table, his expression one of mild impatience. The other two people exchanged a brief glance, as though silently confirming something between them.
"About time you showed up," the woman said, her tone brisk but not unkind. She gestured to the empty chair at the head of the table. "We've got a lot to catch you up on, 'Sergeant.'."
He stepped forward and took the offered seat, his coat still damp from the rain.
"What do I need to know?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound confident even as questions swirled in his mind.
The woman leaned forward, sliding a folder across the table toward him. Her face was serious, her voice low. "It started with a missing woman," she said. "Her husband claims she vanished into thin air. But the more we dig, the stranger it gets."
Xerxes opened the folder, his eyes scanning the sparse notes and sketches inside. The details felt alien, like reading the pages of a book he hadn't started yet.
After confirming the man outside had left, the tension in the room shifted. The team broke character, relaxing slightly—except for Alexa, who remained engrossed in a stack of case files.
"Sergeant, we thought we'd lost you," Nova said, pretending to puff on one of the abandoned pipes. He shook his head theatrically.
"Xerxes, where were you? We were all gathered here already," Kai asked, sliding his chair closer to him.
"Alexa and I think we're here to solve a case," Lucas added, gesturing toward the folder in Xerxes's hands. "She's already picked the one she believes we need to investigate."
Xerxes furrowed his brow, flipping through the file again. "I was just outside the station. Why do you think it's this case specifically?"
Xerxes scanned the folder once more. The notes detailed a man in his early 30s reporting his wife missing several days ago. A few crude sketches of the woman accompanied the sparse information.