The ringing of the doorbell echoed through the silence, and Cedric hesitated for a moment before pressing down the handle. As the door slowly opened, the silhouette of a woman standing in the cold rain was revealed. A slim, upright posture, a hint of determination in her stance – and an aura that instantly made Cedric wary. Her eyes were dark, probing, and scrutinized him with the precision of a hawk.
"Cedric Ashwell?" Her voice was calm, controlled, yet carried an undertone that brooked no argument.
"Depends on who's asking." Cedric crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the doorframe, and let his gaze wander skeptically over the woman. She wore a dark coat that gleamed with wetness and held a bag in her hand, apparently filled with documents.
"Detective Eliza Cole," she replied curtly, extending a card toward him, held between her thumb and forefinger. Cedric cast only a brief glance at it before pushing it aside.
"I don't work with the police," he said dryly. "You people are just as much a part of the problem as the rest of this system."
Eliza raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curving into a faint smile. "I'm not here to convert you. I'm here to give you a chance to do what you're already doing – just with more resources and less chaos."
Cedric's eyes narrowed. "And why should I go along with that?"
Eliza sighed, stepped closer, and pulled a folded document from her bag. She held it out to him without saying a word. Cedric hesitated, then finally took it and let his eyes scan the lines. It was a crime scene report, one he hadn't seen before. The details were disturbingly familiar, but a note in the margin caught his attention: "Potential connection to Isabelle Ashwell."
He raised his head, his voice cold. "What are you trying to say?"
"We know you're searching," Eliza began, her voice softening slightly, almost compassionate. "And we know you want answers. But if you keep acting alone, you'll either end up at a dead end – or in a coffin."
"I can handle myself," Cedric snapped, tossing the paper onto the table beside the door and trying to pull it shut. But Eliza's foot wedged into the gap, her hand gripping the doorframe firmly.
"Listen to me, Cedric," she said softly, her eyes flashing with determination. "You can keep wallowing in your chaos alone, or you can work with us. The Unchained movement isn't the police. We don't play by their rules. And trust me, I hate those rules just as much as you do."
Cedric laughed bitterly. "Unchained? Sounds like a gang of wannabe vigilantes."
"Call it whatever you want." Eliza stepped closer, until only a few centimeters separated them. Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "But we have access to information you don't. Resources you'll never find on your own. And most importantly – we have a reason to stop that bastard."
Cedric paused, his eyes searching hers, looking for a trace of dishonesty. But he found nothing except raw determination. "What's your reason?" he asked finally.
Eliza hesitated for a moment before replying. "I'm afraid I can't say. But I know what it means to lose someone, and I know what it means to want answers."
Cedric's jaw tightened, his hands clenched into fists. For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the soft drumming of rain against the windows.
"Why me?" he finally asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Because you're just as broken as I am," Eliza replied. "And that's exactly what we need to catch him."
Cedric took a deep breath, his gaze drifting to the photo of his sister on the desk. An internal battle raged within him, but finally, he gave a brief nod. "I'll hear what you have to say. But if you hold me back or get in my way – I'm out."
Eliza smiled, a hint of relief crossing her face. "That's all I need." She stepped back, the rain once again hitting her face, and looked at him one last time before turning away. "We meet tomorrow. 10 p.m. Bring your evidence."
Cedric watched her go, the door half-open, as her silhouette disappeared into the darkness. Her words echoed in his mind: "Because you're just as broken as I am."
He knew she was right. And that was exactly what scared him.
The door clicked shut, and Cedric stood motionless for a moment in the dim hallway of his apartment. The rain still drummed against the windows, as if the world itself were urging him to make a decision. In his hand, he held the envelope and the card Eliza had given him. Her words echoed in his mind: "You'll need us sooner or later."
He pulled the hood of his damp jacket down, hung it on the hook by the door, and walked with heavy steps into his cluttered workspace. The room was a reflection of his state: notes, photos, and newspaper clippings were scattered everywhere, bringing him no clarity, only more questions. The walls were covered with red threads connecting crime scenes, names, and theories. And yet, something was missing – a core to hold all the chaos together.
Cedric sank into the chair at his desk, rubbing his face with both hands and exhaling deeply. The envelope lay on the table, alongside the card, as if mocking him. "What if this is a mistake?" he muttered to himself. "What if they betray me like everyone else?"
His gaze drifted to a framed photo partially buried under a pile of documents. It showed him and Isabelle, his sister, laughing on a long-gone summer day. Their eyes sparkled with joy, their hands holding ice cream cones that threatened to melt in the heat. A familiar ache rose in Cedric's chest—a sharp sting of loss and guilt.
"I let you down," he whispered, picking up the frame to get a better look at the photo. "And I don't want to do it again."
But that was the problem. Eliza was right—he wanted to find the Puppeteer, no matter the cost. But did that mean joining a movement he didn't know? Trusting people who might have their own secrets? He had always sworn to work alone, never to trust anyone again. After all, trust was a weakness that had already cost him everything once before.
He stood and walked to the rain-streaked window. The city lights blurred into a dull glow as he stared into the darkness. "Why me?" he wondered aloud. "What does Eliza really want?"
He recalled her gaze—determined, almost demanding, but not without a hint of pain. She seemed to know something, something she hadn't shared. But what if she was bluffing? What if she was just using him for her own ends?
Cedric turned away from the window and began pacing the room, his thoughts racing. "I can do this alone. I don't need them." But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. How many nights had he sat in front of this chaotic pinboard, wondering if he'd missed something? How often had he felt trapped in an endless maze of hints and false leads?
His steps slowed, and he stopped in front of the envelope. Reaching for it, he hesitated before opening it and pulling out the documents. His eyes scanned the pages, and he immediately realized these weren't empty promises. Names, locations, details—things he had never uncovered himself. It was as if someone had opened a window, giving him a glimpse into a world he had never seen before.
Cedric swallowed hard and let the papers fall back onto the table. He had no choice. If he truly wanted to avenge Isabelle, he had to go. Even if it meant giving up control.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. 9:17 p.m. There wasn't much time left.
Without further hesitation, he grabbed his coat, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and took the card. His heart pounded as he opened the door and stepped out into the cold, wet night. The rain had weakened by now, but the streets were silent, eerily so. Cedric pulled his hood low over his face and started walking, his thoughts swirling.
"If this is a mistake, it'll be my last," he murmured, gripping the card tighter. But deep down, he knew he wouldn't turn back. The Puppeteer was still out there—and the game had only just begun.
The subway was cold, stuffy, and crowded, despite the late hour. The smell of wet asphalt and old metal lingered in the air as Cedric descended the stairs. His footsteps echoed off the gray walls, and the sound of his boots seemed heavier with each step. He kept his head down, his hood pulled low over his face. No one should recognize him. No one should speak to him.
The flickering neon lights overhead pulsed like a dying heart as he merged into the crowd waiting for the next train. He was surrounded by people, but to him, they all felt like ghosts—shadowy figures without substance. He clenched his fists inside his jacket pockets, the cold steel of his utility knife in one hand like a silent promise. You have one goal and one alone, he thought. And no one will stop you.
A loud rattling announced the arrival of the train. The doors opened with a hiss, and the crowd surged inside. Cedric held back, waiting until most of the people had boarded before finding a spot. He chose a corner in the furthest car, where the neon lights seemed dimmer, and sat down, his gaze fixed on the floor.
The other passengers appeared lost in their own worlds—a man in a rumpled suit sipping from a travel mug; a woman engrossed in her phone; a teenager with headphones blasting music so loudly that Cedric could hear the beat. They all seemed so alive, yet so hollow to him. Once, he might have observed them, wondered who they were, what stories they carried. But now? They were meaningless.
His thoughts drifted back to the meeting ahead. Unchained. He hated the name. It sounded like a cheap self-help group for lost souls. Yet deep down, he knew they might be his only chance. He had no illusions. He knew these people had to be as broken as he was, maybe worse. But that didn't make them friends. It made them tools. And Cedric was prepared to use any tool necessary to find the Puppeteer.
The doors closed, and the train jolted into motion. Cedric felt the vibrations, the muffled sound of the tracks beneath him. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the cold metal wall, and closed his eyes briefly. But the quiet didn't last.
A loud laugh shattered the stillness. Cedric opened his eyes and saw a man stumbling through the car. His clothes were filthy, his hair unkempt, and he clutched a half-empty beer can in one hand. The man swayed, laughing and muttering as he staggered from one end of the car to the other. The other passengers avoided him, casting quick glances before returning their focus to their phones or the windows.
Cedric remained still. The man drew closer, his laughter growing louder, until he finally stopped in front of Cedric. "Hey, you," the man slurred, gesturing with the beer can. "Why so serious, bud?"
Cedric slowly lifted his gaze, his eyes cold and empty. He said nothing.
"What, too good to talk to me?" The man leaned closer, the stench of alcohol and sweat hitting Cedric's nose. "Come on, buddy. Give me a smile."
Cedric remained silent. The man laughed again, but it was a nervous, uncertain laugh. "You're one of those guys who thinks he's better than everyone else, huh?" He took a swig from the can, spilling some beer onto the floor in the process.
The other passengers watched the scene from the corners of their eyes, but no one intervened. Finally, Cedric moved, his voice low but as sharp as a knife. "Go away."
The man's laughter died. He stared at Cedric, as if trying to decide whether that was a threat. "Oh, now you're trying to act tough?" He leaned in, his hand reaching for Cedric's shoulder.
In one swift motion, Cedric grabbed the man's wrist, his fingers clamping down like a vice on the joint. The man gasped in pain, trying to pull away, but Cedric's grip held firm. "Listen," Cedric hissed, his voice cold as ice. "You have no idea who I am, and you don't want to find out. Leave. Now."
The man stumbled backward, clutching his wrist and mumbling something unintelligible before retreating to the opposite end of the car. Cedric sank back into his seat as if nothing had happened, but his mind was racing.
Once, I would have tried to talk to him. Maybe even pitied him. Now he felt nothing. No anger, no disgust, no relief. Just emptiness.
The subway stopped at the next station, and Cedric stood. He stepped out of the car without looking back. As he walked through the station corridors, hood pulled low over his face once more, he wondered when he had stopped being human.
But the answer was simple. It lay in the lifeless eyes of his sister, staring back at him every time he closed his own.
The final stairs led him up into the rain-soaked night. The building Eliza had described was only a few streets away. Cedric walked briskly, his breath forming clouds in the cold air.
"It doesn't matter," he murmured, his hands buried in his pockets. "What I feel or don't feel doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is that I find him."
His heart beat faster as he spotted the glowing number of the building. It was time. Time to become part of a game he intended to finish—no matter the cost.
The entrance to the building was unassuming, almost as if it were hiding from prying eyes. Cedric stopped in front of it, the wood of the old door looking brittle, the paint peeling in several places. A faint light flickered through the glass panel at the top of the door, and muffled voices could be heard from inside.
Cedric took a deep breath, his breath forming small clouds in the cold night air. He clenched his fists inside his jacket pockets before gripping the handle and pushing the door open. It creaked softly as he stepped inside.
The interior of the building was a strange contrast. Worn, creaky wooden floors groaned under his steps, and the walls were lined with faded wallpaper that had long seen better days. Yet amidst the decay, there was a sense of deliberate, almost theatrical order. Furniture was carefully arranged, and a long table with several chairs dominated the room. A lamp with warm light cast soft shadows that danced like ghosts along the walls.
At the far end of the room stood Eliza Cole. She wore her long coat again, her arms crossed over her chest, watching Cedric with a mix of vigilance and curiosity. Her posture was upright but not threatening. As Cedric approached, he noticed the faint dark circles under her eyes, a telltale sign of sleepless nights.
"You came," she said curtly, without greeting or preamble. It was not a question but a statement.
"Seems so," Cedric replied dryly, letting his gaze wander around the room. "What is this? Your secret hideout?"
Eliza shrugged. "Nothing so romantic. It's just a place we can use without being disturbed. Discreet, hidden... perfect for someone like you."
Cedric frowned at the subtle accusation in her tone but said nothing. Instead, he stepped closer, pulled the hood from his head, and extended his hand. "Cedric Ashwell."
Eliza studied him for a moment, then shook his hand. Her grip was firm, almost challenging. "Eliza Cole. Welcome to the Unchained movement... or what's left of it."
Cedric raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound particularly optimistic."
"Optimism is a luxury we can't afford," Eliza replied with a crooked smile. "But we have something better: persistence."
"And who exactly do you mean by 'we'?" Cedric's tone was skeptical, his gaze once again sweeping the room.
Eliza nodded toward an adjacent door. "You'll see soon enough."
With a gesture, she motioned for Cedric to follow her. She led him through a narrow doorway into a second room, one even stranger than the first. Yellowed theater posters adorned the walls—some framed, others taped directly to the crumbling plaster. A heavy rug covered the floor, and in the center of the room stood an imposing armchair that looked like it belonged to another era. In it sat a man who immediately drew Cedric's attention.
He was tall but lanky, with a face that seemed to teeter between intellect and madness. His hair was slicked back, though a few strands stuck out at odd angles, as if he'd just emerged from a heated debate. He wore a threadbare tweed jacket that might once have been expensive, paired with a tie hanging loosely around his neck. In one hand, he held a crystal glass, sipping from it leisurely.
"Cedric Ashwell, I presume!" the man called out in a voice that was both warm and theatrical. He practically sprang from the armchair, spreading his arms wide as though to embrace Cedric with an invisible gesture. "Welcome to my humble domain."
"And you are?" Cedric asked, his skepticism plain.
"Rupert Vale," the man introduced himself with a slight bow, his exaggerated elegance both captivating and unsettling. "Director, visionary, lover of the arts... and now, as fate would have it, a humble ally in our little war against the darkness."
"Rupert is a theater director," Eliza said dryly. "He knows the Puppeteer's productions better than anyone. Maybe even too well."
"Oh, please, Eliza," Rupert said with a dramatic sigh. "Nothing I've ever staged could compare to his... brilliance." He turned to Cedric, a glint in his eye. "Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Ashwell. I despise his actions. But the aesthetics, the symbolism... it's macabre and disturbing, yes, but also—"
"Sick," Cedric interrupted sharply. His voice cut like a knife, and Rupert's smile froze momentarily.
"Of course," Rupert said at last, his voice softer but still tinged with theatrics. "Sick. But that's precisely why we're here, isn't it? To cure this sickness."
Cedric crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? There are two of you. What do you think you can accomplish?"
"Two of us might not be much," Eliza said, her voice firm. "But with you, we might actually have a chance. You have connections, knowledge. And let's be honest... you have the strongest reason to find him."
Cedric remained silent. Her words rang true, but they left a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt his jaw tighten and glanced briefly at the floor before looking back at Rupert. "And you? Why are you here? What do you have to gain?"
Rupert smiled again, but this time it was faint, almost melancholic. "I loved the world of theater, Mr. Ashwell. It was my life, my passion. But the Puppeteer... he took something sacred to me and twisted it into something vile. I want it back. I want to show him that he's not the only one who understands this game."
Cedric stared at Rupert for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. "Fine. Show me what you have."
Rupert led them to a wooden desk situated amid stacks of old theater programs and yellowed books. Leaning over the desk, he pulled out a map of London, covered in circles, notes, and arrows. His fingers, elegant yet slightly trembling, glided across the paper until they stopped at a point near Camden.
"Here," Rupert said, his tone turning serious. The theatrical sparkle in his eyes gave way to an intense focus. "An old puppet workshop. Run by George Holloway. A former master of his craft. He stopped working professionally shortly after the Puppeteer began his productions."
"Holloway?" Eliza frowned and pulled out a notebook, flipping through its pages. "That name came up before. He was well-known in the theater scene, wasn't he? Talented, but reclusive."
Rupert nodded, his hand still resting on the map. "Not just talented. A virtuoso. I saw one of his performances once—magical. His puppets seemed alive. But in recent years... well, let's just say he left the stage of life behind."
"And why would he help us?" Cedric asked skeptically, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed at Rupert.
Rupert offered a faint smile. "Because he might know what the Puppeteer is really planning. George created puppets with an obsessive fervor—puppets that feel far too real. I believe he might know something that can help us. But..." He raised a hand, glancing between Eliza and Cedric. "You mustn't act rashly. He's a broken man, easily frightened. Visit him tomorrow, in daylight. Don't let him mistake you for intruders."
Eliza nodded slowly. "Makes sense." But Cedric frowned. "Why not now?"
"Because George Holloway is a mistrustful old hermit," Rupert explained, "and because I think we should be better prepared. Give him time. Sleep on it."
Cedric sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets and casting Rupert a disdainful look. "Tomorrow or not, I'll do what I think is right."
Sensing the tension, Eliza placed a hand on Rupert's shoulder before following Cedric outside. Rupert remained behind, lost in thought, as Cedric and Eliza stepped into the cool night air.
The walk to the subway station was accompanied by the muted sounds of the city: the faint hum of streetlights, distant laughter from a pub, and the cold wind whispering through the empty streets. Cedric walked with brisk, determined steps, his hands buried deep in his pockets, while Eliza tried to keep up with him.
"You're incredibly stubborn, you know that?" she finally said, her voice cutting through the silence.
"Maybe," Cedric replied curtly, not looking at her.
"Why the rush?" she asked. "Rupert might be right. Maybe waiting would be better."
Cedric stopped abruptly, and Eliza almost bumped into him as he turned to face her. "Because waiting won't get me any closer to the Puppeteer. Because waiting won't help my sister."
Eliza studied him, her eyes searching for a flicker of emotion in his otherwise unreadable face. She hesitated before asking the question that had been on her mind the entire time.
"What exactly happened, Cedric? The day your sister..."
His expression hardened, and for a moment, Eliza thought he would turn away and ignore her. But then he took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. His gaze drifted to a point far off in the distance, somewhere above the rooftops of the city.
"Isabelle was always the stronger one," he began, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. "She was smart, brave... and curious. Too curious. She'd been following this case, the Puppeteer, long before I even knew what was going on. She said she'd found something—something that could expose him."
Eliza listened intently, not daring to interrupt.
"I warned her," he continued, his voice trembling slightly. "Told her to be careful. But Isabelle... she never listened to me." He let out a bitter laugh. "She was convinced she could find him. That she could stop him."
He fell silent, the weight of his words pressing down on him. Finally, he continued, his voice low and fractured. "That night, I got a call. A distorted voice told me to come to the old theater if I wanted to see Isabelle again. When I got there..." Cedric closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. "She was there. On the stage. Like one of those damn puppets."
Eliza felt her breath catch. She could picture the scene vividly, but she didn't want to. "Cedric, I'm sorry," she whispered.
He opened his eyes and looked at her with an expression caught somewhere between anger and despair. "Sorry isn't enough. I'll find him, Eliza. And when I do... I'll show him what it means to be a puppet." His voice was icy, sending a chill down Eliza's spine.
She realized in that moment that Cedric had no room for mercy—neither for the Puppeteer nor for himself.
Cedric lit a cigarette as they walked through the dark streets. The flame of the lighter flickered briefly in the wind before it vanished, and the sharp scent of tobacco mingled with the cold night air. Taking a deep drag, he held the smoke in for a moment before exhaling it slowly in a steady stream.
Eliza gave him a sidelong glance. "I didn't know you smoked."
"Started at some point," he muttered, not looking at her. "Probably when I stopped caring how long I live."
Eliza frowned, pausing before she could say anything. The comment was sharp, a blow that struck her right in the chest—not just because of the words, but because of the casual, almost indifferent way he had said them.
"How many a day?" she finally asked, her curiosity sounding more like an obligation than genuine concern.
"No idea," Cedric replied curtly, taking another drag. "Enough to know I don't care."
Eliza quickened her pace slightly to get ahead of him, but after a few steps, she turned back to face him. "You know that doesn't help, right?"
"Help what?" Cedric laughed quietly, a short, bitter sound, and flicked the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his shoe. Almost immediately, he pulled another from the crumpled pack in his jacket pocket and placed it between his lips. "Does it help me find the Puppeteer? No. But it keeps me going. Somehow."
"Upright?" Eliza repeated, crossing her arms. "You mean it helps you forget."
Cedric lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag before holding it between two fingers and meeting her gaze directly. "Exactly. And in my world, forgetting is sometimes the only option."
She studied him, the smoke curling around his face, the shadows cast by the flicker of the lighter etched into his tired features. Cedric didn't look like a man who was living. He looked like a man who kept going because he had no other choice. The smoke in his lungs might have been the only thing reminding him that he was still here.
Eliza remained silent as Cedric continued walking, leaving her behind for a moment. She watched him as he inhaled deeply, burning the cigarette down halfway in a single pull before tossing it aside without a second thought. His steps were determined, his back straight, but it was a posture he held onto with effort—like he was trying to outrun himself.
The rain began to drizzle again as they reached the subway station. Cedric paused, pulling a third cigarette from the pack before they even descended the stairs. Eliza said nothing, but her gaze was pointed. Cedric noticed.
"Are you going to give me a lecture now?" he asked mockingly, lighting the cigarette. "Trust me, I don't need another one."
"No," Eliza said quietly. "I just wanted to say it's a shame. Your sister wouldn't have wanted you to treat yourself like this."
Cedric froze, the cigarette only half-lit, and for a moment, Eliza thought her words had struck a chord. But then he took a long drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose, and stubbed the cigarette out against the edge of the stairs.
"My sister would have wanted me to find the bastard who did this to her," he replied coldly. "And nothing else matters."
Without another word, he disappeared down the stairs, the smoke still in his lungs. Eliza stayed behind for a moment, her eyes lingering on the crushed cigarette on the ground before she followed him, her steps heavy.
The subway felt like a sleeping giant—a dull hum filled the air, punctuated by sporadic announcements about the next stops. Cedric and Eliza sat in an almost empty car, separated by an unspoken tension. Cedric leaned back, his hood pulled low over his face, while Eliza sat by the window, her gaze fixed on the passing tunnel walls.
The lights flickered briefly as the train crossed a switch. Cedric broke the silence, his voice dry and low. "Honor Oak Park. An interesting place for a workshop."
Eliza glanced at him but said nothing at first. Instead, she pulled a small map from her jacket pocket and unfolded it. "It's secluded," she said finally. "Not much traffic. Perfect for someone who doesn't want to be seen."
Cedric took out a cigarette from his pack, holding it between his fingers but not lighting it. "Perfect for someone like Holloway," he muttered. "A puppet maker hiding from the world."
Eliza lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes drilling into his. "Maybe he's not hiding. Maybe he's just waiting for someone."
Cedric shrugged. "Then I hope he's ready to see us."
The subway screeched to a halt at Honor Oak Park. Cedric and Eliza stood in unison, their movements synchronized yet devoid of coordination. The platform was nearly deserted, save for a lone man in a coat sitting on a bench, staring blankly at the ground. The rain had made the air heavy and damp, with the smell of wet concrete lingering in the station.
"Here we are," Eliza said, her voice calm, though her eyes scanned the surroundings. "It's not far."
Cedric gave a brief nod and followed her up the stairs. The night was cold, and the rain had softened into a fine drizzle, hanging like an invisible veil over them. The streetlights cast a muted, amber glow, their light reflecting off the rain-slicked sidewalks with a melancholic sheen.
"Are you sure Holloway is even alive?" Cedric asked as they walked along the sidewalk, their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness.
"I'm sure he's there," Eliza replied without hesitation. "Whether he'll see us is another matter."
Cedric lit his cigarette, taking a deep drag before letting the smoke curl into the cold night air. "If he's smart, he'll see us. Otherwise, we've got a problem."
Eliza shot him a sharp look. "We're not here to cause problems."
"Maybe not," Cedric countered. "But that doesn't mean we won't find any."
After about ten minutes of walking, they arrived at the address. The street was narrow and lined with tall trees arching over the path, blocking out the moonlight. The houses were old and gray, their facades weathered by time. Yet the workshop—an unassuming building with a rusted metal sign barely legible as Holloway's Puppets—stood out.
"There it is," Eliza said, stopping in her tracks. She pulled her coat tighter around herself as though the air had suddenly grown colder.
Cedric eyed the building, his gaze narrowing. The windows were covered with thick curtains, and only a faint light seeped through a narrow gap. It was quiet, almost unnervingly so. "Looks inviting," he said dryly.
"We're not here to be invited," Eliza replied firmly. "We go in, talk to Holloway, and find out what he knows."
Cedric took one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the wet ground and crushing it under his heel. "Then we'd better knock."
Without waiting for a response, he walked to the door, his steps purposeful. Eliza followed close behind, her hand instinctively resting on her coat pocket where she kept her service weapon. Cedric stopped in front of the heavy wooden door, his breath visible in the chilly night air.
"Ready?" he asked without looking at her.
Eliza nodded, and Cedric raised his hand, knocking twice. The sound echoed dully in the silence.
The door creaked slightly as it opened. Cedric stepped inside, Eliza close behind. The interior of the workshop was shrouded in dark shadows, broken only by the faint flicker of candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of wood, varnish, and something faintly metallic.
The door shut behind them with a soft thud. Cedric let his eyes sweep over the room, his senses alert. "Holloway?" he called out, his voice calm but taut with tension.
No response. Just silence, heavy like a suffocating blanket.
"He's here," Eliza whispered. "I know it."
Cedric moved further into the room, his eyes drawn to the grotesque puppets hanging on the walls. Each one seemed to possess a life of its own, their faces unnervingly expressive, their elaborate costumes painstakingly detailed.
"Then let's find him," Cedric murmured. "Before he finds us."