The carriage rattled to a halt at the edge of a bustling square, the steady clatter of hooves replaced by the murmur of foot traffic. The driver barely spared them a glance as he tipped his hat, his routine as mechanical as the city itself. The wheels creaked slightly as the carriage settled, the horses shifting impatiently in place, already anticipating their next route.
The woman moved first, stepping down with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to drawing neither too much nor too little attention. Her heels met the cobblestone with a measured click, the hem of her burgundy coat fluttering slightly before settling into place. A soft, absentminded gesture—a gloved hand brushing against the feather in her bonnet—before she moved on, seamlessly folding herself into the current of pedestrians.
Impheil followed at a distance, adjusting his coat as he stepped down from the carriage. His movements were unhurried, natural, blending into the ebb and flow of the crowd. His hands remained tucked into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the cool surface of his pocket watch. He didn't move with the same deliberate smoothness as the woman, nor did he carry himself with the rigid posture of a professional shadow. Instead, he walked as any ordinary man would—one whose only concern was reaching his next destination, not the person a few steps ahead.
Still, he watched.
The city ran on routine—predictable, structured, the same motions repeating day after day. People walked their usual paths, talked in their usual circles, and never looked past the surface of their own lives. Impheil had seen this pattern play out in every place he'd been. Most people never questioned what lay beneath, never noticed the cracks in the facade.
But he did.
Years of experience had trained him to pick up on the things others overlooked—the hesitation before a lie, the unnatural stillness of someone listening too intently, the weight of unsaid words. To him, the world wasn't just what people showed on the surface. It was in the details, the spaces between conversations, the moments where people thought no one was watching.
And yet, as he followed the woman through the winding streets, he was beginning to wonder if, for once, his paranoia had led him astray.
She was graceful but unhurried, pausing to exchange pleasantries with acquaintances, glancing into storefronts with mild interest. The occasional glance over her shoulder, which had first piqued his suspicion, seemed less like careful observation and more like fleeting curiosity. It was subtle, but the more he watched, the more apparent it became—there was no pattern, no repetition, no hint of calculation in her actions.
He flexed his fingers in his coat pocket, rolling his thumb over the surface of his watch. His instincts were rarely wrong, but they weren't infallible.
She turned onto a narrower street, the gas lamps casting a warm glow against the brick walls lining the path. A few gentlemen tipped their hats as she passed, and she acknowledged them with a polite nod. A flower vendor offered her a small bundle of violets, and she paused, reaching into her purse to pay.
Impheil hesitated a step behind.
She really was just a socialite, wasn't she?
The realization left a vaguely bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn't that he enjoyed being right all the time—well, maybe he did, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he had wasted time chasing a ghost of his own paranoia.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as he made the decision to pull away.
Just as he turned, something shifted in the air—a ripple in the rhythm of the street.
A man, walking briskly from the opposite direction, tilted his head slightly toward her as he passed. The movement was almost imperceptible, a quick, assessing glance, but something about it unsettled him.
Not a thief—there was no shift in his hands, no sudden movement to indicate a pickpocket at work. Not an acquaintance—his body language lacked the familiarity of recognition. He was just… watching.
Impheil narrowed his eyes.
He stayed still, adjusting his stance ever so slightly to keep the man in his periphery. The stranger continued down the street without pause, melting into the crowd within seconds.
Impheil clicked his tongue against his teeth.
Coincidence? Maybe. But he didn't believe in coincidence.
Perhaps his initial paranoia wasn't so unfounded after all.
Then, before he could take another step—
Then something slammed into his side.
"Sir! Please, you gotta help me!"
Impheil's first instinct was to check his pockets.
A pickpocket? A decoy? He looked down to see a ragged street child clutching at his coat, eyes wide with desperation.
"They-they're after me! At the bar! You look strong—you gotta help, right? You're not like the others!"
Impheil stared at the kid, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be mildly uncomfortable. His instincts warned him that this wasn't what it seemed, but damn if it wasn't interesting.
"And what exactly makes you think I'm capable?" he mused, amusement creeping into his tone. "Was it my striking fashion sense, or do I just have one of those 'I solve problems' faces?"
The child, in all his disheveled earnestness, just looked at him with wide, desperate eyes. "You just look different! Please!"
"...How terribly vague."
He sighed, adjusting his coat with slow, deliberate movements. There was something too clean about this—something just slightly off-kilter, like a detail that didn't quite fit the rest of the picture. But for now, he'd humor it.
With a flick of his wrist, he snapped his pocket watch shut and tucked it away, nodding toward the bar. "Lead the way, then."
The kid didn't wait for him to reconsider. Darting forward, he weaved through the crowd, forcing Impheil to follow at a pace just shy of hurried. As they walked, Impheil took in their surroundings, noting the natural ebb and flow of the city—the shifting crowds, the way people instinctively avoided bumping into one another, the rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels over cobblestone.
And yet, for all the city's noise, something about this moment felt too... staged.
The way the boy never once looked back, despite his panic. The way their path to the bar was almost too direct, as if no obstacles had dared inconvenience them.
Interesting.
The building came into view before long, its worn wooden sign swaying slightly in the evening breeze. A modest establishment, not quite seedy but far from respectable, nestled between a tailor's shop and what looked like a pawn broker's. It was the kind of place where the regulars knew not to ask questions, and the new faces learned fast.
Impheil exhaled through his nose, letting his amusement linger just beneath the surface.
The kid stopped a few steps ahead, shifting from foot to foot. "It's inside," he said, voice still urgent, still too insistent.
"Of course it is," Impheil murmured, stepping forward. He cast a final glance at the street behind them, committing the layout to memory before pushing open the door.
The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old wood, cheap liquor, and something faintly metallic—iron, maybe blood. A low hum of conversation drifted through the room, quiet but persistent, the kind of murmuring that suggested more than what was being said aloud.
Behind the counter stood a man of medium height and broad frame, his weathered face lined with years of seeing too much. His auburn hair was streaked with gray at the temples, loosely combed back, and his sharp green eyes carried the weariness of someone who had learned to read people far too well. A thin scar ran along his jaw, barely noticeable unless one was looking for it.
He studied Impheil with the same scrutiny one might give an unfamiliar card in a stacked deck.
"You're the one the kid dragged in?" His voice was even, neither welcoming nor outright hostile.
Impheil slid into a seat, his movements measured. He took in the room with casual detachment—the exits, the patrons who looked without looking, the way the bartender's hands rested lightly on the counter, close enough to a glass but far enough from the knife near the sink.
"Dragged implies resistance," Impheil replied, flicking open his watch and snapping it shut with a soft click. "I'm here because the alternative was more tedious."
The bartender let out a dry chuckle, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sounds about right. Well, let's not waste breath, then." He leaned forward slightly, voice shifting into something quieter, heavier. "There's a job. And from your looks, you might just fit the profile."
Impheil arched a brow, idly flicking open his pocket watch before snapping it shut with a metallic click. "Flattered," he murmured. "And what exactly does this 'work' entail?"
The bartender dragged a rag across the counter with practiced ease, gaze steady, unwavering. "There's a man we've been watching. High blood, old money—the kind of legacy that's more shadow than substance." He set the cloth aside, tapping his fingers against the wood in a slow, measured rhythm.
"The name's Graham Constantine. Old family, old power. They've been around since the Fourth Epoch, though most of their influence faded after the Fifth. Unlike the rest of the surviving Constantine line, Graham keeps to himself. Rarely seen in social circles, never stays in one place too long. We suspect it's not just out of preference."
The bartender leaned back, voice steady. "What we need is information. Anything and everything about him—his habits, his dealings, his past. The more, the better. And if, along the way, you come across something particularly valuable…" A faint smirk ghosted across his lips. "Even better."
Impheil let the words settle, tilting his head slightly in thought.
Constantine. That name wasn't unfamiliar, but his knowledge of it was vague at best. A family that once served Solomon during the height of the Solomon Empire—beyond that, the details blurred. He hadn't paid much attention to them before, figuring they were just another footnote in history, the kind of name that got whispered in certain circles but never outright discussed.
And now, someone wanted him to dig into their secrets.
Interesting.
His gaze sharpened, and with it, the world shifted. Symbols—intricate, shifting, unseen by normal eyes—surfaced in the air between them. Like an unfolding cipher, the markings twisted and realigned, revealing meaning beyond mere words.
The man wasn't lying.
But he was too careful. The rhythm of his pauses, the deliberate avoidance of unnecessary details—this wasn't just discretion. It was studied discretion.
That, in itself, told Impheil plenty.
"And why exactly should I care?" His tone was lazy, but the sharpened amusement in his gaze cut through the indifference. "A job with no details? A target with no clear risks? Sounds suspiciously like a good way to get killed for someone else's curiosity."
The bartender exhaled through his nose, pouring himself a small measure of something dark and strong. "The details don't matter. The reward does." He took a slow sip, setting the glass down with a faint clink. "And my boss? He's more than resourceful. Payment won't be an issue."
Impheil hummed.
"A generous mystery employer offering boundless compensation." His lips curled faintly. "How quaint. Almost cliché."
The bartender smirked faintly but said nothing.
Impheil studied him for a beat, then flicked his pocket watch open again. He raised his second hand, fingers barely twitching as a flicker of motion passed through the air.
For a moment, the bartender stiffened. His pupils dilated—just slightly—before his expression went momentarily slack.
And then, just as quickly, Impheil returned the stolen thought.
The bartender inhaled sharply, blinking once as if a sudden thought had escaped him. His fingers twitched slightly against the counter before he resumed his usual composure.
Impheil leaned back, watching with mild amusement as the bartender's expression briefly flickered—just a hint of disorientation, a split second where something didn't quite align in his mind. Then, like a well-rehearsed act, the man steadied himself, continuing as if nothing had happened.
Predictable.
The memory he'd taken had revealed nothing more than what was already said—no deeper secrets, no hidden agendas beyond the surface instructions. The man knew exactly what he was supposed to know, nothing more.
Impheil clicked his tongue softly, idly tapping the pocket watch against his palm. Tight-lipped, efficient, completely in the dark…
Fantastic, he mused internally. Another middleman who barely qualifies as a footnote in his own story.
That confirmed one thing.
Whoever was pulling the strings wasn't careless. No leaks, no loose ends—just enough information to ensure the job was done, but not enough to trace it back to its source. That kind of control wasn't just a sign of caution. It was a sign of power.
And in Impheil's experience, people like that were either exceptionally dangerous.
The bartender rolled his shoulders, a subtle motion—almost as if shaking off an unseen weight—before speaking again.
"What are your deepest desires?"
The words hung in the air, deceptively casual, yet carrying an undeniable weight.
Impheil's fingers stilled against his pocket watch, but his mind had already snapped to attention.
The phrasing. The deliberate vagueness. The kind of question meant to pry open a person's very soul.
He barely resisted the urge to smirk. Ah, so that's the game we're playing.
This wasn't mere curiosity. It was a test.
And there was one particular kind of Beyonder who was fond of making such offers.
The Abyss Pathway.
Impheil let a slow, deliberate smile curl at the edges of his lips.
"That's a rather personal question." His voice was light, almost amused, but there was a calculated sharpness beneath it.
The bartender held his gaze. "And yet, one worth answering."
Impheil chuckled softly, flicking his pocket watch shut again.
"Oh, I imagine it is."
He stood, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.
"I'll look into it," he said. "No promises."
The bartender inclined his head slightly. "Do what you need to."
Impheil turned, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off the lingering tension of the conversation. He had more than enough to think about.
But there was one loose end left.
He glanced around, searching for the child who had led him here.
Nothing.
No sign of movement. No hurried steps fading into the street. No lingering presence.
No footprints in the dust near the doorway.
He frowned. "Where's the kid?"
The bartender barely blinked. "What kid?"
Impheil's gaze sharpened. "The one who brought me here. Small, frantic, looked about two meals away from keeling over."
The bartender exhaled slowly, tilting his head. "Haven't seen anyone like that."
For the first time in a long while, Impheil felt something cold slither down his spine. The bartender's expression was perfectly neutral—too neutral.
No curiosity. No confusion. Just a flat, unreadable lack of reaction.
His fingers brushed against his pocket watch.
He could steal the memory and confirm it himself.
But something told him he wouldn't find anything.
Slowly, he let out a breath.
Maybe the kid never existed.
Or maybe, just maybe, someone else had been watching this entire time.
And they were far better at playing the game than he'd anticipated.
Impheil gave the bartender one last look, then turned on his heel, stepping out into the night.
Behind him, the bartender watched him go, reaching for his glass again.
In the dim glow of oil lamps and flickering candlelight, a few patrons nursed their drinks, their eyes hooded, their expressions unreadable. They had seen it—the flicker of movement, the near-invisible shift in the air when Impheil had stolen a fragment of thought and slipped it back before it could be noticed.
One of them swirled his glass absently, watching the liquid move in slow circles. Another adjusted their sleeve, fingers briefly tapping against the table in an idle rhythm. A woman took a measured sip of her drink, lips curving slightly as if at some private joke.
None of them spoke.
None of them looked at each other.
And yet, the silence between them was deafening.
…
Impheil exhaled, weaving through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who had spent too much time making himself unremarkable.
His thoughts, however, were a mess of tangled threads.
Too clean. That was the first and most pressing conclusion. The woman—nothing more than a fleeting curiosity, an aristocrat who'd glanced at him once and moved on. Either I've gotten too jumpy, or I've lost my touch.
He wasn't sure which option offended him more.
Yet, the real mystery hadn't been her but the child. A street rat vanishing isn't exactly shocking. But no trace? Not even a lingering glance from the crowd? He clicked his tongue, rolling the thought in his head. That's a bit excessive, even for pickpockets with a flair for the dramatic.
His fingers drifted to his pocket watch, thumb pressing against the cool metal as he walked.
Maybe this is paranoia. Maybe I've been running too long. He sighed. "And maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find out gravity was a scam too."
Doubtful.
The city stretched ahead, shifting into quieter districts, where the smog thinned, and the streets held fewer eyes. His residence sat nestled between a tailor's shop and a bookstore that was more dust than business. A nice enough place.
If you weren't constantly assessing entry points, line of sight, fire hazards, and how many minutes you had to react if someone kicked in the door.
Impheil climbed the stairs, his footfalls light, deliberate. The wooden boards creaked beneath him.
A turn of the key, a soft click, and he was inside.
The air was still cool. The faint scent of old books lingered, mixed with polish—his housekeeper's work. She came twice a week, never asked questions, and kept everything exactly as he left it. He liked that about her.
Shrugging off his coat, he draped it over the back of a chair, rolling his shoulders with a slow exhale. The dull ache of tension made itself known—he had spent too much time poised for an attack that never came.
Not that I'd expect anything else. Being relaxed is just a way to die surprised.
Loosening his cravat, he moved toward the washroom, unbuttoning his waistcoat along the way. The mirror greeted him with a familiar sight—black hair, black eyes, perpetually unimpressed.
Impheil snorted. Six years, and I still wake up surprised I'm not drowning in paperwork and tax returns.
Six years of learning the local customs, dodging divinations, and figuring out the fastest way to tell if someone was trying to con him—or worse, recruit him into their secret cult.
Six years of adapting, of finding his footing, of realizing that while his "modern-era" knowledge was incredibly useful, it wasn't a universal cheat code. Sure, he could exploit economic principles, reverse-engineer certain technologies, and apply scientific reasoning to mystical phenomena—but none of that helped when facing a Beyonder who could turn his blood into liquid gold for an "art project." Hard to argue physics when someone rewrites the laws of reality because it's Tuesday.
And yet, here he was. Alive. Functional. Still making questionable life choices. If survival was a sport, I'd be MVP.
He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he turned on the water. It ran clear, cold, the kind of sharp chill that forced you to focus on the present.
Not bad for someone who, in another life, had to google how to boil an egg.
The past didn't matter—not when the future had just handed him a job that reeked of opportunity and impending disaster in equal measure.
Impheil grinned. Good. It'd been getting a little boring.