"That was the last buyer... Huft." Victor let out a weary sigh.
At long last, beneath the warm sunlight that stretched across the quiet evening street, the workday had come to an end. He tossed the cloth he had just used onto the counter, his fingers lingering over it for a brief moment before pulling away.
His gaze drifted toward the street beyond the window, as if expecting something—or someone. But when nothing happened, he turned around, his steps carrying him toward the worn-out chair near the wall.
Lowering himself onto the seat, Victor exhaled slowly. His body ached with exhaustion, the weight of both his primary job and the relentless demands of his watch shop pressing down on him.
He yawned, his left hand instinctively rising to cover his mouth—a small, almost unconscious act of propriety, as if that alone could maintain a semblance of dignity despite his fatigue.
A dull heaviness settled over him. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, drained of all energy. The only thing left was the irresistible pull of sleep.
Leaning back, Victor closed his eyes, surrendering to the abyss of slumber, but then without warning, a searing pain erupted in his jaw, surging like wildfire through his entire body.
"Agh!"
A strangled gasp escaped his lips. It hurt—no, it was beyond pain. accompanied by a very torturous murmur, the sound of laughter echoing in his mind.
Something burned through his veins, like molten metal coursing under his skin. His breath came in ragged gasps as an invisible force seemed to rip him apart from the inside.
This isn't normal...
Am I going to die?
A cold sweat broke out across his skin. His body trembled, every nerve screaming in agony. His mind blurred, drowning in the overwhelming sensation, and yet, all he could do was clutch his chest instinctively, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. He didn't open his eyes. Couldn't.
For a brief moment, an absurd thought surfaced.
Is this the end for me? ...
Well, at least I tried to be a good person...
Then—just as suddenly as it had begun—the pain shifted. It didn't disappear, but it dulled, becoming something he could endure. His ragged breaths slowed. His muscles, still tense, found the strength to loosen just enough.
followed by a voice—familiar yet unfamiliar—called out to him. Not his name, but a name he had never heard before.
The voice reverberated in his mind, echoing from an unseen fissure in reality. It had no clear source, yet it was laden with meaning he could not grasp.
"Elias."
"Elias Vayne"
Victor tensed. His fingertips trembled slightly as the silence around him grew heavier, as if the world itself had paused, waiting.
Slowly, with his breath caught in his throat, he dared to look, With great effort, Victor slowly opened his eyes
His vision blurred. A faint orange glow flickered before him. He found himself staring at something that resembled a cashier's counter...
The large window, like a display case, offers a direct view of the street, where dim streetlights cast faint reflections on the glass.
"Is that my display case?" he thought. Pain bloomed in Victor mouth the moment he tried to move his lips.
It was sharp, like a needle scraping against raw flesh, before slowly fading into a dull throb. He remained still, waiting for the discomfort to subside.
white oak desk stood before him, its surface smooth yet worn by time. Right at the center lay an envelope—half-open—its pristine white edges marred by splatters of dark red, dried and cracked like old paint. Next to it, stacked neatly, were ten sheets of untouched parchment, the ink of their inscriptions undisturbed by the surrounding chaos.
To his right, an oil lamp was embedded into the wall—its brass frame polished, its glass cover slightly clouded with age.
The design was unmistakably Western, reminiscent of the gas lamps from the late 19th century. It cast a soft amber glow, illuminating the objects beneath it.
Beneath the lamp, resting on the built-in desk, were two items: an ink bottle, its contents untouched, and beside it, a revolver.
Victor's breath hitched.
A revolver?
His heart pounded as his mind reeled. This… this wasn't his shop. It didn't resemble his watch shop in the slightest!
looking ahead with the hope of seeing clear roads and warm sunlight but no, there's no reflection of elegant timepieces under warm lighting. Instead, what greeted him was something far more alien—far more menacing.
Fog and rain!
It was thick and impenetrable, clinging to the window, pulsing faintly as if it were alive. The light from inside barely reached beyond the glass before being swallowed whole by the abyss beyond.
Victor's pulse quickened.
what is this place?!
Victor Holloway stood abruptly, confusion gnawing at his mind. However, before he could fully stand up, the pain that had previously subsided returned again making his chest throb. it made him lose the strength to stand and fall back to the chair.
thump!
The pain was there, but it was still nothing compared to what was in his chest. And because of that, Victor decided to keep quiet and not move for a moment.
The rain poured relentlessly, thick and heavy, washing over the city filth without ever truly cleansing it. Gas lamps flickered behind grimy glass, their feeble glow swallowed by the ever-present smog that coiled through the streets like a living thing.
As Victor's mind was in disarray. He clutched his head with both hands, his fingers pressing against his temples as if to stop his thoughts from spiraling out of control. His body trembled slightly, his breath uneven.
His rational mind struggled to make sense of the situation. He shook his head, attempting to dispel the growing unease. Yet, the atmosphere around him was anything but normal.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Victor pushed himself up from the desk, only to be struck by an unfamiliar sensation—something metallic, something wet. A sharp taste lingered on his tongue.
His brows furrowed. Instinctively, he raised his left hand, clad in a plain white long-sleeved shirt. Without much thought, he wiped his mouth, hoping to rid himself of the taste.
Pain!
The moment the fabric grazed his lips, a sharp sting coursed through his nerves. His body reacted before his mind could, his arm recoiling instinctively.
And then, he saw it.
The once-pristine white sleeve was now marred with streaks of crimson. The sight sent a shiver through him.
Red…? Liquid...?
The realization struck like a bolt of lightning, an undeniable truth clawing its way into his mind.
Blood?
It was blood! That much blood coming out of his mouth must have been due to internal injuries!
Victor's exhales shakily. His hands trembled slightly as his eyes fixated on his long-sleeved shirt which was stained with crimson liquid... For a brief moment, his mind lagged behind reality, thoughts sluggish and fragmented, as though surfacing from the depths of an abyss.
how could I still be alive, there's so much blood coming out!
the damp chill seeping into his bones. His lungs burned as he dragged in a breath, the air thick with soot, whiskey, and something faintly metallic.
Victor Holloway took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He pressed his left hand against his knee, attempting to suppress the faint tremor that betrayed his unease.
How?
How could this have happened?
The moment the thought surfaced, countless guesses, absurd speculations, and strange ideas flooded his mind like a tide, each one clamoring for his attention. Yet, amidst the chaotic swirl, only one possibility seemed plausible enough—one that sent a chill down his spine.
Had i… transmigrated?
His mind spun faster, his heart pounded violently against his ribs, and his breathing grew heavier.
It explained everything—every inexplicable sensation, every unfamiliar detail that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.
Calm down, Vic… Calm down…
His voice was barely above a whisper. Slowly, he placed both hands on his chest, feeling the rhythmic, frantic thumping beneath his fingers—proof that all of this was real.
The moment Victor felt even a sliver of calm, the pain lurking beneath the surface surged forth once more.
A sharp, excruciating agony spread through his body, relentless and unyielding, searing pain lanced through his skull. Memories—disjointed, overlapping, foreign—rushed forward like a flood breaching its dam!
Elias Vayne.
Detective whose reputation is neither very good nor bad.
He was a citizens of the Republic of Caerleon on the southern continent. Zafirah County. he was previously a student at Zandyr University before dropping out due to his friend disappearance.
He was once an orphan of the Church of Light and Judgment. following various rules and lessons from the nuns of the Church.
he has 3 friends who are still students at Zandyr University.
and a bestfriend who is very fond of history, especially mysticism.
Victor raised his right hand, pressing his temple as if to hold his head together—lest it crack open from the pressure. His mind throbbed, a cacophony of murmurs echoing like whispers from beyond the veil.
Then, as if a curtain had been lifted, clarity dawned. His thoughts aligned, and he understood. His speculation had been correct. He had been thrust into the body of Elias Vayne, a former student turned detective, a man who had spent years searching for a missing friend—only to meet death himself.
The moment the realization settled, an instinct not his own stirred within him. It was cold, precise, and brimming with an unsettling sharpness. Detective's Intuition.
His gaze fell upon the previously half-opened envelope, its flap slightly open. Without hesitation, he extended his right hand, fingers moving with the practiced ease of a seasoned investigator. The letter slid free, revealing its contents—an array of symbols, unfamiliar yet hauntingly deliberate.
A foreign language. One his own mind could not comprehend.
But then, Elias Vayne's memories surfaced, sluggish yet inevitable, like ink seeping through parchment. Little by little, meaning took shape. The once-indecipherable script began to unravel before his eyes, weaving a message concealed beneath layers of time and secrecy.
"I have already seen it.
And if you are reading this, it has seen you too."
Do not trust anything that whispers in your head.
Do not stare at your shadow for too long.
Do not ever open the door after midnight.
I tried to fight. I tried to run.
But it always finds a way.
Everything will end.
For you. For me. For this city.
"We are all already dead."
Victor's breath hitched, his pupils contracting as a shiver ran down his spine. An eerie chill crept into his bones, though the room was neither cold nor drafty.
"...W-what?" His voice trembled, laced with both doubt and fear. His mind churned with chaotic thoughts, grasping at strange, unsettling possibilities.
What does it mean? He muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A dull, rhythmic tapping echoed through the dimly lit room.
Victor stiffened, his body turning almost mechanically toward the simple wooden door. His eyes flickered to the large window, its glass slightly fogged from the contrast between the cool rain air and the warmth inside.
His gaze was fixed on the doors and windows which showed the street under the rain and fog. And a yellow umbrella rested against the window frame, as if someone is taking shade in front of his places.
A deep, suffocating silence swallowed the room. Victor could hear the faintest sound of raindrops pattering against the ground, the ticking of the old clock on his desk.
However, there was no mistaking it... Under the rain and in the fog, there was someone standing in front of where he was currently, knocking on the door.
Knock knock knock.