I don't know what jolted me awake, but my eyes snapped open, and I quickly leaned back in the chair, startled.
Night had fallen. The room was shrouded in darkness—undoubtedly because I had entered it in the late afternoon.
I rose slowly from the chair and walked to the window behind the desk.
I gazed at the distant silhouette of Big Ben and murmured,
"This feeling…"
Then my eyes caught the lights in the second building across the courtyard. They were going out one by one.
I glanced at the wall clock in surprise, then back at the blood-red moon, whispering,
"Eleven at night!"
I exhaled deeply and scratched my head lightly with my right hand, baffled at how I had slept so long.
I looked down at my clothes—the same long, dark navy coat and attire from earlier.
I extended my right hand, flexing my fingers open and closed into a fist.
Finally, a smile crossed my lips.
"Good… I still have the strength for a proper strike."
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Minutes later, Elias slipped secretly from the eastern side of the manor, where denser trees made visibility poorer.
Once outside, he began walking through the streets of Carlton House Terrace toward St. Pancras.
A strange fog clung low to the ground. The gas lamps flickered dimly, and an odd scent lingered in the air.
The blood moon's light filtered weakly through the haze, and distant dogs barked faintly.
Nearly half an hour into Elias's nighttime stroll, a loud whistle suddenly pierced the silence.
He whirled around to see who it was—but collided hard with someone.
Elias steadied himself to avoid falling. When he regained his balance, he saw the person who had crashed into him fleeing down the street.
Surprise turned to alarm as he spotted police officers running urgently toward them.
Without hesitation, Elias sprinted in the same direction as the fugitive, desperate to avoid being caught himself.
After running at full speed for a while, his breath came in ragged gasps.
He ducked hastily into a nearby alley and hid behind a wooden cart surrounded by barrels.
The whistle grew louder, closer.
Then, gradually, it faded into the distance.
Elias let out a relieved breath.
Throughout the wait, as the sound receded, he muttered under his breath,
"Damn it… they almost had me."
Suddenly, he heard the soft scrape of a shoe approaching—slowly, steadily closer.
A man's voice spoke quietly.
"Good evening… Your Grace the Duke. What, pray tell, is a duke doing out at this hour?"
In that moment, Elias's eyes trembled faintly.
He lifted his head slowly—just as the final footstep landed inches in front of him.
When Elias saw the man's face and attire, he felt not surprise, but a smirk.
The figure before him wore a long grey coat and matching trousers, a grey top hat circled with a green ribbon.
But one small, unmistakable detail stood out: the man wore a green fox mask with pitch-black eyes.
The man in grey leaned toward Elias.
Elias kept his head lowered, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
The masked man paused in confusion.
He slowly drew his right hand from his coat pocket—but before he could extend it toward Elias,
Elias raised a revolver, aiming it directly at the man's masked face.
The man in grey froze, then stepped back.
With the thumb and forefinger of his free hand, he tipped his hat from his head, holding it against his chest.
He shifted his left foot backward and bowed slightly, murmuring,
"Do not venture out at night again, Your Grace."
Elias tightened his finger on the trigger.
But as the man straightened and replaced his hat, the fog thickened dramatically around them.
The man in grey whispered,
"Have a pleasant night."
In an instant, the mist swallowed him whole.
For a fleeting second, Elias caught a green gleam from the mask's black eyes—then the figure was gone.
Elias lowered the revolver slowly, let it drop to the ground, and slumped heavily against the cart.
The fog on the street began to thin, revealing the cobblestones once more.
Minutes passed. Elias remained there—on the ground, leaning against the cart.
Every few moments, he drew a deep, steadying breath.
Were the same chaotic thoughts swirling in his head as before?
Was he lost in confusion again?
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Sunlight streamed directly onto my face.
I opened my eyes with difficulty, squinting against the bright glare.
Frederick Clayton was drawing back the room's curtains to let in the morning light.
I sat up slowly on the bed, watching as he pulled aside the final drape.
When he turned to leave, he noticed me awake.
Realizing he had seen me, I smiled and said,
"Good morning… Head Butler."
Frederick looked mildly surprised but bowed his head.
"I apologize if I disturbed your sleep, my lord."
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, performed a simple stretch, and stood.
He still kept his head lowered, so I walked over, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said,
"There is no need to apologize. In any case… I was planning to visit the cathedral today."
Frederick raised his head slowly, closed his eyes briefly, and replied with faint unease,
"You say that only to spare my feelings."
I chuckled softly, grasped both his shoulders gently, and said,
"I have always been serious, old man."
A small smile—barely recognizable as one—touched his lips.
"Thank you… for not dismissing me from service to the House of Montagu, even in my old age."
I removed my hands from his shoulders and walked to the window behind the desk, placing a palm against the cool glass.
"The one who has served the House of Montagu most faithfully… I would never dismiss."
Frederick smiled faintly once more, lingered for a moment gazing at me, then withdrew.
But I remained at the window, looking out.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Last year, shortly before I awoke in this world inside Elias Montagu's body—the Duke of Manchester—the real Elias had drafted a dismissal letter for the old servant, citing advanced age.
For reasons unknown, the order had been delayed.
By the time I came to in the duke's body, Frederick was still employed.
A few days later, I discovered the letter—and burned it.
He was, after all, a loyal old man.
To outsiders, perhaps just a servant.
But from the investigations I had conducted over the past year in Manchester, I knew better.
None of the senior staff—Frederick, the Housekeeper, even the advisors—were ordinary.
Each was a master in a specialized field: espionage, assassination, silent killing.
I still didn't understand why an industrial family like the Montagus required such talents.
But if the previous duke—and the original Elias Montagu before I inhabited his body—had needed them, then so did I.
A quiet smile formed on my lips as I gazed down at the courtyard between the buildings.
Servants moved about their tasks; guards stood or spoke in low voices around the grounds.
Yet in that moment, none of the beauty registered.
Only one thing overshadowed it all.
"The man in grey…"
I don't know why I said it aloud.
Who was he, truly?
What did the green gleam in his eyes mean?
Why a fox mask—and in a contrasting color?
Why entirely grey clothing?
A soft knock sounded at the door.
I clenched my fist lightly and turned toward it.
At last, he entered.
"Security Advisor…"