As I stood by the bedside of my father, I thought about this world for the nth time.
I—Edward Grey—had woken up as Edmund Graystone.
A completely different world, yet filled with memories that felt a little too real to dismiss as borrowed dreams. I still remembered Earth clearly—the noise, the screens, the constant rush of time. But Edmund's memories sat beside mine, heavy and rooted, like old furniture you couldn't simply throw away.
Lost mother at a young age. Befriending a kid of noble lineage which cost him his entire childhood. Bed ridden father as soon as stepping into adulthood. And the only family left is a distant cousin who seem to be even more distant ever since getting a job as a chef in the Wellesley manor thanks to the strings Edmund pulled.
No inheritance. No safety net. Just responsibility, illness, and a quiet house that seemed to age faster than its occupant.
Life had never been generous to Edmund.
The knock on the door sent me back to the reality.
It was the doctor from Wellesley manor. Ever since my father fell ill, the manor has done this favour as some sort of pension to my father who has worked for them all these years.
The doctor arrived late as always.
"I was at the Wellesley manor", is what he will say.
It was already time for me to visit Holt's office. After our decision of helping him in the investigation of to-be-murder, this was my first time visiting there alone.
Dante was at the end of his life or that is what I got to know from what happened back at the mansion and back at Wellesley household.
To him this must be a reincarnation or new life of some sort. He was very accepting of this new life. Same could be said about Kieran. He was new to this world. But not new to the feeling is what I felt from him. To him this all almost feel like..a game.
But this was the reality to me. Atleast for now.
I glanced around the house once more before leaving.
Edmund Graystone's home was small—two narrow rooms and a cramped kitchen that smelled faintly of damp wood and old soap. The walls bore hairline cracks like wrinkles, the wallpaper peeling just enough to remind you it had been put up decades ago with hope that never quite paid off. The furniture didn't match; most of it looked salvaged, inherited, or repaired one time too many.
Near the window sat my father's bed, its frame creaking even when untouched, the blanket folded carefully as if order could make up for poverty.
It wasn't miserable.
But it wasn't forgiving either.
I turned my back towards the door and stepped out.
The walk toward the tailor's district took me past the river, its surface dull and grey beneath the overcast sky. Barges drifted slowly, men shouting half-hearted warnings to one another as they loaded crates. The stone bridge was slick with moss, and the air smelled of iron, water, and smoke. Life moved here without urgency—slow, persistent, unconcerned with whether you kept up or not.
By the time I reached the narrow staircase leading to Dante's office, my thoughts had settled into something sharper.
I climbed the steps and pushed the door open.
Dante sat behind his desk, coat draped over the chair, papers scattered in chaotic piles that only he seemed to understand. Across from him sat Clara Whitemore.
She didn't look up immediately.
From what Dante had told me, Clara was a journalist—dangerous ambitions for a woman in this era. Journalism wasn't merely frowned upon for women; it was considered improper, disruptive. And she had chosen it anyway. She didn't have noble blood, nor a family name worth protecting, which perhaps made her braver—or more reckless.
She finally glanced at me. "And what purpose do you have here?"
"I called him," Holt said before I could answer.
Clara raised an eyebrow. "Of course you did. This is your office now, isn't it?"
"Our last meeting was cut short," I interrupted, keeping my voice polite. "I am Edward Graystone—a humble citizen who approached Mister Holt regarding personal matters, Miss Whitemore."
She tilted her head. "Edward Graystone," she repeated.
I realised too late.
Too late to correct it.
"Well then, Mister Graystone," she said coolly.
"Since you know my name, I assume you're already aware of what I do." She shot Dante an irritated glance. "Rest assured, whatever this is, it won't find its way into my articles."
I hesitated. "Still—"
Dante cut in smoothly. "Clara, this concerns the matter I asked you to keep an eye on. Are you certain about the lead?"
Her expression shifted—not softer, but sharper.
"The markets have been cleared unusually early," she said. "Security presence has doubled in the last week. Not openly—quiet orders, internal instructions."
She leaned against the desk. "Which tells me one thing. Whatever threat they're worried about isn't coming from outside."
Dante frowned. "The robberies?"
"Petty. Usual. Same with the killings—tragic, yes, but nothing that would normally warrant this level of attention." She tapped a finger against the table. "The guards aren't reacting to crime. They're preparing for something else."
"For what?" I asked.
She looked at me for a long moment.
"That," she said, "is what no one seems willing to write about."
Silence settled between us.
Dante exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "Thank you, Clara."
She straightened. "Be careful where you dig, Detective. Institutions don't like being watched from the inside."
With that, she gathered her notes and left, the door shutting sharply behind her.
I waited for her footsteps to fade into the background.
"Do you think this is related to Kieran's marriage. The guards and all?", I asked.
Dante looked at me for a second, then looked back at the table and sighed.
"Whatever this is," he continued "we won't get any answers unless we go to Gemba."
He looked back at me again. "Stand by until I get my hands on some solid information."
I stood there a moment longer, then turned to go.
As I stepped back into the stairwell, the city noise crept in again—hooves, voices, distant bells.
Whatever this world was, whatever game—or reality—we were trapped in, it was already moving without us.
And it wasn't waiting to explain itself.