The Pinewell Room, which had cost Foster fifteen of his hard-earned dollars, was smaller than he'd imagined, but perfect for his purposes. It was paneled in dark wood, with a single, long table and high-backed chairs. A carafe of water and four glasses sat on a sideboard. The air smelled of beeswax.
Foster stood alone, his palms slightly damp. He had arrived early and been directed to a private antechamber by the Foundation staff.
There, he had selected a disguise from a rack of provided attire: a simple, dark grey, modern-style suit that was a step above his police pay grade but nondescript.
He'd also practiced an accent—a flatter, more neutral cadence, stripping away any regional tells that might link him to Foster Ambrose. He was no longer a policeman, he was The Lonely Saviour, a curator of mysteries.
The disguises were more or less compulsory so as to maintain the secrecy of identity of each member.
The door opened. The first to arrive was The Anchor.
The man moved with an unnerving motion. He wore a provided attire—a conservative, high-collared black jacket that gave him the air of a scholar or a cleric. His face was partially obscured by a neatly trimmed false beard and his hair was slicked back with pomade, but the gold-rimmed glasses were the same.
Foster recognized him instantly as the man from the club, the one who had noticed his alias.
Up close, his presence was a quiet force. He didn't speak, merely giving Foster a slow, appraising nod before taking a seat at the far end of the table, his hands steepled.
He was a man who spoke only when necessary, and Foster sensed a mind so meticulous it could be terrifying.
Next came the member with the blank alias.
A young woman, her vibrant ginger hair concealed under a sleek, auburn wig. She wore a simple but elegant blue dress provided by the Foundation, her posture seeking a formality that warred with the energy in her steps. But when she smiled nervously at the room, Foster knew.
It was the girl from the market. The one with the dogs and the overflowing gown. That particular smile, full of unguarded wonder, was unforgettable.
He gave no sign of recognition, merely bowing his head slightly. Her alias was blank, a potential vulnerability or a statement of boldness.
He filed it away, his caution towards her intensifying.
Last was The Quill.
He swept into the room as if making an entrance on a stage. He wore an extravagant, provided outfit—a velvet waistcoat and a cravat, an ensemble that screamed old-world aristocracy even through its generic nature. His wig was a cascade of dark, romantic curls.
"A gathering of curious souls!"
He declared, his voice a practiced baritone. But then, as he took his seat, he seemed to consciously dial it back, his shoulders relaxing from a slight, habitual raise.
"My apologies. The atmosphere inspires a certain… theatricality."
Foster noted the slight slip, the ingrained posture of someone used to being looked at. The Quill was playing a part, but his native habitat was one of privilege and performance.
"We are all here out of curiosity," Foster began, using his new, flatter accent. It felt strange on his tongue.
"The Oxford Club is a forum for the examination of systems and secrets."
The Anchor's eyes, behind his glasses, were unblinking. Foster felt laid bare under that gaze.
This man was overthinking every word, dissecting his accent, his posture, his choice of phrase.
He saw Foster not as a person, but as unpredictable and dangerous.
"What kind of secrets?" Mia asked.
She had clearly thought about how to phrase it, her tone carefully formal, but the innate curiosity was just beneath the surface.
To The Anchor, she would seem naively ignorant, her energy a liability.
To Foster, she was a potential source of unfiltered observation.
"The city is a machine," Foster said, weaving a ruse that was also the truth. "Some of its gears are visible—the police, the markets, the government. Others are not. I propose we study the hidden... mechanics. The patterns that don't fit. The coincidences that are too frequent to be chance."
He presented a theoretical scenario, based on the Davidson case and Elara Vex's disappearance.
"For instance, a violent event occurs, but all records of it during a specific time window are erased. Not corrupted. Replaced with a perfect silence. What system could achieve that? And why?"
The Anchor—Grayson, remained silent for a long moment.
His eyebrows, visible above his glasses, furrowed slightly.
Mia saw this and tagged him in her mind as an overthinker.
Jacob saw a man who was intellectually engaged but emotionally absent.
"The method implies a purpose beyond erasure," Grayson finally said, his voice calm and precise.
"It is a statement. It says, 'This moment is mine to define.' The 'why' is control. Absolute control over a fragment of... something."
His analysis was chillingly accurate, cutting to the heart of what Neil had discovered.
_Something?_ Foster's mind raced, but he remained passive.
Jacob, intrigued, leaned forward.
"It is a form of poetry, is it not? Written not with words, but with absence. A violent chorus whose central stanza has been ripped out, leaving only the haunting expectation of what should be there."
He saw Foster as the author of this intriguing new verse.
Foster navigated carefully, using their insights to refine his own understanding without revealing his hand.
He learned that Grayson viewed systems as diagnostics—something to be understood and, if necessary, taken apart.
Jacob viewed them as art to be critiqued.
Mia simply absorbed it all, her flame-like eyes wide, seeing Foster as a mystical figure guiding them through a labyrinth.
The meeting lasted an hour.
They agreed to meet again in one week. As they departed separately through the Foundation's discreet exits, each returned to their own world, their disguises shed.
Foster walked home, his mind alive.
He had not solved any cases, but he had built something more valuable: a lens.
Through it, he could examine the city's darkness from three new, unique angles.
The Lonely Saviour was no longer just a name.
He was the conductor of a strange new orchestra, and he was only just beginning to learn the sound of its instruments.