Old Jack had two things on his agenda today.
First, he had to pay the water bill.
Second, he had to kill someone.
Given his persistent streak of procrastination—a tendency to leave the difficult tasks for last—he decided to get the killing out of the way first.
6:00 AM. The Holy Calendar, Year 288—London.
The dawn didn't look much different from dusk. Visibility was poor, and overhead, a Berlin-made airship drifted lazily like a great leviathan. It eclipsed what little sunlight struggled to reach the ground, leaving the city swaddled in a haze of descending soot.
Yet, miraculously, one could still see the great chimneys in the distance, ceaselessly vomiting thick, black smoke.
Those chimneys stood like iron banners, monuments to the Empire's absolute power and wealth. Since the opening of Hell's Gate, they had become even more industrious.
As the newspapers put it: "If the factories do not intensify their labor, how shall the treasury be filled? Who will feed the army? Who will forge the weapons? And who will deal with the demons crawling forth from the Gate?"
It sounded grand on paper, but even an uneducated man like Old Jack knew those chimneys were fueled by the blood and sweat of the poor. As for the coin, it all flowed directly into the pockets of the capitalists.
Actually, the word "capitalist" hadn't quite entered the common tongue yet. Jack preferred his own terminology for them.
Like: Soulless bastards.
Lower District, Xianglan Street. A narrow vein of a road situated two kilometers from the River Thames.
It had taken Jack three hours to walk here. By now, the morning mist had mostly burned away. Looking around, he saw patches of stale dung, trash cans that hadn't been emptied in months, and sewers belching rolling clouds of steam. Two rats scurried past a stray cat; the cat merely offered a lazy yawn.
At the end of the street sat a grocery store. Even with the mist gone, the storefront remained buried in the deep shadows of the surrounding brickwork.
Everything suggested this was an excellent place for a murder.
Old Jack felt a spark of contentment.
He stepped over a pile of dung, reached the grocery store entrance, and pushed his way inside.
"Morning," he called out to the pot-bellied proprietor behind the counter.
The owner held a newspaper, his eyes peeking over the top of the broadsheet. He didn't answer. He looked gruff, his expression distinctly unwelcoming.
Jack took in the man's bloodshot, cirrhotic eyes and the prominent beer gut. He confirmed this was indeed the man he had come to kill.
"Excuse me, do you carry fruit knives?" Jack asked.
"Over there," the owner grunted, jerking his chin toward a corner.
"Thanks." Jack nodded and walked over. He selected one that felt balanced in his grip and returned to the counter.
"Seven pence," the owner muttered in that same hostile tone.
Jack reflected that with a temperament this foul, it was only logical someone would want the man dead. Of course, he didn't care who the man had offended; he just wanted to finish the job and go pay his water bill.
"Is there a police station nearby?" Jack asked, placing a shilling on the counter.
"No."
"Many customers this time of day?"
"Street's empty. Where would the customers come from?" The owner grumbled as he turned around to hunt for change.
Jack nodded, satisfied. He picked up the knife.
The blade slid into the man's neck with practiced ease.
Sometimes, Jack wondered why humans were so fragile—easily snuffed out by a bit of steel—yet capable of ruling the world. Meanwhile, the demons were immensely powerful, yet in the two centuries since Hell's Gate opened, they remained pinned to the Antarctic continent, unable to even cross the Drake Passage.
Was it really because of the steam-powered juggernauts that ran on nothing but boiling water?
Or was it because of the Contractors—those who lived in symbiosis with the very demons they fought?
It didn't matter. He was just an obscure hitman, taking contracts to scrape by. One day he'd be too old to move and starve to death in his own home. He had no heart for the affairs of the battlefield.
Times were hard for everyone.
Fortunately, today's work was simple. The knife was sharp; it cut through the neck muscles and reached the windpipe without resistance. With a gentle flick, Jack severed the airway.
The owner stared at him with terrified eyes, clutching his throat as he collapsed. He writhed on the floor like a bloated maggot. Jack sighed, turned the sign on the door to 'CLOSED,' drew the curtains, and locked the door.
So fat, Jack thought. Going to be a nightmare to move. Well, the street is quiet. Ten minutes should be enough to drag him to the sewer.
Just as the thought formed...
Jack felt a sudden, foul premonition. He saw the man on the floor clutching his throat so hard that his thick knuckles were sinking into the wound, poking at the raw, red gap.
"Uh... don't tell me..."
Before he could finish the sentence, his fear manifested.
The fat man successfully punctured his own carotid artery.
Obese men usually had high blood pressure, and high blood pressure made for brittle vessels.
In an instant, blood erupted from the wound with violent force. It sprayed like a miniature fountain, hitting the ceiling before shattering into heavy red droplets that rained down across the floor.
As everyone knows, killing is easy. Cleaning up a spraying corpse, however, is a miserable chore. It was the difference between cooking a meal and doing the dishes.
Jack felt his spirit deflate.
He leaned against the door, rubbing his temples in agony. The urge to retire flared up again.
"How am I supposed to fix this?"
Amidst his despair...
Ring, ring, ring.
The sudden shrill of a telephone startled him.
Jack froze, scanning the room until he found the device buried under a pile of newspapers on the counter. A standard 'Alexander Graham Bell' model—common enough these days, but still not cheap.
He watched the vibrating ringer, debating whether to answer. After a moment's calculation, he decided to pick up. Even if he didn't speak, he might learn who was on the other end.
He lifted the receiver to his ear.
A man's voice, crisp and clear, came through the line.
"Hello? Is this Mr. Jack? My apologies for the intrusion, but I wanted to confirm... are you finished with the killing?"
"..."
Jack's mind went blank for a heartbeat. Then, a creeping sense of the absurd and the sinister crawled up his spine.
Clack.
He slammed the receiver back onto the hook.
He was genuinely stunned.
What was the situation? That voice—it definitely said 'Mr. Jack.'
Was it talking to him? How did they know he was here? And what did "finished with the killing" mean?
As he stood in confusion, a sharp knock, knock, knock sounded at the door.
Jack whipped his head around. For a man who had been an assassin for over thirty years, his breath hitched with uncharacteristic tension.
Who is out there?
He subconsciously thanked his luck for locking the door earlier.
Probably just a passerby. If I stay quiet, they'll get the hint and sod off.
The thought hadn't even finished...
Click. Clack.
The lock gave a series of light metallic snaps.
Then, the handle turned slowly.
The door swung open.
A man stood in the threshold, clad in a trench coat. He was tall and gaunt, perhaps thirty years of age, with a quintessentially British face—save for a nose so high and sharp it gave his features an almost exaggerated depth.
The grey morning light spilled in around him, casting a sinister, golden sheen over the blood-soaked room.
The man glanced at the still-spurting fountain of gore. He showed no panic. Instead, he exhaled a long breath of realization.
"Phew—I thought as much. I waited outside for five minutes without seeing you emerge; I almost feared you'd botched it. Turns out it was just a burst artery. No matter. As long as you've finished the kill... I suppose this counts as being caught with the goods."
The man turned his gaze toward the bewildered Old Jack. Seeing the assassin's stunned expression, he removed his worn top hat and held it to his chest, offering a languid, slight bow.
"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes. A detective."