Fifth floor, Scotland Yard. The Chief Inspector's office.
Lestrade, the highest-ranking officer in the London Metropolitan Police, stood with his head slightly bowed. He was exerting every ounce of effort to project a respectful smile, but since he was a man who rarely practiced the art of pleasantry, the result looked more like a series of rhythmic facial spasms.
Facing the diminutive, elderly man seated on the sofa, Lestrade hesitated. He stole a glance at the clock on the wall before finally finding his voice.
"Lord Priest, Scotland Yard has undergone four major expansions. The corridors and stairwells are a labyrinth of mismatched masonry. I fear Miss Catherine might..."
He stopped short of saying "get lost," lest it be misinterpreted as a slight against her intelligence.
The old man didn't seem to mind. He waved a withered hand with a faint smile. "Do not fret. She should be here shortly."
Sure enough, a few minutes later, the office door creaked open. The young woman in the peculiar, modified habit stepped inside.
Her raven-black hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her features were sharp, lending her an air of cold, aristocratic disdain that felt far beyond her years. At this moment, however, her face was clouded with a palpable fury that made Lestrade's heart skip a beat.
"Did something happen?" the old man asked, rising from the sofa.
"Nothing of consequence. I simply encountered an uneducated boor," Catherine said. She closed her eyes and took a sharp breath, visibly shoving her anger back into the depths of her mind.
Lestrade felt a cold sweat prickle his spine. He mentally cursed every single person in the building. He had given strict orders: Important guests are arriving. Treat every unfamiliar face with absolute sanctity. How could someone be so brainless?
"I assure you, anyone who dares offend the sanctity of the Church will face the severest of punishments!" he stammered.
Catherine shook her head, clearly unwilling to dwell on the matter. She turned to the Inspector, her expression turning professional and severe. "Have you found a candidate?"
Lestrade's smile froze. He looked as though he were on the verge of tears. "Miss Catherine... I may be the Chief Inspector of London, but your request... it is an impossibility."
In truth, the core of the problem wasn't unprecedented. A psychopathic killer had emerged in the Old District, brutally murdering twelve women in a fortnight. Each victim had been violated, dismembered, drained of blood, and left amidst a grisly display of minced organs.
Under normal circumstances, in an era where "Hell" had bled into reality and demons prowled the shadows, a serial killer was hardly enough to warrant top-tier attention. You could die just as easily walking home at night.
The trouble was that the killer had become ambitious.
He was no longer satisfied with the squalor of the Lower District. He had turned his sights toward the Upper District, and last night, he had slaughtered a beautiful woman.
Had she been a mere socialite, they would have simply increased the bounty. But by some stroke of cosmic misfortune, this particular victim was the wife of an Executive Officer of the Holy See.
That changed everything.
Since the opening of Hell's Gate, the Church had become the sole beacon of hope for the human race. Whether it was the cathedrals rising in every district, the millions of fanatical warriors holding back the tide of demons in the south, or the ubiquitous "Holy Light" itself—the Church was the only thing standing between humanity and extinction.
"The Church is Holy. The Church is Inviolate."
Children learned those words before they could read. It was a fundamental truth, as certain as the rising sun.
"I do not care what methods you employ," the woman said, her voice dropping to a low, ominous chill. "Someone has murdered a ward of the Church. This is a desecration of the Light. You have twenty-four hours to find the killer."
"But... but you've only allowed me one man for the task. This is—" Lestrade gathered his courage to argue, but the moment Miss Catherine's brow twitched, the words died in his throat.
The murder of an Executive Officer's wife was a scandal more explosive than the Mayor of London having a fondness for stray dogs. If word leaked out, it would be a stain on the Church's absolute authority. The matter had to be settled with lightning speed, and with as few witnesses as possible.
But to ask a single man to solve a serial murder case and catch the culprit within twenty-four hours? It was a fairy tale.
Unless...
Unless!
Lestrade swallowed hard, a name surfacing in his mind with a mixture of profound reluctance and dread.
The moment the thought took root—
"Oh? It seems you have someone in mind, Excellency?"
The elderly priest spoke, his voice dry as parchment. Beneath heavy, drooping eyelids, his grey-white pupils remained eerily lifeless.
Lestrade didn't know what came over him. He found himself nodding instinctively. "Yes... if anyone can achieve this, it is him."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. A sudden chill washed over him. As he looked back at the smiling old man, his respect was replaced by a primal, instinctive fear.
Those hadn't been his own words. He had been compelled.
This Priest... he isn't just a Contractor. He has evolved to the Second Stage.
"You have a candidate, then?" Catherine asked.
Lestrade clenched his hands, sweat slicking his palms. There was no point in hiding it now. "Yes. There is one man. A... private detective."
Fifteen minutes later, in the bowels of the station's holding cells.
An old gas lamp hissed and sputtered, casting a sickly yellow light through the damp air.
Several officers were struggling to move a massive, blood-stained suitcase. If not for the rhythmic, unsettling twitching from within, no one would have believed a human being was stuffed inside. Under Imperial law, condemned criminals lost all civil rights. No matter how brutally they were treated, there was no court of appeal. They were heading for the gallows anyway.
Still... this was harrowing.
Zzzzzzip—
The zipper of the suitcase was yanked open. The sickening sound of bones grinding against one another filled the room, followed by the wet, desperate gasp of lungs finally finding room to expand.
There was no screaming, no plea for mercy—only a faint, pathetic whimper. The man didn't step out; he seemed to "ooze" out onto the floor like a pile of wet clay.
The elderly priest stared at the heap of humanity, then looked at the officers. They were all looking away, unable to stomach the sight.
"Does this 'Detective' always deliver them in this state?" the Priest asked.
An officer nodded timidly. "Yes, Lord Priest. In his words... it makes the prisoners much more convenient to transport."
Meanwhile, on the third floor, Chief Inspector Lestrade and Miss Catherine stood at the door of a reception room.
The Inspector pointed toward a sofa. A man sat there, draped in a trench coat, his long frame lounging with a book in hand. He looked less like a professional and more like a ruined aristocrat who had lost all interest in life.
"That is the man," the Inspector whispered.
He was about to say more when he noticed the expression on the woman beside him.
"Uh... Miss Catherine? You look somewhat... unwell."