Marcus hunched over the desk, utterly engrossed in his research. Unnoticed, a looming shadow inched closer—a hunter savoring his oblivious prey.

  "Meow!"

  A nudge against his spine made the black cat leap a foot in the air. Fur bristling, he spun around, claws unsheathed.

  "Impertinent child!" he hissed, ears flattened like fighter jets. "No knock? No courtesy? How dare you manhandle Lord Marcus!"

  Adorable even when furious…

  "I did knock," Yvette protested. "You must’ve been too absorbed."

  "Excuses won’t spare your insolence!"

  She produced her peace offering: sun-gold codfish crisps flecked with catnip—handmade using her thermal gifts. Tailored for pampered felines, each boneless morsel emitted an irresistible aroma.

  Marcus’s pupils dilated. He sniffed greedily but maintained a sneer. "Treacherous human! What devilry compels such lavish bait? Lord Marcus won’t be duped!"

  Yvette bit her cheek. The tiny tyrant’s drool betrayed his posturing.

  "You once offered to research my Stigmata. Consider these a token for your troubles."

  "Hmph." His ears relaxed marginally. "So it’s that trifle."

  "All this for the search?" She gestured at the felt-draped mountain behind him. Instantly, Marcus became a sputtering fluffball.

  He pancaked himself over the documents, paws splayed in vain to conceal them. Overwhelmed, he gnawed the felt’s edge and yanked like a kitten wrestling a carpet.

  Yvette observed the pitiful pantomime: a miniature voidling heaving a desk-sized blanket, growling at her every twitch.

  Once the papers were safely entombed, Marcus crumpled atop the heap. "State secrets! Burn them from your mind, dullard!"

  "Your mysteries are safe with me."

  The cat exhaled—then eyed the fish pouch with prickly guilt.

  "Store your… trinkets… temporarily."

  "But you adore cod!" Yvette frowned. His longing clashed with stubborn pride.

  "Lord Marcus is indisposed! Petty errands must wait, meow!"

  Ah. The Bureau had burdened him with other duties—and honor forbade accepting unearned tributes.

  "Nevermind. The mark’s vanished anyway." She revealed her unmarked palm.

  Marcus pounced, nose scrunched in inspection. "Pain? Night terrors? Odd humors? Meow?"

  "Gone without a trace."

  "Fool! Vigilance, always! Report the slightest oddity!" Finding nothing, he resorted to bluster.

  Yvette proffered a crispy cube. "A respite, Lord Marcus?"

  Purring erupted as he devoured it. Post-feast, he groomed lazily—then froze mid-lick.

  "Fortune favors you. Lord Marcus requires a service."

  [...]

  "—thus Marcus demands our newspapers blame the fire on chemical spills."

  At Hampstead Heath, Yvette had aimed to brief Winslow for Sir Ulysses’ return. Instead, she found the gentleman himself fidgeting with his cravat—a man still haunted by gallows duty.

  She trailed him inside, where Winslow served tea. Between sips, she relayed Marcus’s tale.

  Her Birmingham absence coincided with London strangeness: a customs clerk—covert field agent—renting rooms from a doting landlady.

  One breakfast delivery provoked a phlegmy roar: Stay away! Meals ceased. Rent day brought a stinking ￡100 note (validated reluctantly) and demands for isolation.

  Corn Laws inflated food prices; saving a tenant’s meals thrilled her. Yet her model lodger vanished. Footsteps above thickened, slowed…

  A week later, nightmare-born thuds shook the ceiling. Fetid ooze dripped—reeking like the cursed banknote.

  She crept upstairs. Yellow froth gushed from door cracks. Beyond it, something massive slithered.

  Her scream echoed as she fell, ribs cracked. Constables cowered until Althorp’s occult police intervened.

  The tenant? A stinking goo-blob wearing a suit, digesting its own room.

  "In short, the house was almost completely submerged in a sea of foam and mucus. At the center, a massive, feeble, and mindless monstrosity squirmed, splitting apart like a worm. Fortunately, it wasn’t aggressive. Still, it took the dispatched team considerable effort to finally kill it. It was later confirmed that the creature was, in fact, the customs employee who had rented the house. His supervisor in the organization had noted that the man hadn’t been in touch for some time.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Though the monster had been eradicated, the room still bore the horrific scars of its presence. The walls and floors were soaked with unmanageable, stinking seepage. The field operatives recommended staging a fire. The neighbors had already heard rumors from the landlady about the tenant’s strange behavior, and her cries for help had drawn quite a bit of attention. Tales of a 'foam-filled room' and 'a recluse tenant' had spread too widely to simply erase memories. The best course of action was to paint the tenant as an eccentric chemistry enthusiast who’d accidentally caused a fire with leftover volatile substances—perhaps even from a covert alchemical experiment. The plan was to act tonight, with our newspaper being the first to report the incident and steer public opinion.

  Yvette shared the information she’d gathered from Marcuse with Ulysses, and she agreed that this was the most practical solution. After all, the fire would be blamed on the police’s 'oversight' in cleaning the scene, leaving behind hidden chemical residues. This way, the landlady would also receive compensation to cover some of her losses. If left unchecked, no one could guarantee that the foamy, foul-smelling seepage in the walls and ceiling wouldn’t pose a health risk.

  'I’ll ensure the editorial department handles it as they wish,' Ulysses said with a nod. 'But his supervisor clearly failed in his duty. Typically, mutations are a gradual process. It’s unusual for things to escalate so quickly without some significant catalyst. His supervisor should have noticed the signs long before.'

  'Exactly,' Yvette replied. 'Marcuse suspects someone deliberately pushed him over the edge—perhaps even orchestrated it. When I found Marcuse in the library basement, he was going through transcripts of materials taken from the customs employee’s desk. It seems the man had recently acquired some sinister literature—texts that hinted at the terrifying truths hidden beneath the lies of the world. Marcuse was wary of me seeing the contents, fearing I might lose my sanity.'

  Yvette had long learned to control her curiosity. In this world, unlike the last, knowledge could truly kill.

  'Utter foolishness,' Ulysses muttered. 'He should have known that delving into forbidden texts is as dangerous as playing Russian roulette. Yet he still accepted that poisoned gift and lost his mind. I can’t imagine any sane person doing such a thing. After all, the final step of sanity is realizing there are things beyond our understanding.' He paused, then asked, 'And the person who supplied him with the forbidden text—have we found any leads? They must be a dangerous figure, capable of wielding knowledge that drives others mad, yet they remain unaffected.'

  'No trace of them yet,' Yvette admitted.

  'Then why assume such a person exists? Forbidden knowledge doesn’t have to come directly from the supernatural. He could have inherited it from some oblivious book collector or stumbled across it in an ancient tomb or manor.'

  'We found a completed but unsent money order on his desk for a large sum. Investigators confirmed he hadn’t made any recent purchases, so it’s likely meant as payment for that deadly, poisonous treasure.'

  'Was the address and name on the money order legible?'

  'Yes, though it was stained with a foul-smelling mucus that resembled coffee. The name was a pseudonym—Talley Onis. The investigator checked the address, but no one by that name had ever lived there.'

  'Talley Onis...' Ulysses mused. 'It seems our mutated customs employee must have recently crossed someone.'

  This was the first Yvette had heard of it. Even Marcuse hadn’t made this connection. 'How do you figure?'

  'It’s obvious. Talley Onis isn’t just a random pseudonym. Remove the space, and you get Talionis, a term derived from the Code of Hammurabi, meaning "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." It refers to the ancient practice of lex talionis—a form of violent retribution where harm done to one is repaid in kind. In short, it’s a name that screams revenge.'

  Yvette couldn’t help but silently roll her eyes. Lord Ulysses’ idea of "obvious" seemed to differ greatly from most people’s.

  'According to Marcuse, the customs employee was a cautious, unremarkable man. He’d been with the organization for six years without making any notable achievements. Hardly the type to provoke such vengeance.'

  'Oh?' Ulysses replied, his tone laced with curiosity. 'Then perhaps it’s just a coincidence. In the end, this is all speculation. Let others worry about it. I’ll focus on managing my newspaper. Hopefully, there’ll be nothing more for me to do, and I can finally get some rest.'

  Yvette couldn’t help but laugh. 'I wonder if the gallows in Birmingham are comfortable? What’s it like to sway up there like a string of sausages?'

  'Dreadful,' Ulysses said, his smooth demeanor cracking as his face twisted in disgust. 'The noose was damp and sticky, reeking of sweat and grime from the last poor soul who hung there. And before I was even hoisted up, they pelted me with rotten eggs. Worse still, someone tried to sneak up and cut off my hand as I feigned death. Thankfully, he didn’t succeed.'

  'Well, the Midnight Killer did terrorize the entire city. It’s no wonder they hated your character so much. Still, you’ve had a rough time,' Yvette said sincerely.

  'Hmph. They hated the murderer, yes, but the man who tried to sever my wrist wasn’t acting out of hate. I suspect he wanted to craft a "Hand of Glory"—a black magic talisman made from the hand of a hanged man, cured and smoked with herbs. It’s said to grant invisibility when the fingers are lit. Of course, the true method is likely known only to a few ancient families. What’s out there is mostly superstition. I doubt someone who truly knew the art would attempt such a crude act. Regardless, four of my associates were in the crowd. He was swiftly apprehended, and whether he was guilty or not, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.'

  Ulysses’ tone was thick with satisfaction. It seemed the ordeal of being hung like smoked meat had left him simmering with anger, and the would-be Hand of Glory thief had walked right into it.

  For some reason, seeing Ulysses exhibit moments of frustration and vulnerability like any other person gave Yvette a sense of reassurance. Though she felt a bit guilty for it, she couldn’t help but hide her small amusement.

  As she left in better spirits, Ulysses seemed to forget the gallows and the rotten eggs, lost in quiet contemplation.

  Lex talionis, indeed.

  A cautious, unremarkable man like the customs employee wouldn’t have provoked the wrath of someone so powerful. The use of such a name suggested the other party had lost someone dear and sought to kill one of the organization’s members in return.

  Combined with the use of forbidden knowledge, this pointed to three things: first, the foe was likely a member of a secret group, seeking vengeance for a fallen comrade; second, they knew of the customs employee’s ties to the organization; and third, they possessed forbidden knowledge—perhaps of a caliber that rendered the secrets of mere books uninteresting or they possessed extraordinary self-control, resisting the lure of such dangerous texts. Few outsiders had such discipline. Most would either gain enlightenment or descend into madness.

  Such a person was a formidable threat—someone with both high levels of power and immense self-control.

  Though within the Chime of Doom, individuals like this were not uncommon—dangerous, obsessive, calm yet unhinged geniuses.

  Ulysses couldn’t help but connect this incident to the red-haired man Yvette had killed earlier. The other party’s blind revenge suggested they hadn’t discovered her identity, but it was best she remained unaware. Otherwise, she might blame herself for the customs employee’s death.

  Though the moment the man’s identity had been exposed to the organization, his fate had been sealed. It was only a matter of time.

  He gazed into the flickering fireplace, his thoughts dancing with the flames.

  Even among the organization’s core members, few knew that the Chime of Doom had recently lost not one member, but two.

  The first had been severed from the world by the spindle of fate, his connection to this reality cut entirely