11:55 PM.

  Five minutes remained until midnight, and the Inner City’s bustle began to subside. Street pedestrians thinned, and mounted police patrolled fixed routes, iron whistles between their teeth and rifles slung at their sides.

  Though the vibrancy ebbed, distant singing still curled between buildings, the intoxicating wine-scent sweetening the air. Dense white mist rose slowly, subterranean steam seeping soundlessly through ground fissures to cloak everything in its embrace—unlike the Outer City’s harsh, noisy emissions.

  Eve seldom witnessed the Inner City at such an hour; typically, she’d be nestled in her soft bed by now, not wandering with a deranged detective.

  Glancing sideways, Burton appeared to be awaiting something, repeatedly checking the time on his pocket watch.

  Since leaving the restaurant, the detective had acted thus—constantly monitoring the clock and surroundings as if hunting for something, lapsing into silence that forced Eve to follow wordlessly.

  The fog swallowed all. From a Zeppelin airship floating overhead, the scene would resemble a vast white ocean, spires and clock towers piercing the gray mist like jagged islands, electric lights twinkling like scattered fireflies.

  “Here we are,” Burton said abruptly, halting Eve at the sidewalk’s edge.

  “Here?” Eve queried, confused. They stood on a steam tram platform, yet the schedule indicated the final late-night service had ceased two hours prior.

  Gray mist clung thickly, hot steam warming the evening wind that brushed Eve’s face—a warmth that felt like the labored breath of some creature lurking just beyond the veil.

  The girl instinctively clenched her dress, beneath which lay not delicate flesh but cold, dangerous weaponry strapped to her thighs.

  “Precisely here,” Burton murmured, gaze fixed on the fog-shrouded distance.

  “Old Dunling’s steam trams operate at a perpetual loss—passenger fares barely cover operational costs. They’re sustained by taxes from magnates, so to offset losses, carriages are leased or sold to private parties. Your noble circle likely knows this: companies rent out compartments, which clients can couple with an engine for travel. The Phoenix family, being influential, even owns an entire train.

  Nobles often adorn their carriages like mobile palaces. During balls, these rolling palaces halt at guests’ doors, servants bowing deeply as they await the elite’s departure.”

  Burton revealed insider knowledge foreign to Eve.

  “Of course, some employ them for less savory purposes. Take a certain count who’d cozy up with his mistress in a sealed carriage, entirely cut off from the driver. They’d traverse Old Dunling’s tracks for hours, the driver oblivious to the antics behind him, until the count deigned to return home.”

  Eve frowned, a flicker of disgust crossing her face. “How on earth do you know this?”

  “His wife engaged my services. Hard as it may be to believe, I have a… devoted following among affluent ladies.” Burton preened, eyes alight.

  After his first adultery case, the scorned wife had recommended him to her social circle. The noblesse appreciated Burton’s blunt, effective methods, earning him the notorious moniker “Mistress Slayer” in high society.

  The count’s case stood as the pinnacle of his infidelity-chasing career. The client knew of her husband’s indiscretions but lacked proof, so Burton tailed the man for weeks before discovering the mobile “palace.”

  In the end, Burton orchestrated a “derailment” at a strategic location.

  “You should’ve seen the looks on their faces when they rolled out of that carriage stark naked!”

  Eve stared, aghast—this was beyond mere poor manners; it bordered on psychological instability.

  “Then why quit?”

  “Such work erodes one’s moral fiber… and invites unwanted retribution.” Burton adopted a sanctimonious tone, though the truth was the traumatized count had spent three months in a sanatorium. Upon recovery, his first act was hiring assassins, forcing Burton to hide with Shrike for nearly a month.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  His absurd anecdotes thawed the tense atmosphere slightly, the damp chill feeling less oppressive.

  “Any spare room down there?” Burton asked, gesturing to the space beneath Eve’s dress, entirely lacking in propriety.

  “W-what are you implying?” Eve flushed, the detective’s audacity staggering—with him, no boundary was sacred.

  From who-knew-where, Burton produced a silver revolver, its cylinder engraved with intricate ghosts and demons motifs, heavy and loaded to the brim.

  “Need you to stash this. Sabo may be a rough-hewn Viking, but even he’s picked up Inner City niceties. At his balls, men undergo thorough searches—no blade, no matter how cleverly hidden, escapes detection. But he’d never dare violate a lady’s modesty.”

  Handing over the revolver, Burton positioned himself beside her, meticulously adjusting his attire—what followed required precision.

  Though perplexed, Eve obediently strapped the weapon to her thigh ribbon. Beneath the elegant gown lay form-fitting tactical clothing; with a single tug, she could shed the dress and dive into combat.

  Daggers and firearms—Eve was no delicate noble flower. Born into the Phoenix family, while others were cradled in gold, she was weaned on the smell of gunpowder. Even a princess of the Glorious War’s resurrected “phoenixes” carried the stench of sulfur in her veins, a heritage etched into her very blood.

  “Time’s up,” Burton announced abruptly.

  Eve still lacked clarity—since leaving the restaurant, events had unfolded beyond her understanding. Then, the midnight bell tolled: a deep, sonorous note from the Inner City’s tallest spire, its low hum echoing through alleyways like a ghost reluctant to depart.

  An inexplicable dread pooled in Eve’s gut, her chest tightening with unease.

  The thin fabric of her dress offered no defense against the cold, which slithered up her waist like spectral fingers.

  At some point, the street had emptied entirely—only she and Burton remained. Distant hoofbeats approached, belonging to the night patrol, yet the dense fog obscured everything. Streetlights glowed as fuzzy halos, resembling the luminous eyes of some monstrous entity lurking in the gray.

  A frigid wind swept across Eve’s cheek, making her shiver.

  She turned, and her breath hitched in her throat.

  A pitch-black steam tram had materialized at the platform, its arrival masked by the mist. No headlights blazed, no identifying marks adorned its sides; even the windshield was a blank, obsidian pane. Eve couldn’t even confirm if a driver sat within, the only sign of life the faint steam hissing from its engine.

  No trams should be operating at this hour, yet here one stood: a silent, spectral presence.

  “Take my arm. For tonight’s performance, we’re star-crossed lovers,” Burton instructed, extending his elbow with practiced charm.

  Lovers? Eve’s fingers itched to draw her hidden pistol—how dare he trivialize this nightmare scenario? But the tram’s door creaked open, interrupting her fury.

  A servant clad in jet-black livery emerged, offering a subtle nod to Burton. The detective produced two coins, not embossed with the royal lion but a fierce shrike clutching thorns—some form of clandestine pass. The servant stepped aside, revealing a yawning darkness within, like a portal to the abyss.

  “Burton…” Eve began, the dread now a physical weight on her chest. Her instincts screamed danger, but Burton wore a serene smile, guiding her arm through his as if they were indeed en route to a romantic tryst.

  The steam tram glided into motion without a sound, slipping into the fog like a phantom dissolving into nothingness, leaving no trace of its passage.