Lord Of In Between

Knock, Knock, Knock.

Victor's breath hitched.

The knocks were deliberate—steady, patient, as if whoever stood outside knew he was inside. Watching. Listening.

He hesitated, glancing toward the window again. The yellow umbrella hadn't moved. But beyond the fogged-up glass, a silhouette loomed just beyond the threshold, its outline blurred by mist and rain.

Who would visit at this hour?

The old clock on his desk ticked, counting the seconds of his indecision. Something about this felt off. He wasn't expecting anyone, and he was certain—absolutely certain—he had locked the door.

Yet the knocking continued.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Victor swallowed hard. He reached for the revolver on the desk, fingers gliding over the cold metal of the cylinder. A swift motion—he flipped it open, confirming every bullet was still in place.

His eyes narrowed. So Elias hadn't fired a single shot…

The revolver was untouched. Elias hadn't taken his own life after reading the letter.

Victor took the peculiar letter along with its envelope, his fingers brushing against the rough, aged paper. A faint, almost imperceptible chill seeped into his skin, sending an involuntary shiver up his spine.

Without hesitation, he slipped it into the desk drawer, the faint creak of the wood echoing in the quiet room.

A heavy silence hung in the air, thick as the fog clouding his thoughts. Almost instinctively, Victor slid the revolver behind his waist, his right hand tightening around the grip.

Step by step, he moved toward the door, slow and deliberate. The fragments of Elias' memories whispered in the back of his mind—disjointed images of an ambush, of unseen danger lurking just beyond sight.

Stopping in front of the door, his finger drifted toward the trigger. His heart pounded, his breath subtly uneven. He forced it down. Fear was an indulgence he could not afford.

His voice, when it came, was steady. Cold.

"Who's there?"

The knocking stopped.

Silence stretched across the room, swallowing everything whole until only the sound of his own breathing remained.

Then—

"It's me… Watson."

A soft, feminine voice. Faint, almost swallowed by the fading drizzle.

Victor's brows furrowed.

Watson?

He sifted through his own memories. That name did not exist.

A crack of lightning split the sky, momentarily painting the world in stark white. Thunder followed—a deep, reverberating growl that shook the very air. And in that brief moment—

A cry.

Not from within, but just beyond his doorstep. A sharp, startled voice. The girl's voice.

Victor's grip on the revolver tightened. He shifted his gaze toward the large window, its glass misted from the damp air. There, beneath the awning, crouched a lone figure.

A girl.

Her brown hair peeked from beneath a deerstalker hat, her coat and dress distinctly reminiscent of the 19th century. She had folded in on herself, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly over her ears—as if trying to shut out the remnants of the storm.

Victor exhaled silently, lowering the revolver. He slipped it into his pocket, though his guard remained raised. If words failed, fists would suffice.

Slowly, he reached for the handle. The cold metal pressed against his palm. A quiet click followed as the door creaked open.

And there she was.

A girl—no older than sixteen or seventeen—curled beneath his roof, trembling from the aftershocks of the storm.

Victor parted his lips, intending to speak, to tell her that the thunder had passed.

But before he could utter a single word—

A jolt.

A piercing sensation—like static coursing through his fingertips, climbing his spine, coiling at the base of his skull. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and then—

A sharp crack split his mind—like glass under pressure.

Not physically, but in his mind. Like a thread snapping under too much tension. Like a lock breaking after years of rust.

The floodgates of memory shattered.

Emotions, moments, recollections not his own surged forth, weaving into the fabric of his consciousness.

Reina Watson.

The landlord's, Mr Dorrmen's daughter. A girl enamored with detectives—one who often loitered in Elias' office under the pretense of "helping."

To Elias, she was little more than an occasional nuisance.

in his memory, this girl was only two years different from him, namely 17 years...! in that instant, another realization struck him.

Seventeen?

The thought lingering in his mind

She was seventeen!

Two years younger than himself. As far as he could recall, which meant that Elias was nineteen. Victor's mind churned.

Why would a seventeen-year-old girl come to his place in the middle of the night?

More than that—why now, in the rain? The downpour had eased, but the streets remained slick, the air heavy with moisture. It was unnatural. Suspicious.

His thoughts spiraled, threading together possibilities.

A trap?

A mistake?

An unfortunate girl caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?

His fingers curled slightly, the weight of the revolver grounding him in reality.

But still—

Even if this was some elaborate ruse, even if unseen dangers lurked in the shadows— He could not, in good conscience, leave a girl to the cold embrace of the night.

His breath stalled.

As a dull throbbing erupted in his skull, like his mind had been thrown into a spinning centrifuge. His balance wavered. Instinctively, his hands reached for support, grasping at emptiness.

The world tilted. His vision swam.

Yet—

Through the haze, through the disorientation, his gaze locked onto the girl still crouched beneath the awning.

Her hands were still pressed over her ears.

Her body was still small against the lingering cold.

Victor exhaled sharply. He steadied himself. Then, with deliberate calm, he spoke her name.

"Reina."

The name drifted into the night, slipping past the fading echoes of rain, past the flickering glow of lanterns, past the quiet warmth spilling from the open doorway.

A pause.

Slowly—tentatively—Reina Watson lifted her head.

Her movements were uncertain, like someone roused from deep slumber. The dim light shifted across her face, revealing features once lost in the gray mist of Elias' fragmented memories.

She was real.

The golden glow of kerosene lamps framed her silhouette, contrasting the damp chill outside with the inviting warmth of the office behind him.

And then—

Recognition flickered in her eyes.

"Mr. Vayne?"

Her voice trembled, barely more than a whisper.

Victor's breath was steady now, but his grip on the doorframe tightened.

Reina blinked, uncertain. A flicker of doubt passed over her face before she swallowed. Her brown eyes—matching the color of her hair—searched his face for certainty.

Her fingers flexed, as if testing reality.

"You still here...?"

Her voice wavered—not just from the cold, but from something deeper. Something fragile.

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he stepped aside, tilting his head toward the open doorway.

"Come in."

Elias Vayne and Reina Watson stepped into the detective shop, the scent of aged wood and ink lingering in the air. Watson entered first, she took off her shoes and walked in, her yellow umbrella dripping a trail of rainwater across the floor. Elias followed closely behind, his right hand still on the door handle, closing it with deliberate slowness.

Watson closed her umbrella in one swift motion, water dripping from the edge of the cloth onto the old wooden floor.

The shop was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain against the windows. Watson took another step inside, then abruptly halted. Her body tensed, her damp coat clinging to her frame.

Elias, still caught in the motion of shutting the door, narrowed his eyes. Why?

Then, he followed her gaze.

His breath hitched.

it was his previous table!

Shit.

A dark stain marred the wooden surface, its crimson hue stark against the pale grain. It hadn't dried completely. He could still see the way it had pooled, the irregular splatter.

His mind reeled. I managed to keep my shirt clean… but the desk…

A chill, one that had nothing to do with the cold rain outside, crawled up his spine. His heartbeat quickened, pounding against his ribs. The air in the room felt heavier, pressing down on him.

Watson's brow furrowed. Her usual casual demeanor slipped away, replaced by something sharper—something that cut through the space between them like a razor. She lifted her umbrella, its tip hovering just above the stained wood.

"Elias… whose blood is that?"

Her voice was steady. Controlled. But beneath it, there was something else—something that sent another wave of unease through Elias. Concern? Suspicion? Or perhaps… both?

Her gaze flicked toward him. He knew what she saw—the pallor of his face, the sheen of sweat beginning to form despite the cold.

"don't say it's wine. We both know you don't drink."

She right! There's a memory about Original Elias stating that he hated wine!

Elias forced a chuckle, but it came out thin, brittle. His fingers twitched at his sides.

"R-Relax, Watson. It's not mine. A guest—spilled a glass earlier."

Watson didn't move. The space between them shrank—not in distance, but in weight. She stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The scent of rain and damp fabric lingered around her.

"Really?"

Her tone was smooth, her syllables precise. She twirled her umbrella absently, the motion effortless, controlled. Then, she pointed it again—this time, not at the stain, but at him.

"Then why does it smell like iron?"

Elias swallowed. His throat was dry. He resisted the urge to wipe his hands against his Heads.

Think.

Think.

Think.

"I-It's, uh—" He cleared his throat, forcing another laugh. It came out strained. "It's a rare kind of wine. Imported. Expensive. Has a… particular aroma."

Watson's expression didn't change. She studied him, the air between them stretching, growing taut.

"A rare wine."

It wasn't a question.

Elias nodded too quickly. "Yeah, yeah! Limited stock. You wouldn't have heard of it."

Another beat of silence.

Watson tilted her head slightly, arms crossing as she examined him with the same precision one might use to dissect a puzzle. The kind of scrutiny that peeled away layers, searching for what lay beneath.

Elias could hear his own heartbeat. Loud. Unsteady.

Then—finally—Watson exhaled through her nose, the tension in her shoulders loosening just enough to be noticeable. She tapped the handle of her umbrella against her shoulder.

"Next time, try wiping it off before someone walks in." A pause, She bit her Lips. Then, softer—"Looks suspicious, you know?"

Elias forced a smile. It felt unnatural on his lips.

Watson turned away, moving deeper into the shop.

Elias let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His pulse still hadn't settled. Barely. He had barely dodged the question.

Elias narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharpening like the edge of a well-maintained blade. His fingers twitched slightly before he gestured, palms open, his voice measured yet carrying a quiet weight.

"Isn't it rude to come here and accuse the owner of the place?"

His tone was smooth, almost amiable, yet something coiled beneath the surface—something restrained. His hands moved subtly, as if shaping the very words he spoke, as if willing them to be perceived as nothing more than reasoned discourse.

Watson, however, merely smiled. A simple, unbothered curve of the lips.

"Hehe."

The rain that clung to his hair shimmered under the dim light, the strands shifting ever so slightly with his movement. Droplets trickled down, trailing along the contours of his face, yet she made no effort to brush them away.

Elias felt his thoughts momentarily stall, his expression freezing.

What kind of reaction is that!

A flicker of irritation threatened to rise, but he pressed it down. He had seen men react with feigned calm, with barely concealed aggression, with righteous fury—but this? This was something else entirely.

Just then, the girl—who had previously been curled in upon herself, fearful of the thunderclaps outside—lifted her head. Her eyes, which had moments ago been clouded with unease, now gleamed with a sharp, knowing light.

Elias felt his breath hitch for the briefest of moments. It seems that Elias Original's memory of Watson being a girl who really-really likes detectives is not just playing around.

Elias took a deep breath, the cold air seeping into his lungs like an unseen force tightening its grip around his chest. Panic and nervousness swirled within him, an unsettling mixture that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

Yet, with practiced restraint, he directed his gaze toward Watson, who sat in the dimly lit chair—the very spot where Elias or Victor had regained consciousness.

The oil lamp flickered, casting wavering shadows across the room, distorting the features of the woman before him.

"So… what do you want?" Elias finally spoke, his voice deliberately steady, suppressing the unease that coiled within. "Why are you here? At my place, at this hour of the night?"

Watson did not respond immediately. She merely lowered her gaze.

After a brief silence, she finally raised her head. Her expression remained unreadable, her voice a mere whisper, as if the words themselves held a weight beyond their meaning.

"I'm just making sure you're still alive…"

A chill ran down Elias' spine.