Lord Of In Between

Elias frowned, his breath turning shallow. His fingers instinctively tightened around the edge of the desk, a subtle but telling reaction. His eyebrows twitched slightly, betraying his unease.

"What do you mean? Am I going to die?" His voice was steady, but there was a faint tension beneath it, like a string pulled too tight.

Across from him, Watson exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes as she leaned back against the chair. A gloved finger tapped absentmindedly on the surface of the desk—a small, rhythmic sound that betrayed her own hesitation.

"It's not like that..." she said, pausing for a moment before continuing, her tone laced with reluctant disbelief. "To be honest, when I first read it, I thought it was nonsense."

Elias did not respond immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted toward the window—a glass pane misted with condensation, streaked with the remnants of drizzle. Beyond it, the fog stretched endlessly, an unbroken sea of grey. It pressed against the world outside, swallowing details, muting colors.

He returned his eyes to Watson, his pupils constricting ever so slightly.

She let out a slow breath, tilting her head forward until her forehead nearly touched the cool surface of the white oak desk. Then, with an air of tired resignation, she removed her hat, fingers combing briefly through her auburn hair before resting the hat beside her.

"There was a letter," she murmured, her voice quieter now. "I opened it a few hours ago."

Elias remained still. The clock in the corner of the room ticked, each second stretching longer than it should.

Watson continued, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her hat. "It contained something… absurd. Words that don't make sense."

She lifted her gaze, and for the first time, her voice wavered slightly.

"It said that Elias is dead."

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Dead?

Dead!

The word reverberated in Elias' mind, each syllable sinking into him like a stone cast into a still pond. His chest tightened, a cold sweat creeping down the back of his neck.

For a brief moment, the room felt too small, too suffocating. Was this some cruel joke? Or was someone playing a twisted game with his life?

He forced himself to focus. Focus, Elias. His breath shallow, but steadying. This wasn't the time for panic. There had to be an explanation.

Could it be the murderer of the real Elias? he thought bitterly.

The idea surfaced unbidden, intrusive. But then… why? Why send such a letter to Watson? What purpose did it serve? A taunt? A warning? Or something else entirely?

His mind swirled with conjectures, each thought colliding against the next, unable to form a coherent picture. But one thing was certain—this was not something to ignore.

He would investigate it at dawn. That was the kind of person Elias had always been—or at least, the kind of person the real Elias had been.

Watson, unaware of the storm in his mind, continued speaking, though her voice had softened.

"I don't believe it… but you know, it's better to check than..."

She trailed off.

For the first time since the conversation began, her gaze shifted—not toward Elias, but toward the door. The wooden frame stood there, unmoving, silent. And yet, something in her expression suggested an unease she wasn't willing to put into words.

Elias noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly, his brow twitching.

Watson exhaled, shaking her head before finally turning back to him.

"Uhh Well... that's how it ended," she said. Watson finally turned to Elias.

But the expression she expected to see—the cautious surprise, the quiet disbelief—was nowhere to be found.

Instead, Elias raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His arms folded across his chest, and his posture, once tense with unease, now carried an air of casual amusement.

Despite the lingering fear in his chest, despite the uncertainty that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, Elias Vayne never let an opportunity slip past him.

"Worried? Hmm…" He let the word hang in the air, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.

Watson, who had been dramatically face-planting into the desk, shot up like a startled cat.

"W-what the hell?" she blurted, her voice slightly higher than usual. A hint of embarrassment laced her tone, betraying her attempt at composure.

Elias chuckled softly, his amusement evident. Meanwhile, Reina Watson groaned and pressed her forehead against the white oak desk once more.

Luckily, a thin tablecloth softened the impact.

Elias tilted his head back, letting his gaze drift to the ceiling, its wooden beams casting faint shadows against the dim light of the room. A moment passed in contemplative silence before he glanced at Watson again, who was still rubbing her head against the desk.

With a steady breath, he forced away the remnants of his earlier nervousness. The creeping fear in his heart would not serve him now.

"We can forget about that," he said finally, his voice carrying an edge of conviction. "I need your help tomorrow."

Watson lifted her gaze, her eyes flickering with hesitation.

A long pause followed before she exhaled softly.

"…Okay."

A silent understanding passed between them. They both gave a small nod, sealing an unspoken agreement.

And then, with an exaggerated sigh, Watson lowered her head again, muttering something unintelligible into the tablecloth.

Elias hesitated, a thought surfacing in the depths of his mind. A question—one that should have been obvious from the beginning, yet had only now taken shape in his awareness.

Does her father know she's here?

If not… then he might very well be thrown out before morning.

He cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully.

"...Watson." His voice was slow, wary. "Tell me, does Mr. Dorrmen knows you're here." Silence.

Watson blinked once.

Then twice.

And then—she smiled.

Elias watched as Watson gave him a too-casual smile. That was never a good sign.

The headache was already forming. Something cold settled in his stomach. His instincts screamed at him. He had seen this exact expression before—on people who had just dumped a massive problem into someone else's lap.

"Ehem! "

"I'm turning eighteen this month," she said matter-of-factly. "So—"

It's over, Elias muttered, rubbing his temples.

Elias tried to maintain his composure, but inside, he was already calculating possible escape routes.

The moment Watson uttered those words, Elias already knew what was coming.

A small problem? Heh...

Original Elias, you might want to label her as a catastrophe.

Without needing to show it, he was already wailing internally. His hands instinctively moved to his temples, fingers pressing against his skull as if trying to contain the impending headache. This time, it wasn't due to illness, exhaustion, or any external affliction—this was purely a housing problem.

O... God, why have you placed this burden upon me…?

Watson leaned back against the chair, her expression unreadable. A faint drizzle continued tapping against the window, adding an eerie rhythm to the silence that followed.

"Disaster…" Elias muttered, his voice filled with despair.

He could already see it—himself, forced to negotiate, plead, or worse, search for another place to stay. That would mean spending money, something he hated to do unless absolutely necessary. It was as if a sharp pain stabbed through his very soul.

"Heh heh." A dry, bitter chuckle escaped his lips. The memories of Elias Vayne clashed with Victor Holloway's instincts—one hated spending money, the other despised taking blame. A disaster waiting to happen.

"W-what happened?" Her voice faltered slightly, laced with confusion.

She narrowed her eyes at him, watching as he ran a hand down his face, Elias exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. A headache was already forming. He had fought murderers (as Elias), faced death itself(once)—and yet, somehow, this felt worse.

His fingers, still pressed against his temple, tensed as he processed the weight of his situation.

His stomach twisted.

"Watson," he started, voice tight, urgent.

She turned to him, arms crossed, expression entirely too relaxed for someone who was actively ruining his life.

"You need to leave."

Watson blinked. Once. Twice. Then, instead of moving, she smirked.

"Oh?" she said, tilting her head slightly. "Are you worried?"

Elias did not dignify that with a response. He could not dignify that with a response—not when his mind was already running through the worst possible scenarios.

If Mr. Dorrmen—no, if anyone—found out she was here, it wouldn't just be an awkward conversation. He would be thrown out without question, possibly labeled a scoundrel in the process.

Elias inhaled sharply, forcing down the rising dread.

"Watson," he said again, this time stepping closer, grabbing her wrist with just enough force to make it clear he was not joking. "I mean it. Go home."

Watson raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with amusement. "Now you're getting serious?"

Elias exhaled through his nose. She wasn't taking this seriously at all.

With one swift movement, he pulled her toward the door, ignoring the half-hearted protest she muttered under her breath.

"You're acting like my father is some terrifying—"

"He is," Elias snapped, voice slightly higher than he intended. "And if he finds out you're here, I will be the one who suffers for it, not you!"

Of course, he's someone good to you, but for me he was someone to watch out for. Otherwise… my hard-earned money would be devoured by rent.

Elias exhaled slowly, suppressing the shudder that crawled up his spine. A cold, invisible hand seemed to clutch at his wallet, tightening its grip with merciless certainty.

The mere thought of it—his savings, meticulously calculated and preserved, vanishing overnight—was enough to make his fingers twitch.

Elias then turned his gaze back to Watson.

On other hand Watson blinked, finally—finally—looking the slightest bit guilty.

Elias seized the moment.

"Hat. Now," he ordered. "Shoes. Door. Out."

She muttered something under her breath but complied. "Fine," she muttered. "Fine. I'll go."

Watson bent down, slipping on her shoes with practiced ease. The leather, once damp from the rain-slicked streets, now felt noticeably drier.

Elias noticed. His instincts, honed by the habits of his predecessor, latched onto the detail without effort. The room's temperature hadn't changed significantly, and the air remained cool, yet the shoes had dried unnaturally fast. Outside, the cold still pressed against the windows.

It made little sense.

His gaze flickered upward. Watson's auburn hair, which had clung to her skin in damp strands not long ago, now framed her face in soft, dry waves.

an unsettling thought brushed the edges of his mind. Too fast…

For a brief moment, Elias found himself drifting into a sea of speculation, his mind instinctively piecing together possibilities. But before he could dwell further, the ticking of the clock on his desk pulled him back.

Five minutes to midnight.

He turned his gaze back to Watson.

She adjusted her umbrella, the yellow fabric taut under her grip. Then, she turned, casting him a light, effortless smile.

"See you tomorrow morning."

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped into the quiet drizzle, moving with the unhurried grace of someone entirely at ease. The rain had nearly faded to mist, yet she still carried her umbrella high.

Elias remained still, his eyes lingering on her retreating figure. A vague unease curled in his chest, but he pushed it aside, shaking his head.

Am I just exaggerating?

It unsettled him. But in the end, he dismissed it as a stray thought, a meaningless observation in the dead of night. Besides, what harm could it possibly bring?

With a final glance at the empty street, he shut the door, cutting off the cold air and the whispers of the night beyond.

Elias stepped back into the room, each movement measured, deliberate. The cold bit at his fingers, sending faint tremors through his hands, but he barely noticed. Or rather, he was too preoccupied to care.

He reached his desk, pulling open the second drawer with the slow precision of someone who had done it countless times before—though, strangely, he couldn't recall ever doing so. His fingers brushed against the letter, its edges worn, fragile, as if time had gnawed away at it in his absence.

He unfolded it. Read it again. Searching, grasping for something that wasn't there.

We are all already dead.

A simple sentence. Five words. Yet it felt heavier than it should, as though something unseen pressed against his mind, whispering truths he wasn't ready to face.

Elias lowered himself into his chair, his thoughts unraveling and reweaving themselves in loops.

When he first awoke, he had been seated just like this—facing the ceiling, rather than slumped over his desk as he had been on Earth. It was a minor detail, trivial even. But the more he thought about it, the more it gnawed at him.

A man who dies unwillingly struggles. A man who dies by force leaves behind signs of resistance.

But his position had been relaxed. Composed. Like someone who had willingly taken their seat, knowing what was to come.

Why?

No one accepts death so easily.

His fingers tightened slightly around the letter as his fragmented memories stirred, like ripples in still water. Before all of this—before waking up in this unfamiliar existence—he had been close. Close to uncovering the truth behind his friend's disappearance at the university.

And yet, here he was.

Dead.

The word tasted foreign, distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

But then—wasn't that the strangest thing? He felt alive. Thought, breathed, questioned, doubted—wasn't that the essence of life itself?

Then again, corpses didn't question their own mortality.

His gaze returned to the letter. If Watson's words were true—that there was another letter elsewhere, announcing his death—then this one was different. Less a declaration, more a whisper in the dark.

A warning.

His fingers traced the envelope, lingering over the stained, uneven texture. There was no sender. No return address. No trace of where it had come from.

And yet it had reached him.

That shouldn't have been possible.

In Zafirah, a letter required identification—a name, an address, a traceable path. Anonymity wasn't an option, unless one had money to bypass the system, or a connection within the postal network.

But even then, there was another problem.

No seal.

The official mark of Oter, the central postal office, was missing. A letter could not—should not—pass through the system unstamped. The bureaucratic machinery of the world didn't allow for gaps, for anomalies.

And yet, here it was.

He exhaled slowly, the sound nearly lost in the heavy stillness of the room.

"Then how was this letter delivered?"

The answer should have been simple. It had been handed directly from sender to recipient. That, at least, was still within the realm of possibility.

But the problem was this—he couldn't remember receiving it.

Victor, the fragmented consciousness bound to his existence, held no memory of it either.

Which meant…

His grip on the envelope tightened, an unfamiliar unease settling in his chest.

There was a presence in this sequence of events, unseen yet undeniable. Something—or someone—had ensured this letter reached him, circumventing the rules of the world in ways he couldn't yet grasp.

Elias leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, exhaustion pressed against his mind—not just physical, but something deeper, something that coiled within his very being.

Perhaps it was the weight of knowing too little. Or the quiet, creeping realization that the truth—whatever it was—had been waiting for him far longer than he had been searching for it.

His breath slowed. His thoughts blurred.

Sleep pulled at him, inevitable, inescapable.

And so, with no other choice, Elias let it take him.