Lord Of In Between

Elias stepped away from his office, blending into the stream of workers filling the streets with the clatter of hurried footsteps and the murmur of morning conversations. He hadn't expected this place to be so lively at this hour—at night, it felt like a forgotten ruin, swallowed by silence.

His office stood at a three-way intersection, a two-story brick building with large, dark-framed windows. The frosted glass on the door bore the fading words "Vayne Investigations," a name that had long settled into the city's undercurrents. The street ahead bustled with merchants setting up their stalls and workers making their way to the factories.

Just down the road, a small plant shop stood in quiet defiance against the gray tones of the city, its scent of damp earth faint beneath the stronger tang of iron from the steelworks factory looming beyond, its smokestacks reaching into the sky like skeletal fingers.

To the right, a narrow alleyway wound between old, shadowed townhouses—silent observers of time, their balconies rusted, their windows always veiled. To the left, the city softened into the trade district, where antique bookstores and dimly lit boutiques lined the streets.

7 Gilded Clock Street lay two blocks away, a small café nestled between taller buildings, its fogged windows distorting the silhouettes inside. A warm escape, though not one for him.

He had obtained this address just steps from his office, the slip of paper now folded neatly in his coat pocket. But it wasn't just an address—it was a thread, pulling at something buried deep within his mind. A name. A place. A city.

Amberlin.

A fitting name for a place like this.

Elias stood, watching the tide of people flow past—each lost in their own world, unaware of the man lingering at its edges.

But time pressed forward, as it always did. He shifted his thoughts back to his destination.

Last night, Watson handed me this paper. Said it was the place to meet. Elias took one last glance at his surroundings, exhaled into the crisp morning air, and moved.

He pulled his coat tighter against the morning chill, his breath misting in the air as he made his way down the bustling street. The scent of coal smoke and damp stone lingered, mixing with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery.

The city stirred with the clamor of industry, but Elias moved with quiet purpose.

Elias lowered his gaze to the paper he had been given the night before. At the top, an address was scrawled in neat, deliberate handwriting:

15 - Bramblewood Square, The Clockwork Café.

His brow furrowed.

A café? Wasn't there one much closer? Is there something there? Why travel all the way there? Was she avoiding someone? Or was there an unseen danger lurking beneath the surface.

Questions swirled, each leading to another possibility. He walked as he thought, his boots clicking softly against the stone pavement, each step marking the passage of time beneath the golden morning light. The air remained crisp, a lingering remnant of the night's chill.

Then, his thoughts circled back to one particular question.

Is there something there?.

A strange sensation welled up from the depths of his mind—an elusive familiarity, like a whisper carried by the wind, just beyond the edge of understanding. His fingers unconsciously tightened around the slip of paper.

This address… Why does it feel so…

The sun ascended, its warmth pressing against his skin, yet an eerie shiver coursed through his spine. Then, without warning, memories crashed into him like a tidal wave.

Elias stumbled, hands grasping the sides of his face as his vision blurred. A dull ache pounded in his skull, then slowly faded, replaced by fragmented images surfacing from the depths of his mind.

The Clockwork Café…

A place long buried in the corridors of his memory. The place where he and his companions had first met.

Faces, voices, laughter—all flickered through his thoughts like phantoms. They had gathered there every Monday afternoon, discussing matters that once felt vital, yet now seemed distant and veiled.

Among them, a particular presence lingered. A shadow imprinted upon his soul, neither fully remembered nor entirely forgotten.

And then, another piece of knowledge drifted to the surface, unbidden.

The Republic of Caerleon. Or perhaps this world.

Its timekeeping system had once been explained to him: a familiar seven-day cycle from Monday to Sunday, months spanning thirty to thirty-one days, a year composed of 364 days—so eerily similar to Earth.

Elias shook his head, attempting to dispel the lingering dizziness that clung to his mind like an unseen hand.

Yet, the discomfort remained, a faint but persistent sensation gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. His breath wavered slightly, but his steps did not falter. Shoulders tense, he pressed forward toward the designation.

The address Watson had provided led him toward the quieter districts, where the hum of machinery gave way to the occasional creak of wooden signs swaying in the wind.

A clock tower loomed ahead, its brass hands creeping toward the eighth hour. Beneath it, a modest café stood wedged between taller, more imposing structures. The glass panes were fogged from within, distorted silhouettes shifting behind them.

How did Watson know about this place?

As far as I remember, my friend and I were the only ones who frequently met here… Elias pondered as he made his way down the dimly lit street, his footsteps barely making a sound against the damp pavement.

A trace of curiosity flickered in his mind, but he quickly suppressed it. Perhaps it's simply a matter of efficiency… The route to her house might be shorter this way.

Lifting his gaze, he looked ahead toward the Clockwork Café, where the silhouette of a woman wearing a Deerstalker hat was faintly visible through the glass window. A peculiar sight amidst the modernity surrounding them.

"That must be Watson," he murmured under his breath, glancing briefly at the deserted street behind him. The silence felt almost unnatural, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

He checked both directions before crossing, his instincts guiding him despite the absence of movement. The moment he stepped through the door, the chime of a bell echoed softly, announcing his arrival.

Inside, the café was quiet. There were only a handful of patrons, scattered about like specters in a place that had long since forgotten the concept of warmth. Among them sat Watson, alone, as if isolated from the rest of the world.

"Different…" Elias muttered to himself. Very different from most people in the Modern Age…

He stepped forward, his boots clicking on to the Wooden floor. before settling into the seat across from her. A sigh escaped his lips.

"Sorry, I'm a little late." His gaze flickered toward the table—Watson had already ordered drinks and food.

For a moment, Watson remained silent, her expression unreadable. Then, at last, she turned her gaze toward him.

"It's okay—"

Her voice was soft, yet tinged with something… something subtle, but undeniable. Resignation?

Elias narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with you?" His tone held a rare trace of concern. In all the time he had known her, Watson had never been the type to appear weary, let alone resigned. No matter the situation, she always carried herself with confidence, a spark of mischief in her eyes, as if the world itself was merely another puzzle waiting to be solved.

And yet now… she seemed distant, untethered, like a marionette whose strings had been severed.

Just what did she encounter to make her like this?

" Forget about it," she said reluctantly, her eyes avoiding Elias' gaze. "I just forgot some things and got scolded."

Elias raised an eyebrow. Who dares to scold Mr. Dorrmen's daughter?

Ridiculous... If you think about it.

Mr. Dorrmen wasn't just some ordinary man—he owned almost every building on this block, except for the factory at the end of the street. From both his own experiences on Earth and the original Elias' memories, scolding a landlord's daughter was nothing short of courting misfortune. Truly asking for trouble…

Before Elias could contemplate further on who had the audacity to do such a thing, Watson's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I brought it."

She reached into her pocket, searching for something. Elias, who had yet to have breakfast, casually took a few pieces of macaroni from the plate Watson had ordered.

After all, what's the point of food if not to be eaten.

He grabbed another one without hesitation. If Watson hadn't ordered it for him, then who else was it for?

At the same time, Watson pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on the table.

A paper?

A letter?

…

The threat letter!

How did she know?! That was exactly what i was about to ask for!

Elias froze slightly, his pupils constricting. His thoughts spun rapidly as he tried to make sense of the situation. He hadn't even voiced his request yet, and Watson had already prepared the answer.

Watson, sighed before noticing his bewildered expression, and let out a small laugh. Her voice turned cheerful again, as if she was enjoying his reaction. "Let me guess—you're wondering how I knew?"

Elias let out a slow breath, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the fork in his grip. His gaze, sharp and calculating, remained locked onto Watson.

Yet, rather than flinching under his scrutiny, the woman merely offered a small, knowing smile—one devoid of warmth, carrying instead the weight of understanding. As if she had foreseen this encounter long before it ever took place.

"You were predictable, Elias," Watson remarked casually, idly twirling the edge of her scarf between her fingers. The gesture seemed careless.

"The moment you inquired about the letter I received yesterday and sought my assistance," she exhaled softly, her gaze steady, "I had already foreseen your desire to inspect it and anticipated your request for me to bring it along."

Watson's lips curled into a faint smile, his eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction.

Seriously, she's observing me like that?

Elias let out a quiet sigh, pushing aside the thought that Watson was becoming more and more like him in terms of deduction and observation. He shifted his gaze back to the letter resting on the table, his slender fingers reaching out to take it.

The paper was thin, with faint ink stains dried along the edges. As his eyes scanned its contents, he found that it was not much different from what Watson had told him last night.

The handwriting—neat but seemingly written in a hurry—was inscribed in the language of the Republic of Caerleon. If translated, it read:

"Elias is dead."

It wasn't just the message itself that caught his attention but something else—the subtle differences from the previous letter. This one bore the Oter mark, a seal that signified either official correspondence or a letter with a particular intent. Additionally, there was a sender's address.

Elias flipped the paper over, scrutinizing every fiber of its texture, but there was nothing more. No hidden notes, no impressions left by hurried strokes of a pen. Just a short message—one that could either be a warning or a threat.

He exhaled slowly. "Is this the only letter you received?" he asked, his gaze still lingering on the paper.

Watson, who had just taken a sip of the freshly served tea, nodded. "Yeah, that's all." Her attention remained fixed on the porcelain cup in her hands, as if the aroma of tea was more intriguing than the letter's implications.

Elias gave a slight nod, then pressed two fingers against his temple. His facial muscles tensed as his thoughts began shifting through the possibilities.

Should I go straight to the address listed here? Or would it be wiser to verify it at the post office first?

His fingers moved slowly to the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot between his eyes.

Going straight to the address was reckless—walking into a trap with his eyes open. Confirming the letter at the post office, on the other hand, would buy him time to prepare, to verify its authenticity before making a move. More importantly, what was his plan once he got there? Knock on the door and demand answers like an idiot?

Without solid proof, the letter's author—or rather, the perpetrator—could deny everything, turning suspicion into nothing more than empty accusations. And once that happened, the trail would go cold. He couldn't afford that.

Then—After a few minutes of careful deliberation, he settled on the second option.

The post office first.

A decision that was neither rushed nor needlessly cautious. Elias cast one last glance at the letter before folding it neatly and slipping it into the inner pocket of his coat.

He shifted his gaze to Watson, who was still sipping her tea, her expression unreadable. Elias remained silent for a moment, contemplating his next words before finally speaking.

"Watson, do you want to come? To investigate the post office." A brief silence settled between them, lingering like an unspoken thought.