England, 1877
. . .
The building was slated for demolition after the incident on the first floor; a seamstress was found lifeless, with her own sewing shears embedded in her throat, and the thread still entwined around her fingers.
However, four days before the borough's demolition crew was scheduled to arrive, a fire engulfed the city clerk's office, consuming the necessary paperwork. The cause remained undetermined.
As a result, Darwin remained among the few who had nowhere else to go.
He occupied a second-floor flat where the atmosphere carried a faint amalgam of smoke, aged ink, and coal dust.
The walls leaned precariously, and the remnants of once-green wallpaper curled away from damp corners, exposing plaster the hue of worn teeth.
Darwin sat by a narrow window that had been propped open with a fragment of brick to allow a sliver of night air to enter.
The glass was fogged from within and hadn't been cleaned in weeks.
A single stubby candle burned low in its tin holder, casting a flickering pool of yellow light across the sill.
The light caught the fine white strands of his overgrown hair, which hung limply over his brow, nearly obscuring his eyes when he tilted his head.
He hadn't intended to sit for so long.
The cigar between his fingers had extinguished minutes ago, which he hadn't relit.
Instead, he stared apathetically at the small grain that topped its end.
His eyes were hooded and reflected the glassy weariness of someone long unbothered by their own reflection.
Beside the candle lay a crumpled playbill, its text still legible:
ROYAL STAR THEATRE
A Singular Evening of Tragedy & Illusion
"Mire Street"
A New and Original Drama in Three Acts
{"On a street where the fog never lifts and the dead are seldom buried proper, a quiet man minds his shop... and counts his sins." }
The London Evening Register
. . .
The playbill had arrived that morning, folded neatly within his pay envelope, and nestled between the crumpled paper notes and the company's stamped receipt without any accompanying note.
Perhaps someone at the office considered it a clever jest.
Or maybe the theater had struck a deal with the building's owners to distribute them en masse, as a ploy to fill the cheaper seats.
He couldn't say why he hadn't discarded it.
His long, slender fingers hovered over the edge of the paper once more.
Something about the title, Mire Street, left him perplexed.
It carried the aroma of something rotten and wrapped in silk.
A performance likely steeped in dreary themes.
He pondered whether they intended to romanticize the morbid.
He held a certain bias against plays, having never formally attended one.
Predominantly, his impressions were shaped by news clippings and overheard conversations in the streets and alleyways.
He understood that such themes thrilled the Victorians most: blood, lace, and gaslight.
Darwin had seen enough of it in the penny serials discarded on the steps of the neighboring building.
With a resigned sigh, he rose from the floor, rubbing the sour ache in his lower back acquired from sitting too long in that position.
He moved toward a wooden chair leaning against a shelf stocked with tinned goods, tea, sugar, and a cheap container of treacle, and took a seat.
As he leaned back, his spine curved inward slightly, portraying the posture of an individual who'd lived with quiet discomfort for too long to flinch at it anymore.
The hem of his coat brushed the floor. There were burn holes in one sleeve.
The flame from the candle across the room had diminished, licking low at the wick, while cradled by a basin of melted wax.
He made no move to replace it; allowing things to run their course felt more honest.
Now, away from the window, he could peer outside.
The street lay half-shuttered and still as the soft glare of the gaslamps below flared against the mist, creating halos of amber trapped in the fog that crept through the alleys like menacing tendrils.
Occasionally, a few stragglers passed, however, their figures were indistinct unless one stood close to the window.
Darwin reached for the cigar again, though he didn't light it. Instead, he raised it near the bridge of his nose.
Despite purchasing a box a month prior, he had yet to finish it, since he tended to smoke more out of ritual than desire.
After a moment of silence, he placed the cigar between his lips and allowed his eyes to drift back to the playbill.
No actors' names were listed apart from a peculiar subtitle: A New and Original Drama in Three Acts.
That typically indicated no notable figures were involved.
"Good," he thought.
He disliked the crowds drawn by well-known faces.
He imagined the curtains parting to reveal disturbing secrets.
Perhaps a kind of reality that people preferred to keep confined behind red velvet and ticket stubs.
Much unlike the sort of reality he lived with.
Of course, there was no reason to attend such a performance. The theater was too distant, the streets too long.
Too many stares, and he quite despised the feeling of gaslight on his skin.
Yet, something lingered, like a hook just beneath the ribs.
Strangely, it didn't feel like interest or excitement, as he might typically experience when given a chance to interact with society, albeit secretly, since he usually kept his head low in the dark.
Rather, this sensation felt more akin to a nagging poke of curiosity.
Not about the play, precisely, but more so about what would happen if, just once, he stepped out of the condition he'd been living in.
Darwin blinked slowly and stood up from the chair.
He made no alterations to his attire and didn't smooth his hair. He took the candle stub, tucked the playbill into the inner pocket of his coat, and retrieved his scarf from its peg, wrapping it loosely around his mouth.
Ordinarily, he would have concealed his distinctive hair color, aware of the attention it attracted.
But tonight's decision was impulsively made amidst his own contemplations.
His boots, though scuffed, remained intact. As he opened the door, the cigar rested on the sill, allowing the smoke to curl into the diminishing candlelight.
. . .
The stairwell groaned beneath him as he descended, sliding a hand along the flaking banister.
The building, like most in the row, had been divided unevenly by a landlord who was too frugal to fix the windows and too clever to leave a hallway light.
What few tenants still lived above ground level kept to themselves.
A dented kettle, once left unattended in the hallway, had vanished twice, each time replaced by a tin cup affixed to the wall with a bent nail.
The front door resisted, its frame swollen from damp.
Darwin leaned his shoulder into it, forcing it open with a shove.
The hinges emitted a loud creak that echoed into the stairwell.
Rossbury Lane stretched ahead, its cobblestones uneven and cracked, slick with frost and darkened by coal soot and the remnants left by overworked horses.
To the left stood a grocer's shop, its windows obscured by yellowed paper. Prices were scrawled in chalk on scraps of board, the handwriting barely legible.
To the right, a pub with a weathered sign, its name long since peeled away.
Darwin recalled as he had visited the inside a few times, 'Locals usually refer to it by the muffled cacophony that seeps through its door after midnight.'
Further along, there were gas lamps that were spaced too far apart to dispel the shadows that clung between them.
Darwin walked hunched, intermittently adjusting his scarf over his mouth before returning his hands to the pockets of his coat.
He crossed a tramline without a glance since no trams ran at this hour.
Soon after, a meat cart passed, driven by a man with a lantern tied to the reins.
He was whistling a tune Darwin didn't recognize.
The theatre district was another fifteen minutes on foot, consisting of at least three bridges, two alley crossings, and one cut-through beneath the old mill arch, where gutter water pooled and the walls were too narrow for a carriage to fit.
Darwin opted for the shortcut.
The mill arch exuded the scent of rust and damp rope.
Once used for storage, it now housed items best left unmentioned in daylight: discarded sleeping rolls, broken crates, crushed tins, and a ledger that had been gnawed by rats.
To his relief, nothing had followed him as he emerged near the edge of the main square, where the pavement leveled and storefronts stood more upright.
Here, lights were more abundant, accompanied by the sounds of the town. This area was one where inspectors might still patrol at night.
Women in shawls sold roasted chestnuts beside iron braziers, the coals within popping brightly.
Above it all, nestled between two buildings of cleaner stone and larger windows, the Royal Star Theatre rose like a crown. Columns flanked its entrance, and the play's title was displayed in block letters across the marquee:
MIRE STREET | 1/9 ENTRY | TONIGHT ONLY
Darwin stopped a dozen paces from the door.
A few coaches rattled past the far side of the square, and nearby, a busker struck a sour note on a fiddle.
Darwin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the playbill inside his coat rustling. No one had noticed him yet, but he was already contemplating:
'My head feels ill; perhaps this was too abrupt.'
Darwin buried his hands deeper into his coat pockets, his fingers pressing uncomfortably against his palms.
He considered retreating, but the growing crowd made it impractical.
Thus, with a quiet exhale, he stepped forward.
The theater's oak doors, which were once painted a vibrant red, had withered two shades.
Darwin managed to slip inside before they could close completely.
He instantly looked up at the grand chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.
The lobby buzzed with conversations about the delayed performance, the rhythmic tapping of a child's shoes, the rustle of skirts, and the occasional clink of a ticket punch.
Fortunately, no one questioned Darwin's entry as he positioned himself along the periphery.
The usher at the ticket stand was preoccupied with a gentleman in a top hat, who was inquiring about the evening's cast.
A woman in a green cloak brushed past him without looking.
Darwin's attention lingered on her brooch momentarily before he looked away, upon smelling the lilac that trailed in her wake.
To his left, heavy curtains concealed the auditorium's entrance.
More footsteps clattered on wooden stairs.
Darwin approached without hesitation and slipped through the curtains.
The auditorium unfolded like a gutted jewel box with rows of red-upholstered chairs facing a grand stage, which was framed by gilded molding and curtains the color of old blood.
Overhead, there were three tiers of balconies that housed silhouettes in hats and gloves, their profiles turned toward the footlights.
Darwin maintained his composure, though his eyes darted in search of an unoccupied seat.
The constant movement of figures at the edge of his vision stirred an uneasy rhythm in his chest.
As he navigated the periphery, it became evident that every seat had been claimed.
Only a single spot in the middle rows remained vacant.
It was sufficiently distanced from the center to avoid undue attention, yet close enough to observe the stage clearly.
Most importantly, it offered respite from standing.
He descended the aisle and warily settled into the chair.
As he leaned back into the plush fabric, he heard the man beside him shift in his seat.
'Did he have no one else to attend with? A theater isn't a place to make acquaintances. Go to a pub if you want that, you fool!'
Darwin suppressed a scowl beneath his scarf as he glanced out of the corner of his eye.
The man beside him possessed pale skin and sharply defined features.
His layered black hair, tinged with a subtle blue sheen, was loosely tied at the nape, with strands falling over his forehead in a tousled manner.
Narrow grey eyes, framed by long lashes.
Even his demeanor seemed calm, yet inscrutable.
A single dark glove adorned his right hand, the material fitting snugly against his skin.
Just then, Darwin noticed something else, and he turned completely, without saying a single phrase.
The stranger appeared slightly younger, as his features were more refined, and overall well-maintained, he also had black hair instead of white.
In any case, how was it possible for two random strangers to bear such a striking resemblance?
The man suddenly looked over with a charming smile.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said in a low voice.
After a few seconds, Darwin cleared his throat. "No," he murmured. "I was merely a bit... It's odd to see someone..." He trailed off, uncertain whether to articulate his thought.
Darwin sighed before abruptly pulling down his scarf to reveal his own face.
The mans smile widened. "I see. I was simply going to compliment your unique hair trait. I hadn't anticipated I would be looking at myself."
The man's eyes flicked toward the stage, then back to Darwin. "Perhaps with minimal changes on your part, we could truly be the same person," he joked.
Darwin bowed his head, offering a half-hearted smile. "Yes, though I fear I may need far more than minimal alteration. You seem very well put together."
The man responded quickly, "Nonsense! Perhaps you've appeared in quite peculiar attire for a play, but aside from that, I can see you are a rather charming fellow. It's a mystery that I have never caught you on the street before."
Darwin was immidietly taken aback.
The stranger changed the subject changed as soon as the curtains began to rise.
"The play is about a murder," he remarked casually, as if discussing the weather. "A rather grisly affair, I should say."
Darwin shifted in his seat.
It wasn't the subject matter that unsettled him, but the man's manner of speaking as though they were long-time acquaintances.
'Then again... perhaps it's just me. I've spent far too long without a proper conversation. Maybe introductions have evolved behind my back,' Darwin mused, accepting that his decision to attend the play meant engaging in social interaction.
"Really?" Darwin asked, turning his attention to the stage, where the lead actor, clad in dark attire, began the opening monologue. "Who gets murdered?"
"In my opinion, someone who shouldn't have been," the man replied, eyes fixed on the stage. "But inevitably had it coming."
Darwin acknowledged him curiously before responding, "I don't believe anyone deserves to be murdered."
"Deserve? That's a notion for those who believe in fairness. In reality, survival and execution are matters of capability. If a murderer orchestrates their act with precision, leaving no trace, then the victim's demise is but a consequence of their own inadequacy."
Darwin turned to the stranger beside him, searching for a hint of irony or jest. But there was nothing to suggest the words were anything but genuine.
"You don't believe in justice then?" Darwin asked.
"No," he replied with an unchanged expression, "I believe in consequences…they're often more fitting than justice. In this scenario, the victim failed to anticipate the murderer's actions, and the murderer failed to cover their tracks. Both faced the repercussions of their shortcomings."
"Forgive me if this seems impolite," Darwin muttered, "but your perspective is rather… unconventional. It suggests this play is more complex than it appears."
The man's smile vanished. "What makes you think this ideology is exclusively about the play?"
At a loss, Darwin turned his attention back to the stage.
The curtain had fully risen, revealing actors who moved like phantoms, their dialogue and gestures deliberate and laden with meaning.
The stranger's earlier words lingered in Darwin's mind.
'Was it merely a passing remark?'
The play commenced in earnest as the actors sliced through the stage.
The thick, golden curtains had parted, giving way to a crescendo of motion and swift exchanges.
The lead actor, a tall figure in somber attire, stood center stage.
His voice resonated as he recounted the crime.
The tragic murder of an entire family.
The audience remained captivated, collectively entranced by the unfolding drama.
Beside Darwin, the stranger sat motionless, his own eyes meticulously following the performance.
His expression was unnervingly serene, especially given the grim nature of the play.
"Do you think it was justified?" Darwin whispered quickly before his words could be drowned by the acts in the performance.
The man didn't shift his gaze from the stage, but a slight smirk played at the corners of his lips, as though the question amused him.
"Justified?" His voice carried in the stillness of the theater. "What's justified? Punishment? Revenge? Or just the inevitable consequence of a well-laid plan?"
Darwin couldn't shake the feeling that their conversation had slipped into a different realm and was detached from the reality before them.
"It's just a play," he murmured. "I suppose it doesn't matter."
The man's gaze shifted toward him discerningly. "You think so? Perhaps... but perhaps not."
Darwin adjusted his position slightly, creating a modest distance between himself and the stranger.
Onstage, the actor's voice rose again, recapturing the audience's attention.
The dialogue had turned to the murder itself, revealing a violent act and exposing the decay hidden within a supposed gentleman's world.
The lighting changed, casting deep shadows over the cast.
Their faces were partially obscured as they spoke of the father's secrets, which had led to the brutal deaths of his own wife and children.
Darwin continued to move around uncomfortably in his seat.
If the man beside him weren't reason enough to put him in such a state, the further the performance continued, the more it seemed to invoke a sense of familiarity that was too close to the kind of thoughts he often entertained in the solitude of his room.
Moments when he pondered the notion: what if one could excise the burdensome fragments of oneself, as easily as tearing a page from a journal?
The stranger progressively continued his remark over Darwin's thoughts.
"It's not the act itself that intrigues me." He added, "It's the ease with which one can vanish, provided the right decisions are made."
As he leaned forward slightly, the scent of tobacco wafted from his clothing. "It is how life practically teeters on a knife's edge; a misplaced word or gesture before the wrong observer, and one might find themselves lost to the annals of forgotten stories."
He continued, in a detached tone, as if discussing a mundane topic. "In that play, the victims' fates were too ambiguous. I'd have ensured a different outcome."
With a bit of interest, Darwin inquired, "What path would you have pursued?"
"I'd ensure all acts were final first," he said slowly. "Establish an alibi, perhaps cultivate relationships with those likely to oversee the investigation. Trust can be a useful shield."
He leaned back, resting his head against the chair. "I wouldn't leave anything behind. Not even the bodies. Maybe not even the memories. Perhaps I would go so far as to eliminate anyone who might remember them. That way, no one comes looking."
"And if someone was missed? If someone came searching?"
"Then they'd be the ones left searching."
Silence settled between them as the play reached its climax onstage.
Collective gasps from the audience reverberated through the theater.
On stage, the murder was executed with brutal efficiency.
Yet, in doing so, the killer made the very mistake the stranger had deemed foolish; leaving the scene as the wife used her own blood to write the name of her husband's brother.
The actor portraying the killer stepped forward and delivered his final lines. But for Darwin, the words were muffled beneath the tempo of his own heart.
Darwin's attention remained on the man beside him.
The calmness in his demeanor, coupled with the unsettling subject of his words, held him captive.
As the curtain descended, signaling the play's end, murmurs spread through the audience, and seats began to creak as patrons shifted and returned to themselves after the performance concluded.
The man clicked his tongue.
"You can relax now, Darwin." As if breaking character, the man let out a derisive scoff and leaned forward. "I was merely performing a play of my own, to test whether you could handle such scenarios."
Darwin clenched his hands in his pockets. "Have I told you my name?"
He bowed his head slightly, shaking it. "No, but who do you think sent you the invitation?"
"...?"
The stranger's presence had stirred a disquieting tension that left his thoughts entangled with a peculiar aftertaste he couldn't quite place.
"Why? We've never met. How could you have known who I was?"
As the theater emptied, the shuffle of footsteps began to trickle past the only two men who remained seated.
The man turned to Darwin, and his demeanor reverted to the composed manner he had exhibited at the beginning of their conversation.
"Every good performance ends with a proposition, doesn't it?" he inquired rhetorically. "I mentioned earlier that it was a mystery I hadn't encountered you on the street before. That was a lie."
"You caught my attention not long ago during a nightly stroll," he continued. "You appeared occupied with labor, so I chose not to approach you then and simply waited."
He paused briefly before adding, "You were quite discreet. I hadn't noticed you slip away. So, I spoke to one of your colleagues. They shared a few things."
Darwin frowned and shook his head. "But why? Simply because we look alike? That doesn't seem a reasonable cause for such measures."
He ran a hand through the loose strands of his hair and let out a low hum. "That brings us to the purpose behind my little performance," he said. "I intended to present you with a job proposal on my behalf. But before that, it's only proper to provide you with a name to associate with me."
He stood up from his seat before extending a hand toward Darwin. "You may call me Gabriel."
[End of The First Act]