Ragnar stood before the building, its stone façade weathered by time and storm. Thunder crackled overhead, momentarily lighting up the archways and shuttered windows.
Vines clung to the crumbling walls like old secrets refusing to die, and moss veiled the foundation in a shroud of green decay. Above the arched entrance, in rusted iron letters barely clinging to their bolts, hung the sign:
THE CENTRAL REGISTRAR OF WESTRY
He pushed the heavy door open with a creak that groaned like an old man rising from slumber.
"Mr. Darnell, please file these documents before the seventh bell!"
"Who touched the land records? They were alphabetized!"
"I need the past five years of land survey data — in fifteen minutes!"
"Thirty cups of coffee, and none of them burnt this time!"
"Get the tax rolls for District Four to the courier now!"
"Someone telegraph the central office before my lungs explode!"
A chaos of voices slammed into Ragnar like a wave. He exhaled.
"Busy as always…"
Inside, the registrar's office was less a workplace and more a living organism of frantic energy. Chore girls darted between desks, their skirts swishing with every urgent turn.
Messenger boys, soaked from the storm, delivered bundles of sealed parchment, only to be shoved toward their next errand. Clerks argued over ink-stained maps. Files spilled from overflowing shelves that climbed to the ceiling like papery cliffs. Some documents lay scattered across the stone floor like fallen leaves in a forgotten forest.
To the right, a dim alcove revealed a congregation of discarded paper cups, stained with the remnants of bitter coffee. The air was thick with the mingled scent of caffeine, parchment, sweat, and mildew.
"Excuse me," Ragnar called out, lifting a hand.
The receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman with a pencil tucked behind her ear and two ledgers open at once, turned momentarily from her scolding of a bewildered messenger boy.
"State your business, good sir," she said, eyes narrowing as they traced the rain dripping from his coat.
"I need to see Gregory."
"Gregory Grace, Gregory Finn, or Gregory Wells?"
Ragnar swept his damp hair back from his brow, revealing sharp eyes.
"Gregory Wells. The one who bites before breakfast but dances after midnight."
The woman blinked. Then, despite herself, smirked.
"Pft. I'm sorry, sir."
She pointed toward a narrow wooden staircase on the left, the paint long worn away by decades of government boots.
"First floor. Third door to the right."
Ragnar gave a nod.
"Thank you."
His boots thudded against the creaking steps as he climbed, water trailing in his wake. The corridor above was dimly lit, lined with warped doors and brass handles dulled by time.
Faint murmurs echoed from the rooms beyond — the endless hum of bureaucracy at war with time.
Ragnar stopped in front of the birchwood door, droplets of rain trailing from his coat to the dusty floorboards beneath.
A single flickering gaslamp hung overhead, casting long, wavering shadows across the sign that read in black iron letters:
GREGORY WELLS – ARCHIVIST, CODEMASTER, HELLRAISER (EVENINGS)
A muffled thud came from within — followed by a raspy curse and the sound of parchment fluttering to the ground.
Ragnar exhaled and knocked, the sound dull against the old wood.
A pause.
Then:
"Oh hell, what now?"
The voice was unmistakable. Gruff, irritated, and dry as a bone in drought.
The door creaked open with a shriek of unoiled hinges.
There stood Gregory Wells — spectacles askew, his thinning ashen hair wild like an overworked composer's, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, ink stains tattooed across his hands. He smelled of dust, tobacco, and deadlines.
His golden eyes squinted at the man standing in the hall.
"Well I'll be damned,"
Gregory muttered, stepping aside,
"If it ain't the boy made of scars."
Ragnar gave a faint smile and stepped in.
Gregory's office was a controlled disaster.
Scrolls, ledgers, and certificates lay scattered over every surface. A typewriter perched precariously atop a stack of census documents. Maps clung to the walls with pins and dried glue.
The air was thick with the scent of parchment and the low hum of a phonograph that hadn't been wound in weeks.
"What brings you back to my paper graveyard?"
Gregory asked, lighting a crooked cigarette and waving vaguely at a chair that barely peeked out from beneath a collapsed tower of deeds.
Ragnar didn't sit. Instead, he reached into his coat and produced a small bundle of documents — tied with twine and slightly damp at the corners.
"I need you to process these. Name change. Transfer of identity. Confirmation of birth lineage under clause forty-seven."
Gregory's cigarette dropped.
"Clause forty-seven? You trying to erase yourself, Ragna?"
Ragnar said nothing. His silence was louder than thunder.
Gregory picked up the bundle carefully, as if it might bite. He glanced at the seal — the official crest of the central authority — and then back at Ragnar.
He blew out smoke and scratched his head.
"I'll need a day."
"You'll have till dawn."
Gregory gave a bitter chuckle, tapping ash into a chipped mug full of paperclips.
"You're still as dramatic as a funeral in a thunderstorm."
Ragnar turned to leave.
"And Greg," he said, pausing at the doorway,
"No copies. Burn the originals after entry."
Gregory's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
"You planning something, Ragna?"
Ragnar looked over his shoulder, his face half-lit by the stormlight streaming through the corridor window.
"I already did."
And with that, he descended the creaking stairs — a ghost once more stepping into the rain.
LOCATION — OBSIDIAN CORPS TERMINUS, CITADEL 3
Levi stood on the rain-darkened platform, half-shrouded in mist and the low rumble of iron. He carried nothing but the coat draped over his shoulders, the rifle strapped across his back, and an old, sun-faded photograph tucked in the inner pocket.
"Sir Eskald!"
A voice pierced the steam — the same girl from earlier, breathless and flushed, rushing toward him with a parchment clutched in her hands.
"We're lucky! The train to Westry's delayed by ten minutes!"
Levi extended a gloved hand.
"The ticket."
She placed the parchment into his palm with reverence, as if handing over a sacred relic.
CLUNK—ka-CHUNK!
The train shrieked into the station, wheels howling against the rails, its arrival heralded by a storm of steam and soot. Iron screamed, brakes groaned, and the platform trembled. The beast exhaled — a hiss like dragon's breath — then settled into the heartbeat rhythm of footsteps, voices, and the metallic hiss of an engine catching its breath.
Levi stepped into his compartment. Before entering fully, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Thank you."
The girl blinked, surprised by the softness in his voice.
"You are welcome, sir."
He lingered for a breath. Then sighed.
"As a repayment… let me give you some advice."
She straightened.
"Range. Wind. Cover. Count."
He paused.
"Every time. Say it before you fire."
The girl's eyes lit up, hands scrambling for her notepad.
"To think our insanely talented Sir Levi gave me advice… I might become a bronze-rank sniper in no time!"
Levi ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head.
"Haa…"
"Bye!" she called brightly.
But by the time the steam cleared—
Levi was gone.
Inside the compartment, Levi slumped to his seat. Eyes closed. A tear escaped as he sighed once more.
"Hello sir,"
A voice interrupted him,
Levi opened his eyes groggily. The conductor stood before him.
"I am sorry to disturb your rest. But, could you provide me your ticket?"
Levi put his hand in his pocket, fingers searching for the ticket.
"Here,"
He handed the man the ticket.
The conductor clipped the ticket before returning it to Levi.
"Please enjoy your journey, sir."
The man bowed, then left.
A FEW HOURS LATER — MOVING TRAIN, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN ALDER AND WESTRY
The quiet of the compartment broke with the sharp scrape of something heavy being dragged.
A young woman appeared at the doorway, lugging a suitcase far too big for her frame. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts as she heaved the bag toward the opposite seat.
"Let me help you, madam."
The conductor stepped in behind her, lifting the luggage with practiced grace. He reached up, placing it on the overhead rack—
—when it slipped.
THUD—!
The suitcase dropped like a hammer toward Levi.
"Sir!" the conductor yelped, frozen in horror.
But Levi's arm moved like a whip. Without opening his eyes, his hand snapped forward and caught the falling luggage midair. Not a flinch. Not a blink.
He opened his eyes — slow, unreadable — and, with a flick of the wrist, tossed the heavy case back at the conductor like it weighed nothing.
"Here."
The conductor stumbled, barely catching it.
"My deepest apologies, sir!" he stammered, bowing low, then repositioned the bag with a trembling hand.
"You've got good reflexes," the girl said, now seated opposite him.
Levi opened one eye.
'Female. Late teens. Glasses. Shirt — linen blend common in Alder's university district.
Fingers — calloused. Piano player. Notebook ink on nails — heavy revisions, cramming.'
'Posture — stiff from prolonged desk work. Eyebags. Caffeine dependency. Poor sleep. Probable third-year civil service applicant.'
'Pulse at the throat — anxious, but hopeful. Quietly determined.'
"Hello?"
She waved again, pulling him from his internal profile.
"Hello," Levi answered, his voice quiet — almost sheepish.
"Umm... how about a small talk?" she offered, hesitating. "Where are you headed?"
"Westry."
"Oh!" she clapped. "Me too! Where do you work?"
He stared at her for a moment longer than necessary.
"With all due respect," he said at last, "you should probably be using this time to revise for your civil exams. There's not much time left."
Her mouth parted.
"H-how… how did you know that I'm preparing—?"
He sighed, pressing a hand to his temple.
"I just noticed. Please let me sleep."
But she leaned forward instead, her face now just inches from his. Her eyes reflected the filtered moonlight through the train window, wide and sincere.
"Your eyes…" she whispered. "They're beautiful."
Levi froze.
For a second, something flickered across his usually impassive face.
His mismatched eyes — one verdant green, the other a molten gold — were not often met with praise. In his youth, they were mocked. Feared. Called cursed.
But now…
'Mother…'
A voice echoed in his memory.
"Levi, your eyes are special. Don't hate them. God made everyone beautiful. It's just that… people often forget how to look."
Eight-year-old Levi sat curled on his bed, eyes red from crying.
"Can you see my beauty?" he asked, so small, so unsure.
Althaea had embraced him tightly.
"Yes, I can. After all, I'm your mother, am I not?"
She held his soft little hands.
"Now, repeat after me."
The boy hesitated. Then his lips formed the words.
"Love makes people beautiful."
"Love makes people beautiful."
Levi repeated,
"That's right!" she beamed, clapping her hands. "So cute!"
Levi had buried his face in her lap, both flustered and relieved.
PRESENT — TRAIN COMPARTMENT
The girl was still leaning in, expectant.
"I won't leave you alone until you tell me how," she said, playful but persistent.
Levi sighed again, a deep, tired breath.
"When you boarded at Alder, you were speaking to your friend. You mentioned civil service prep and panicking because you'd fallen behind on your schedule."
The girl's face turned crimson. She slunk back into her seat like a balloon slowly deflating.
"Oh… I see…"
Levi kept his eyes closed.
"Also — smudged ink on your fingers, the scent of stale coffee on your clothes, the fatigue in your posture — they all suggest late-night cramming."
She turned her face toward the window.
"Okay…"
'I wanted to ask about his reflexes… his hearing…
But I've embarrassed myself enough for one day.'
Levi remained still.
'I'm glad she didn't ask how I knew her hobby, or her college… or the fact that she's failed three years in a row.'
'I doubt even she's told her parents yet…'
The train rocked softly on the rails.
Outside, the sun finally rose above the low clouds.
Inside, Levi finally slept.
LOCATION-
Flat No. 3B, Officer's Quarters — North Wing
Ashridge Estate, Sector V
Westry Administrative Zone
Westry 119 7K
Anthony stood before the mirror, a scarf in his trembling hands.
Tears welled in his eyes once again.
"My child, isn't it cold outside? Wear this on your patrols."
The memory echoed in the silence.
Anthony dropped to the floor, knees folding beneath him as sunlight crept into the room, painting golden lines across the dust in the air.
Knock.
Anthony rose and opened the door.
Annabelle stood outside, her blue eyes soft as they scanned his face. Without a word, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Her embrace was firm, unwavering — a silent anchor.
"It will all be okay," she whispered.
She stepped inside the flat, eyes scanning the space.
Then, with a frustrated sigh, she clutched her blonde hair—
TEAR.
Her wig came off with a sharp tug, and a cascade of ginger locks tumbled down her shoulders.
Anthony stared.
And for the first time that morning, a faint, cracked smile touched his lips.
Anna raised a brow.
"Why are you staring?"
She straightened her coat.
"It's only right I visit your mother properly."
"…"
"Aaah, come on! You wanna miss the train?"
"…"
"You know what—just keep staring, you weirdo."
Anthony opened the door.
"You just reminded me of her,"
he murmured.
Anna blinked. Her lips curled into something tender, almost shy.
"…How?"
Anthony stepped past the threshold, his voice quiet.
"Let me tell you on the way."
Anna followed, slipping her hand into his coat's arm.
"I want all the details, okay?"
Anthony chuckled beneath his breath.
"Yes, ma'am."