Edward retraced his steps, each motion deliberate, every breath measured. He scuffed out prints, bent to smear the edges of boots with dirt, mixed the faint splatters of blood into mud with the heel of his palm. His hands moved like a craftsman's, but his mind churned behind them—half detective, half criminal. Every trick he had ever used to reveal the truth, he now twisted into a cloak to bury it.
Minutes bled into a long hour.
The night air pressed cold against his skin, sharper with each passing turn. Patrols prowled the streets with an almost predatory rhythm, lanterns swaying in their hands like drifting will-o'-wisps. Edward slid from alley to alley, patience his only ally. Each pause in shadow stretched into eternity as he waited for guards to pass. His pulse kept time with the echo of boots across cobblestone.
Finally, the familiar street stretched before him. The townhouse stood quiet, a black silhouette against the dark sky.
