The corridors of Bedlam were colder than the stone they were built from. Gas lamps hissed faintly in the fog-damp air, their glow struggling to pierce the shadows clinging to every corner. Chains rattled from unseen rooms, followed by the distant cries of patients — some in pain, others perhaps in joy, though here the two were difficult to tell apart.
Edmund Harrow, still young, still wearing the crisp black coat of a man freshly risen in his profession, moved with purpose through the asylum's bowels. His boots echoed against flagstones as his eyes searched the faces of those who served within these haunted walls.
The case at hand was peculiar — the sudden death of a patient said to be prone to visions and riddles, a man whose writings had disturbed even his keepers. The official report listed "seizure." Yet Edmund's instincts refused to rest. A bruise on the throat, faint but there. Ink-stained fingers, though no paper left in the cell. He knew better than to ignore such things.
He questioned the orderlies, the matrons, the physician. At last, he turned to a man sweeping quietly near the far stairwell.
The janitor was new — his uniform clean, his manner precise. His eyes, however, betrayed something restless, too sharp for a man meant to be invisible.
"You there," Edmund called, adjusting his gloves as he approached. "How long have you been employed here?"
The man straightened, the broom pausing mid-sweep. "One month, sir." His voice carried both respect and unease.
"Your name?"
A silence. The man's gaze lingered on Edmund as though weighing something unspoken. Then: "James, sir. Harold James."
Edmund frowned faintly. "Did I know you?"
The janitor's expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes — grief chained in anger. "No, sir," he answered, bowing his head. "No, you did not."
Satisfied, or rather distracted by the next thread of inquiry, Edmund left him. He did not notice the way Harold James followed his steps with eyes too steady, too heavy, as though already marking him.
---
A Year Before the Blast
The fog of London clung heavy to the streets, turning every gaslight into a halo. It was Edmund's twenty-fifth birthday, though the date meant little to him. His colleagues had lifted a glass earlier in his honor, nothing more. He had smiled, modest as ever, and left before the laughter grew too boisterous.
That night, he found himself in a tavern near the river docks. A familiar place, though not his usual choice. He ordered a drink, then another. The barmaid smiled, and the men at the far end of the counter whispered. Among them, one with reason for hatred — a petty criminal once put to trial by Edmund's testimony.
When Edmund's glass was filled again, it carried not only ale but powder, bitter and unseen.
The night blurred. He recalled leaving the tavern, the world tilting, the cobblestones uneven beneath his boots. A fire gnawed at his mind, his veins, his flesh. Lust without reason. Hunger without control.
And then — her.
A woman walked briskly along the road, clutching her basket, the market day's end still on her fingers. She quickened her steps when she noticed the man trailing behind.
"Sir?" she whispered, uncertain, as she turned into an alley.
But Edmund was no longer himself. The drug roared louder than thought. He seized her, dragged her deeper into the shadows where no eyes could follow. She struggled, pleaded, cried, but his strength — and his frenzy — overpowered her.
The act was brutal. The silence after, worse.
When the haze lifted enough to breathe, he found himself kneeling beside her still body. Her eyes stared up, accusing, the life drained. His heart pounded as though to break free of his chest.
What had he done?
No — he would not remember. His mind, still poisoned, sealed it in darkness. Shaking, dazed, he carried her to the Riverside Bridge and laid her beneath the stones, where the current lapped greedily at its new secret. Then he stumbled home, convinced he had only drunk too much.
---
The Mourning
A week later, the papers screamed: "Young Woman Found Dead by the Riverside."
The city gossiped, speculated, moved on. But one man did not.
Harold James.
The fiancé.
He stood at the riverside every night, eyes hollow, hands trembling. He had been meant to marry her in the spring. She had been his anchor, his joy. Now she was gone, her name carved into whispers, her face into memory.
His grief became a shadow that never left. He worked — first in the bekary out of love, but then in a asylum out of grief— but always the thought burned: Who killed her?
---
The Discovery
It was at the asylum, during his first months, that Harold heard it — the two criminal patients laughing, careless, cruel. They spoke of a detective who had been drugged at a tavern. A detective who stumbled into the night and left a woman broken by the riverside.
The name was whispered once. Harrow. Edmund Harrow.
Harold's blood turned to ice.
He did not weep again after that night. Instead, he carried the truth in silence. Truth curdled into vengeance.
---
The Circle Closes
The memory returns — the moment Edmund had asked his name in the asylum.
"Did I know you?"
Harold had looked at him, every fiber of his being screaming to cry out the truth. Yet he had only said: "No, sir."
But he remembered. He remembered every detail — the voice, the hands, the eyes.
And he vowed that one day, Edmund Harrow would remember, too.
That night, in the darkness of his narrow room, Harold James took up a scrap of parchment. His grief had no more words, only symbols, riddles, and laughter without joy. He wrote one word, over and over, until the ink tore through the page:
FOOL.