When the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, Alphard woke to a piercing headache that made his temples throb.
Ouch! God, that hurts. That really hurts.
He blinked several times, trying to clear the fog clouding his vision, but the real jolt of reality hit the moment he looked down at himself — he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before.
Panic snapped him fully awake. Terrified at the thought that someone might spot the telltale marks of what had happened at the cathedral, he shot up and rushed to wash and change as fast as he could.
How did I even get home?
Skipping the coat and vest, he went downstairs in nothing but his white shirt, which did little to hide the polished shine of his black shoes.
He came down carefully, careful not to disturb the household's quiet. In the main room, the same familiar scene played out as always — his sister Helena absorbed in the pages of a book, while his uncle Alexi calmly worked through the columns of the morning paper.
"Good morning, Uncle Alexi. Morning, sister."
Alexi and Helena each glanced up briefly at the sound of his footsteps, but neither showed much interest in his unusually disheveled state. They offered only a mild, dutiful "good morning" before sinking right back into their respective reading.
What's going on? Are they mad at me?
No... they just look really absorbed in their books. I get it, honestly — I remember tuning everything out too, back when I read my favorite novels.
If they only knew I almost died last night. But who brought me home? Did they find out somehow, and that's why they're upset? Or maybe Alexi overheard the conversation with Helena, and they're just sad? No... probably not.
Looking more closely, he confirmed it — his family really was a world away, lost entirely in their morning reading.
His time in the sitting room didn't last long. He headed straight for the kitchen, hunting for something quick to eat; digging through the pantry drawers, he pulled out a piece of bread that had already started going stale.
Hard as the crust had grown after days sitting out, he ate it without a second thought, driven purely by hunger and the need to get his strength back.
This bread is awful.
After finishing his bite, he went back up to his room, where he found his top hat and cane arranged neatly and precisely beside the bed — the sight sending a faint chill through him.
Someone definitely brought me here.
Approaching the window, sunlight struck his face without warning, dazzling him for a moment. His vision slowly cleared as he gazed up at the sky, but an unsettling certainty crept over him — the uncomfortable feeling that, somewhere in that open expanse, someone was still watching him.
That was when it hit him — something far worse. How had they known his address? How had they pinpointed his exact bedroom with such precision?
The thought left him utterly frozen for what felt like an eternity, consumed by an icy dread.
Without wasting another second on it, he pulled on his vest and coat, set his top hat in place, grabbed his cane, and left his room with a single fixed thought burning in his chest — he had to reach Central Station as fast as possible.
He left the house at a brisk pace, catching a public carriage to cut down the distance. The ride was short — ideal for getting there quickly — but long enough to give him time to think through exactly what he'd say once he stood face-to-face with Charlotte.
Arriving on Rue des Veilleurs in the Vauclaire district, the sight of the authority's own building caught him off guard.
Far from rising as some grand bastion of justice, Central Station stood only two stories tall, blending in seamlessly with the surrounding neighborhood. It carried the exact proportions of an ordinary residence — the kind typically occupied by the city's middle and working classes, excluding, of course, the very poorest.
He walked toward the heavy oak door, its upper frosted-glass panel painted with the word COMMISSARIAT in black lettering. Pushing it open, the ring of a bell announced his arrival into a narrow, stifling entrance hall.
The air hung thick with a dense mix of smells — the stale scent of pipe tobacco, the sharp bite of iron-gall ink, and the sweat of the citizens waiting on the wooden benches.
Beneath the flickering light of the gas lamps, the floorboards creaked with every step, while somewhere further back, the steady, unrelenting scratch of fountain pens carried on across mountains of yellowed paper.
Approaching one of the officers, he asked, as politely as he could manage, for Charlotte's whereabouts, holding out the card she'd given him.
The moment the officer recognized the card, his expression shifted. Without a word, he led Alphard down a corridor to a private, secluded office; once inside, he shut the door and studied him with an unforgiving severity, fixing him with a stare so loaded with suspicion that Alphard felt like a criminal under interrogation.
"What have you done?! Tell me what you're doing here!"
"Officer, I haven't done anything — I only know Mrs. Charlotte. I came because she gave me this card herself. That's all there is to it."
Just as the officer stepped forward to detain him, the office door swung open, cutting the scene short.
A woman entered, her stride firm, dressed in the crisp office attire typical of the era — a dark, fitted jacket over a pale linen blouse with a severe high collar, paired with a long twill skirt cinched close at the waist.
Her sharp brown eyes swept over the room with total coolness, her brown hair, cut in a straight line falling to her back and free of any elaborate high-society styling, swaying with the abruptness of her arrival.
"Charles, let him go. He's here on the boss's orders."
"You won't get off that easy, boy."
Released, Alphard hit the ground hard, landing on his backside and streaking his suit with dust from the floor. The woman extended a hand to help him up, and he took it, pulling himself upright and brushing the dust from his trousers.
"Thank you."
"Follow me," she said, leading him with a firm stride toward a small door tucked between the wooden paneling and the tall office filing cabinets.
Nearly invisible to an untrained eye, the doorway opened onto a narrow passage that led straight to a wrought-iron cage elevator — a mechanical, hidden structure that clashed entirely with the building's mundane exterior.
This elevator's definitely different from the rest of this place.
The two of them stepped inside, and the cabin lurched unsteadily as it began its descent, sending a jolt of fear through Alphard, while the woman stood perfectly still, her expression cool and calculating.
When the mechanism finally shuddered to a stop, the gate slid open to reveal an abyss of near-total darkness. The space only took shape through the faint, intermittent flicker of a handful of embedded gas lamps and, above everything else, a strange emerald-green glow that carpeted the entire ceiling, bathing the stone walls in a mystical shimmer.
Taking his first steps forward, the main corridor began branching off into a maze of subterranean passages and galleries, turning the basement into an intricate labyrinth guarding the organization's deepest secrets.
As they walked, her serious expression eased into something lighter, and she let out a tired sigh followed by a small laugh only she seemed to understand.
"Sorry about that, kid. Being stern all day really wears a person out. I'm Madeleine Leroux. What's your name?"
"Alphard Quinn."
"Ohh, so it really was you. I was worried I'd made a mistake and dragged the wrong person all the way down here. Don't worry, you're safe with me."
"I appreciate that."
Amid the endless maze of corridors, the oppressive atmosphere of the place stood in sharp contrast to Madeleine's unexpected chattiness. To pass the time more pleasantly, she launched into a stream of complaints about how exhausting and draining the work down here could be.
Somewhere in her rambling, she let out another frustrated sigh, confessing that a lack of free time had kept her from ever setting up an outing with a coworker she found rather attractive.
Before they reached their destination, her tone shifted when she brought up Charlotte, assuring Alphard not to be fooled by her strict exterior — underneath it, she insisted, was someone remarkably gentle at heart.
Stopping in front of a room, they found a man jotting notes into a small book while studying what appeared to be another man holding some kind of glowing object.
"That's Oliver. He studies and analyzes mystical objects brought back by our Executors. He's also the head of our whole object research division."
"Interesting. And what exactly are Executors?"
"Executors are basically the ones who go out and fight the anomalies, out on missions, and though it doesn't happen every time, they usually end up bringing objects back here. There's plenty of mystical items and sacred artifacts down here, though the sacred ones are much rarer to find."
Just a few steps further, they passed another room. Inside, an old man carefully arranged a row of heavy tomes along the shelves, dusting off his desk as he worked.
His face, though, stayed hidden in shadow; he never once bothered to turn around, keeping his back to them the whole time, as if his work were the only thing that mattered in the world.
"Who's he?"
"He's an archivist, researches rituals and Door relics. By the way — do you already have a Door, or have you not summoned your first one yet?"
"No... I haven't summoned a Door yet..."
Why do they call them Doors? Is that literal, or just some metaphor? It's strange — though honestly, at this point, nothing here seems to be quite what it looks like on the surface.
"Well, that's normal enough. Only certain factions actually have people who've already summoned their first Door. Even before our independence, the Century of the Sick Man had already spread across the whole world, right? Sorry — I really love history. Let's keep walking."
They continued through the maze of corridors until they stopped before a pair of heavy wooden doors, behind which lay Charlotte's office and the rest of her colleagues' workspace.
Though Alphard's nerves were stretched razor-thin, apprehension threatening to betray him at any moment, he forced himself into a mask of absolute calm, careful not to let a single crack show through his expression and give away the storm of anxiety churning beneath the surface.
"By the way — have you opened a Door yet yourself?"
"Oh, sure, my house door, the doors here, hehe... kidding, kidding. Honestly, I'm terrified of the idea, but I'll get there someday," she said, fussing with her hair, nerves getting the better of her at just the thought of it.