For the next few days, Ryan did not leave the hospital again.
The doctors believed his brain had suffered a severe concussion and needed a few more days of observation. Ryan was glad for the peace and quiet. Every day, aside from eating and having his bandages changed, he sat by the window, digesting the knowledge in his mind and slowly adapting to his now completely altered Glory.
On the other hand, anomalies began to surface in the hospital. The day before, those few doctors had notified their colleagues in advance.
That floor was temporarily closed for a day for "disinfection."
Consequently, for an entire day, no one went near it—until the following morning.
A young doctor responsible for handing over medical records suddenly frowned.
“Has Dr. William not arrived today?”
The person beside him looked up.
“Didn't they say they were disinfecting yesterday?”
“It should be finished today.”
After a while, still no one appeared. The group finally found it strange; William was always punctual and never skipped work without reason.
Furthermore, none of the other on-duty doctors had shown their faces either.
Someone walked to the office door and knocked gently.
There was no response from inside.
But as they drew closer to the door, a very faint burnt smell, mixed with a trace of blood, slowly wafted out from the gap beneath it.
The few standing outside exchanged glances.
Their faces paled in unison.
The office door was slowly pushed open.
In the next second...
Terrified screams echoed throughout the entire floor.
...
Within half an hour, patrol officers rushed to the hospital, and the entire floor was quickly cordoned off.
Every doctor, nurse, and patient present that day was questioned.
The office was in utter ruins from the fire.
Furniture lay overturned, documents were incinerated, the walls were charred black, and several corpses lay scattered in various positions.
The sergeant in charge of investigating the scene frowned, not saying a word.
The scene was too bizarre. It looked as though a fierce struggle had occurred, yet there were no obvious signs of gunfire.
Most peculiarly, almost no fatal external trauma could be found on the deceased, yet each of their brains seemed to have suffered some inexplicable, severe trauma.
The coroner examined them for several hours, ultimately only shaking his head.
“Inconclusive.”
“It does not resemble any known method of homicide.”
The sergeant remained silent for a long time before finally ordering the scene to be sealed.
...
The investigation lasted for two days.
The police searched nearly every corner of the hospital.
Yet aside from the nearly dissipated smell of blood and the burnt office, they found no valuable clues.
Some said they had heard noises at night.
Others said they saw flames.
But no one had actually seen the killer.
As for Ryan.
The nurses unanimously testified that he had been lying in his ward for the past few days with his head bandaged, barely even going downstairs for a walk.
No matter how one looked at it, he did not seem like someone capable of killing several adult doctors.
In the end, the case could only be shelved for the time being.
The reason was very practical: after the continuous blizzards, new cases were occurring in the East End every single day.
Disappearances at the port, deaths from freezing on the streets, factory accidents.
The police station was already severely short-staffed.
In comparison, this unsolved hospital case with zero leads could only be archived first, awaiting a future reopening of the investigation.
When Ryan heard the news, he merely placed the newspaper back on the table quietly.
As the days went by, the wound on his forehead finally healed completely.
After the doctor finished his examination, he nodded.
“You can be discharged.”
“But don't overexert yourself lately.”
Ryan agreed with a smile.
The next morning.
Ryan completed his discharge procedures and changed back into his black East End Archive uniform.
The lenses were fitted back onto the bridge of his nose, and the brim of his hat was pulled low. The stitches on his forehead had already been removed, leaving only a faint red scar that had not yet fully faded, mostly hidden by his hat.
He picked up his briefcase and walked out of the hospital.
Outside the hospital.
A cold wind blew directly in his face.
Large flakes of snow were still slowly drifting down.
The entire city of London seemed to be draped in a thick white cloth. The snow on the streets was nearly ankle-deep, leaving deep footprints with every step he took.
Carriages slowly ground through the snow, their wheels making muffled creaking sounds as the horses continuously exhaled white mist.
Quite a few shops along the street had just opened, their owners swinging shovels to clear the snow in front of their doors. Most pedestrians kept their necks tucked in, hurrying through the wind and snow.
Ryan did not linger.
He walked all the way toward the East End Archive.
...
Pushing open the doors of the archive.
The familiar scent of coal stoves and old paper rushed to greet him.
The main hall was as busy as ever.
Simon was currently leading several clerks to move a massive stack of newly delivered files, sweating profusely from the exertion.
Hearing the door open.
He subconsciously looked up.
Upon seeing Ryan, he froze for a moment.
Then he smiled.
“Finally willing to leave the hospital, are you?”
Ryan took off his hat and patted the snow off it.
“If I kept lying there, my bones would have rusted.”
Simon walked over and sized him up.
“You've recovered well.”
“Faster than I expected.”
Ryan smiled and adjusted his glasses.
“The doctor said there's no issue anymore.”
“Continuing to stay there would just be wasting a bed.”
Simon nodded, stuffed several newly organized files into a cabinet, and handed Ryan a pair of thick gloves.
“Wear these.”
“The wind is even stronger down at the port today.”
Ryan was slightly taken aback.
“I'm going there right after returning?”
Simon shrugged helplessly.
“There's no choice. We're severely short-staffed lately.”
“Alvin even had to go guide the interns you recruited.”
“The director was grumbling yesterday, saying you should head straight there once you return.”
As they were speaking...
The office door was pushed open, and the director walked out holding a stack of documents.
He merely glanced at Ryan.
After confirming that his mental state was fine, he placed the top document on the table.
“The files have been piling up too much at the port lately.”
“We're short-handed.”
“Since your body has recovered, go over and help.”
Ryan did not waste words.
“Understood.”
The director nodded.
“Be careful. The situation at the port has been getting increasingly complex lately.”
Having said that, he returned to his office.
...
After leaving the archive.
Ryan put his hat back on, pulled his scarf up, and walked through the snow toward East Port.
By now, the entirety of East Port had entered a state of emergency.
The continuous heavy snow made operations across the entire port district exceptionally difficult.
Large cargo ships had to dock, but the surface of the pier was already covered in a thick layer of ice, and the cranes would slip at the slightest mishap.
Overnight, the mooring ropes had frozen as stiff as iron bars, requiring constant dousing with hot water to be moved again.
A massive number of laborers had to shovel snow while unloading cargo at the same time.
The cold wind, carrying grains of snow, blew incessantly from the river, making people's faces sting. Many had their beards and hair covered in white frost.
Even so, no one stopped.
For every hour delayed, more cargo ships behind them would be unable to dock.
Coal, grain, medicine...
Most of the supplies the entire East End needed to survive the winter were loaded on these ships.
Ryan stepped through the thick snow and arrived at the port.
The scene before him had completely transformed.
The originally muddy pier was now a pristine white.
Cranes emitted low rumbles, billowing steam into the sky to mingle with the swirling snow into a blanket of white mist.
In the distance, large sheets of drift ice floated on the river.
Laborers ran back and forth against the freezing wind, slipping and falling now and then. Heavy wooden crates rolled off their shoulders, drawing waves of curses.
Patrol officers, port officials, archive clerks, and members of the Suppression Bureau threaded through the crowd, everyone busy to the point of exhaustion.
Ryan stood in the wind and snow, gently adjusting his glasses.
Behind the lens, his left eye slowly lit up with a trace of The Glory.
The port.
He was back.
Rate on N.U.
