Irene stood just outside the door.
It was hard to ignore her at first glance.
Her beauty was not loud or ostentatious, but rather remarkably “clean.”
This made her stand out sharply in this East End tenement.
Her dark, worn overcoat was neatly tailored.
Her cuffs were unwrinkled, and even her buttons were fastened meticulously.
Her light brown hair was simply pinned up at the back of her head, completely devoid of any ornaments.
Her face was somewhat pale—the kind of fair complexion that came from spending too much time indoors, away from the sun.
She had a straight nose, and her eyes were a light shade, resembling cold, gray-tinted amber under the dim glow of the gas lamp.
In her hands, she held a small ledger. Its cover was worn and old, but she had kept it immaculately clean.
Standing in this damp, moldy hallway filled with the smell of coal smoke, she presented a subtle sense of incongruity.
She looked at Ryan first.
She did not speak immediately.
Her gaze lingered for a brief moment.
It was short, but long enough to assess his condition—pale face, slight hollows under his eyes, and clear signs of chronic malnutrition.
Irene's eyes showed no emotion.
She gently closed her ledger.
“This week's rent.”
Her tone was steady.
“Three shillings.”
Ryan did not speak immediately upon hearing the figure of “three shillings.”
He paused.
Then, he let out a soft, awkward laugh.
“...Right on time, I see.”
His tone was a bit dry.
It carried a hint of an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
But he also knew that such a laugh was not funny in this situation.
Irene looked at him.
She did not reply.
She simply waited in silence.
Ryan raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
He quickly ran through his memories.
This was not the first time rent had been demanded.
Nor was it the second; it was the third.
The original owner of the body had paid a total of four weeks' deposit when he moved in.
This was the custom in this building.
—Pay the deposit in advance to offset the risk.
But the problem was:
He was already two weeks in arrears.
Ryan quickly calculated his reality.
In other words:
He only had a two-week grace period left.
After two weeks, if he still could not pay—
It would no longer be a mere “demand for rent.”
It would be “eviction.”
Ryan let out a breath.
His smile slowly faded.
He leaned against the doorframe, lowering his voice slightly.
“I know... there are still two weeks left, right?”
Irene nodded.
The movement was very slight.
“Yes.”
She paused, then added:
“My father is already looking over a new list of potential tenants.”
Ryan fell silent for a second.
Then he gave a soft click of his tongue.
He took a step back, clearing the doorway.
Gripping the doorframe, he said as if casually:
“Don't worry, I have no intention of defaulting on my debt.”
“It's just that recently... my health hasn't been great.”
When he said “my health hasn't been great,” he pointed specifically to his chest.
Irene's gaze fell upon his face once more.
This time, it lingered slightly longer.
Then she spoke:
“I can tell.”
She closed her ledger.
Her tone remained calm, but it carried a touch more pragmatism:
“Mr. Ryan, this place does not wait for people to recover their health.”
Ryan smiled.
This time, it was briefer.
And a bit more genuine.
“I know.”
The air fell briefly silent.
From down the hallway came the distant sound of water dripping from a pipe.
Irene tucked her ledger away. Before turning to leave, she paused.
She seemed to hesitate for a second, then looked at him with those cold, gray-amber eyes, her tone softening slightly.
“Try not to fall ill during these two weeks, Mr. Ryan. If you die in your room, my father will have to spend two pence to hire a corpse cart from the church.”
With that, she turned and left.
Her footsteps gradually faded down the stairs.
Ryan stood at the doorway, not closing the door immediately.
He looked at the empty hallway and slowly exhaled.
Then, he whispered, “Thank you.”
“...Two weeks.”
Irene's footsteps grew more distant in the stairwell.
Ryan stood at the door for a few seconds.
Only then did he slowly close the door.
Click.
The latch clicked into place.
Quiet returned to the room.
Ryan leaned against the door, taking a brief breath.
He walked over to the desk and slipped the two pence into his pocket.
Grabbing his overcoat, he pushed the door open and went out.
The hallway was even colder than his room.
The smell of damp wood mixed with coal smoke hit him in the face.
With every step, the stairs let out a soft creak.
From downstairs came the sounds of coughing, arguing, and the clattering of pots and pans from some room.
Sunday in the East End was not quiet, but it was not lively either—just a continuous, dull hum of daily life.
Ryan did not stop.
He walked straight out of the tenement.
The fog pressed low over the street.
The cobblestone street was damp and cold, reflecting a pale, gray light.
The air smelled of coal smoke, blended with the scent of damp stone and rust.
A carriage rolled slowly past, its wheels splashing through puddles and kicking up dirty water.
In the distance, factory chimneys were still belching black smoke.
Ryan walked to the bakery on the corner.
Behind the glass counter stood a middle-aged woman.
She looked up at him, saying nothing.
Ryan placed the two pence on the counter.
“The cheapest one.”
The woman did not ask any questions.
She turned, grabbed a large loaf of black bread from behind her, wrapped it in old newspaper, and handed it over.
Then she reached for the iron kettle nearby.
It was an old kettle kept in the back of the shop year-round, filled with boiled water that had been left to cool—meant for workers and regular customers in need.
She picked up a worn, coarse ceramic mug, poured half a cup of water from the kettle, and set it on the counter.
Her movements were practiced and casual.
“Return the mug when you're done.”
Ryan took the bread and the water.
He paused for a second.
“Thank you.”
His voice was slightly raspy.
He did not linger.
He carried the items over to the side of the street.
First, he drank the water.
Then, he took a bite of the bread.
The water was freezing. It slid down his dry esophagus and into his stomach, causing him to shudder slightly.
The middle-aged woman from the bakery had already returned behind the counter, bowing her head to continue mending an old piece of clothing.
Ryan stood in a sheltered corner of the wall, observing this world, and slowly swallowed the last bite of the hard bread.
At the very moment his throat constricted, a sudden, violent sweetness with a strong metallic tang of rust welled up in his chest without warning.
“Cough—”
Ryan doubled over abruptly, pressing his hand—which was holding the old newspaper—tightly against his mouth.
He pulled his hand away.
On the newsprint, a dark, viscous patch of black-red blood about the size of a fingernail had appeared.
Ryan did not panic.
The memories of the body's original owner told him that coughing up blood was already a regular occurrence.
But just as he was about to use the newspaper to wipe the blood away, his movements froze completely.
Within the dark puddle of blood he had coughed up...
Under the gloomy, lightless Sunday fog of London, there faintly floated an incredibly weak, nearly transparent speck of pale gold starlight.
It was not an illusion.
Ryan stared intently at that faint light. In that instant, a tip of the iceberg of the original owner's memories from the archives was suddenly laid bare.
That was no ordinary lung disease.
This was the erosion of the extraordinary.
Ryan gently scraped the speck of pale gold light on the newspaper with his fingernail.
Ryan's eyes flickered for a few seconds.
He took a deep breath, crumpled the blood-stained newspaper into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash can on the corner.
Afterward, he returned the coarse ceramic mug to the bakery owner and walked back quickly.
Rate on N.U.
