Following the Trail

Wednesday.

8:20 AM.

London Archive.

Alvin Grayson walked into the hall carrying a stack of documents. Just as he entered, he subconsciously glanced toward the two desks in the corner.

Empty. Still empty.

Simon's seat was unoccupied, and Ryan's was empty as well.

Yesterday, the director had said the two of them had taken a leave of absence. Although Alvin found it strange, it had been approved by the director himself, after all, so he hadn't thought much of it.

But now, it was already the second day, and still, no one was there. Something felt a bit off.

Blair was sitting nearby, organizing files. Seeing Alvin walk in, he asked casually, “Those two guys still aren't back?”

“I don't know,” Alvin replied, frowning.

“Didn't they say they took leave yesterday? Two days off?”

“How should I know?” Blair shrugged. “Simon has never been this eager to take leave before.”

Alvin said nothing. He set the documents down, the sense of unease in his heart growing stronger. Especially since yesterday, after the census at East Port was completed, the police station had specifically sent over a new list. Logically, they should have continued the verification today. There was no way Simon would drop off the grid without a word.

At this thought, Alvin finally stood up and headed toward the second floor.

...

The director's office.

The door was left ajar. Alvin knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The director was still sitting behind his desk, which was piled high with documents, looking no different from yesterday.

Alvin got straight to the point. “Director, Simon and Ryan still haven't shown up today.”

The director's hand paused mid-turn. Then, he looked up. “Yes.”

Alvin froze for a moment. Yes? Just "yes"?

He couldn't help but add, “It's already the second day.”

The director stared at him. After a few seconds of silence, he suddenly asked, “Do you think there's a problem?”

Alvin hesitated. “Simon isn't the type to go missing without a reason. Neither is Ryan. So I think it's best we check on them.”

The office fell silent. The director leaned back in his chair, seemingly pondering for a moment. Then, he slowly nodded. “Fair point.”

With that, he pulled open a drawer. Alvin originally thought the director was going to retrieve their leave records. But in the next second, the director pulled out a coin from the depths of the drawer and placed it on the desk.

A crisp sound echoed. Alvin looked down.

It was a silver florin. It was heavily worn, with tiny scratches visible along its edges. It looked very ordinary—or at least, ordinary on the surface.

Yet the moment he got a clear look at the coin, the confusion on Alvin's face vanished instantly. His expression grew serious, bit by bit. He detected the trace of an aspect.

The director spoke calmly, “Take it.”

Alvin didn't waste any words. He reached out and took it. As the cold metal touched his palm, he slowly clenched his fist around it.

The office fell quiet once more. The director stared out the window at the gloomy sky and said flatly, “Go find them.”

“Yes, sir,” Alvin answered immediately. His tone was entirely different from before.

The director added, “Find Simon first.”

“Understood. And once I find them?”

The director fell silent for a few seconds. Then, he said, “Confirm they are still alive. If they are, bring them back. If they are dead, bring back the report.”

Alvin nodded. “Understood.”

With that, he turned and left the office, his movements swift and decisive. The door closed, and his footsteps quickly faded into the distance.

The director remained seated, lightly tapping his fingers on the desk. After a long while, he let out a sigh.

“One Lantern, one Heart. To think they could cause such a mess.”

Then, he lowered his head to resume processing his documents, as if nothing had happened.

...

Downstairs.

Alvin had already returned to the hall. Blair was about to ask what happened, but stopped when he noticed something was off.

The Alvin standing before him looked like an entirely different person. His usual demeanor as an ordinary archive clerk had vanished. His eyes were sharp, and his pace was much faster.

Blair was taken aback. “What's going on?”

“Field duty,” Alvin replied as he put on his overcoat.

“East Port?”

“No. Finding someone.”

“Who?”

Alvin paused for half a second. Then, he said, “Two kids who ran into trouble.”

With that, he pushed open the door and left.

A gust of cold wind rushed into the hall. A carriage was already waiting by the roadside.

Alvin jumped inside. The driver was about to ask for the destination, but Alvin did not speak immediately. Instead, he looked down at his palm.

The silver florin lay quietly there. Its surface was heavily worn, looking no different from any ordinary coin in circulation.

Alvin gave it a light flick with his thumb.

The silver coin spun through the air before falling back into his palm. In the next second, the coin suddenly spun on its own, nudged by some invisible force. The side bearing the Queen's profile slowly tilted toward the south.

Alvin's eyes narrowed slightly. As expected, they were still alive.

If the targets were dead, the coin wouldn't point anywhere; it would have just remained still. But now, it was guiding him.

Alvin pocketed the coin and finally stated their destination. “The South End. Head toward St. George Street first.”

The driver was taken aback. “St. George Street? There's nothing but trouble down there.”

Alvin didn't explain.

The carriage quickly sped away from the archive.

Along the way, London remained as gloomy as ever. Last night's heavy fog had dissipated, and the streets had returned to their usual state. Paperboys ran around waving newspapers, factory chimneys continuously belched thick smoke, and pedestrians hurried along under their umbrellas.

No one knew that just last night, a battle capable of driving any ordinary person mad had taken place near East Port.

Alvin leaned back in the carriage and pulled out the coin again. The silver coin trembled slightly, its direction shifting by a small margin. The carriage immediately adjusted its route accordingly.

Half an hour later, Alvin's brow began to furrow. Their destination was becoming increasingly remote, leading them farther and farther from the commercial district. Eventually, they crossed into the edges of the South End.

This area was close to the slums; the roads were muddy, the houses dilapidated, and the air was thick with the stench of coal smoke and sewage.

The driver was visibly uneasy. “Sir, do we keep going?”

Alvin looked at the coin once more. This time, the silver coin stopped spinning entirely. It pointed straight toward a three-story inn ahead.

The inn's sign was battered and worn, reading:

【White Hart Inn】

Alvin remained silent for a couple of seconds, then suddenly let out a soft chuckle. “They certainly know how to pick a spot.”

The driver didn't understand. Alvin had already jumped down from the carriage.

A yellowed gas lamp hung by the entrance of the inn, burning even in broad daylight. Inside the lobby, only a few drunkards lay slumped over tables, fast asleep.

Behind the counter, the owner was wiping down glasses. He didn't even look up as Alvin walked in.

“Staying the night?”

“No.” Alvin pulled out the coin and placed it on the counter. “I'm looking for someone.”

The owner had been indifferent, but the moment he saw the silver florin, his movements noticeably paused. He quickly went back to normal, however.

“Second floor. The room at the very end.”

“Thank you.” Alvin took back the coin and headed toward the stairs.

The wooden steps creaked under his weight. The higher he went, the stronger the smell of medicine became, mingled with the faint scent of blood.

Alvin's smile slowly faded from his face. He had already guessed what had transpired.

Simon had been missing for two days. Ryan had been missing for two days. The director had brought out the silver florin without hesitation. Combined with the recent events at East Port, the answer was painfully obvious.

Those two fools had almost certainly run headfirst into an extraordinary incident.

At the end of the corridor, the door was tightly shut. Alvin stood outside. After a brief silence, he raised his hand and knocked.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

There was no response from inside. Alvin knocked again. This time, he finally heard footsteps.

Then, Click.

The lock turned. The door slowly creaked open, leaving a narrow gap.

Simon's face, pale as a corpse, appeared behind the door. His hair was a disheveled mess, and his eyes were heavily bloodshot. An unlit cigarette was still clamped between his lips, though it wasn't lit.

The two stared at each other for several seconds. The silence in the air was suffocating.

Alvin looked at the thick bandages wrapped around Simon's shoulder, and then at the faint trace of blood seeping through his chest. Finally, his gaze drifted past him and into the room.

On the bed, Ryan lay unconscious. His face was flushed red, his forehead drenched in cold sweat. He was clearly still in the grip of a high fever.