Soot and coal smoke blanketed London by night.
After leaving East Port, the man in the sharp suit did not look back.
He had never expected that brainless ghoul to defeat a Lantern Scholar.
Instead of taking the main roads, he cut through several blocks in succession.
Every turn was as meticulously calculated as if planned in advance, expertly avoiding the patrolmen's routes.
His leather shoes clicked rhythmically against the wet cobblestones.
Even though the operation in the warehouse had just failed, it didn't seem to affect his stride in the slightest.
His face still wore that same gentle, proper smile.
An hour later.
The streets began to change.
The coal smoke gradually thinned.
The low, dilapidated brick houses on either side vanished, replaced by row after row of Victorian mansions. Clean white marble steps were polished spotless by servants, and the gas lamps shifted from cheap iron brackets to ornate brass lampposts.
This was the West End.
A place that truly belonged to high society.
Carriages clattered back and forth.
Gentlemen in tailcoats walked arm-in-arm with ladies out of the opera house.
In the distance, the faint melody of a violin drifted lazily from one of the grand mansions.
No one would have guessed that East Port, less than an hour's carriage ride away, was currently plunged into blood, fire, and chaos.
The man adjusted his slightly crooked tie.
He brushed away non-existent dust from his cuffs.
Placing his top hat back on his head, he leaned on his cane.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he strolled toward the grand building on the corner.
The night was quiet.
He softly hummed an old English folk song.
“Alas, my love, you do me wrong…”
The low, slow melody drifted on the night breeze, sounding exceptionally melodious under the gas lamps.
He looked like he had just left a ball, rather than having personally orchestrated a tragedy in East Port.
Two stone lions stood silently at the entrance.
Golden letters were engraved upon the massive archway.
—Royal Commercial Bank.
By the time he hummed the second line, he had already pushed open the bank's doors with a smile.
The brass doorbell let out a crisp chime.
The lobby was carpeted in soft red.
A massive crystal chandelier overhead illuminated the entire hall as bright as day.
Behind the counter, a row of young female clerks in matching uniforms quietly went about their work.
A few wealthy merchants were conversing in the lobby.
Everything was in perfect order.
It felt as though an invisible wall separated this place from the world outside.
The man offered a picture-perfect gentlemanly smile.
“Good evening.”
He took off his top hat and bowed slightly.
His voice was deep and magnetic.
The young female clerk closest to the counter looked up.
She was about twenty years old, with her blonde hair pinned up, wearing thin-rimmed glasses. She had been looking down, recording transactions in a ledger.
When she saw the man, she couldn't help but daze slightly.
This gentleman before her wore an impeccably tailored black suit, with a silver pocket watch chain draped across his vest. His leather shoes were polished to a mirror shine, and his elegant bearing made him look like the heir to some ancient noble family.
Most importantly...
...he was exceptionally handsome.
The clerk's cheeks flushed slightly, and her tone softened.
“How may I help you tonight, sir?”
The man smiled warmly.
“To cash a check.”
“Of course. One moment, please.”
He slowly drew a neatly folded check from the inside pocket of his suit and placed it gently on the counter.
His movements were as graceful as an artistic performance.
The clerk took the check with both hands.
She looked down and began to verify it.
The man stood there at his leisure, even finding himself in the mood to admire the oil paintings in the lobby.
This was a check issued by the cult.
Although funds had been a bit tight lately, cashing a few hundred pounds should still be an absolute breeze.
However.
A few seconds later.
It suddenly grew quiet behind the counter.
The clerk blinked.
She rubbed her eyes.
Then, a look of confusion crossed her face.
“Sir...”
“Yes?”
“This check...”
The man maintained his smile.
“Is there a problem?”
“The writing on it... seems to be disappearing.”
The man: “...”
For the first time, the smile on his face froze.
“What did you say?”
“It really is...”
Looking utterly bewildered, the clerk handed the check back.
The man looked down.
He froze completely.
The check, which only moments ago bore an amount, a signature, and the bank's seal, now saw its ink bleeding as if soaked in water, fading bit by bit.
The numbers vanished first.
Then the signature.
Finally, even the bank seal dissolved into a wisp of faint black smoke, drifting away from the paper.
The corner of the man's eye twitched slightly.
He reached out and touched the surface of the paper.
It was not an illusion.
The ink was truly gone.
A few seconds later.
The entire check turned into a blank sheet of paper.
Then.
New handwriting slowly began to emerge.
The letters were crooked, as if scribbled in a hurry.
There was only one sentence on it.
—The cult has run out of money lately. Please understand, let us get through these difficult times together.
Below it, there was even a smiley face drawn.
“:)”
The man fell silent.
The entire bank lobby suddenly fell into a terrifying silence.
He stared down at the paper.
Then he looked up at the ceiling.
Then he looked back down at the paper.
The air seemed to solidify.
Behind the counter, the clerk asked tentatively:
“Sir... is this... some new anti-counterfeiting measure?”
The corners of the man's mouth slowly curled upward.
He flashed a picture-perfect, exceptionally gentle, and thoroughly gentlemanly smile.
“Haha.”
“It must be.”
“Our company's finance department... has always had quite a sense of humor.”
He spoke with complete ease.
He even gave a slight nod.
“The economic climate hasn't been great lately, so everyone likes to play a harmless little joke now and then.”
The clerk nodded, half-believing him.
“I see...”
The man folded the paper back up, his movements remaining elegant without the slightest hint of composure lost.
“My apologies for making a scene.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Have a pleasant evening.”
“Thank you, and I wish you well with your work.”
He putting his top hat back on, he turned and left the bank.
The entire process was carried out with impeccable poise.
His demeanor was flawless.
No one could tell anything was amiss.
Until the bank doors slowly swung shut.
The street returned to silence.
The smile on the man's face vanished instantly.
The corner of his mouth twitched violently.
“...”
He looked down and unfolded the paper once more.
Those lines of text were still there.
The cult has run out of money lately. Please understand, let us get through these difficult times together.
Below that, another line of small text had appeared at some point.
Additionally, this month's salary will be delayed.
—Sincerely, the Logistics Department.
The man's eyelids twitched furiously.
The veins on his forehead began to bulge, bit by bit.
The hand holding the paper started to tremble slightly.
“...”
He took a deep breath.
Then exhaled slowly.
Maintain poise.
Maintain breeding.
Maintain the elegance expected of me.
A minute later.
He finally couldn't hold it in anymore.
“Damn it!”
“I lost a Soul-Stitched body in East Port!”
“I almost died in that warehouse!”
“And now the organization tells me they've run out of money?!”
Furious, he crumpled the paper into a ball.
He was about to throw it away, but then remembered the paper was still useful.
A silence of two seconds.
He silently smoothed out the creases bit by bit, unfolding it once more, and stuffed it back into the inner pocket of his suit.
After all...
...this was evidence.
He would settle the score when the time came.
Rate on N.U.
