Thud!
The third dull thud echoed through the cramped attic for a long time.
The wooden beams shook slightly.
Dust that had accumulated in the corners for years trickled down.
Ryan slid down the wall to the floor. A gash had split open on his forehead, and the fresh blood mixed with the stains already smeared from his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, turning half of his face into a gruesome mess. His eyes finally lost all focus, his body went limp, and he collapsed heavily onto the cold wooden floor.
Silence returned to the attic.
Only the kerosene lamp continued to sway gently.
...
But this quiet lasted only a few seconds.
From downstairs, the sudden sound of a chair being scraped back rang out.
Immediately after, someone looked up at the ceiling in shock and confusion.
“What was that sound just now?”
“Did someone drop something upstairs?”
“No, it didn't sound like dropping something. It sounded like... someone slamming against the wall?”
The buildings in the slums had notoriously terrible soundproofing.
Usually, if someone coughed twice, the neighbors could hear it clearly, let alone such a series of violent impacts.
Soon, hurried, chaotic footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Some opened their doors, while others poked their heads out with coats draped over their shoulders.
“Ryan?”
“Mr. Ryan?”
No one responded.
Someone else tried knocking on the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
Still, there was no sound.
As everyone exchanged uneasy glances, a set of hurried footsteps approached from the other end of the stairs.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardon me, please let me through.”
Irene, clutching a few newly purchased books, hurried through the narrow corridor. Just as she was about to return to her own room, she noticed almost all the tenants from this floor gathered outside Ryan's door.
A sudden sense of foreboding rose in her chest.
“What happened?”
A middle-aged woman shook her head.
“We kept hearing someone banging against the wall just now.”
“We've been calling out for a while, but no one's answering.”
Irene's face paled instantly.
“Mr. Ryan!”
She immediately stepped forward and knocked hard on the door.
“Mr. Ryan!”
“Can you hear me?”
The room remained as silent as a grave.
Irene bit her lip.
She didn't hesitate any longer.
“Break the door down.”
The two dockworkers standing nearby exchanged glances and nodded immediately.
They were used to heavy physical labor.
One of them took two steps back and slammed his shoulder hard against the wooden door.
Thud!
The first hit.
The doorframe shook violently.
The second hit.
The latch began to give way.
The third hit.
The entire wooden door finally came crashing down.
Almost everyone looked inside at the same time.
In the next second, the corridor fell dead silent. Someone even gasped.
Ryan lay slumped against the wall, blood streaming down his forehead.
Wet blood smeared his nostrils, ears, and the corners of his eyes, soaking a large portion of his shirt. On the wall, several fresh bloodstains from the recent impacts were starkly visible.
No matter how one looked at it, this was not something a normal person would do to themselves.
“My God...” someone whispered in horror.
The books in Irene's hands dropped to the floor with a dull thud.
Her face drained of all color.
“Ryan!”
She rushed in immediately and checked his breathing. He was still breathing, but it was incredibly shallow.
Only then did Irene let out a long sigh of relief, though her heart was still pounding wildly.
She had no idea what had happened.
He had been perfectly fine yesterday.
How did he end up like this after just one night?
“Quick!”
“Go get a carriage!”
“We need to get him to the hospital!”
The entire hallway dissolved into chaos.
Several tenants helped lift Ryan.
Some went to find a carriage.
Others ran to notify a nearby clinic.
Irene kept supporting Ryan's head, terrified of aggravating his wounds.
Once the carriage finally arrived downstairs, she climbed in with him.
The wheels began to roll slowly, quickly disappearing down the streets of the East End.
...
Morning.
East End Archive.
The chaos at the docks from the previous night had not fully dissipated, leaving a faint, lingering smell of burning in the air.
Yet, the first floor of the archive remained the same as always.
The wooden floors were polished to a shine.
Rows of tall bookcases stood silently. The morning sun filtered through the stained glass, casting dappled light and shadow across the hall, while the air was thick with the scent of paper, ink, and aged parchment.
However, everyone's faces bore signs of exhaustion.
Yesterday, nearly the entire archive had been mobilized.
The registry clerks on the first floor had been dispatched to the docks.
Even those in the basement responsible for organizing autopsy reports had been pulled out to help tally the casualties.
As a result, early this morning, many of them still had dark circles under their eyes.
Some yawned as they walked around carrying documents.
Others sat down and immediately stared blankly at their desks.
A few young clerks were still whispering about yesterday's riot.
“I heard a lot of people died.”
“The hospitals are completely packed.”
“The docks are still cordoned off today.”
“City Hall has already stepped in.”
“Really?”
“How could it be fake? The archives sent over last night were three times the usual amount.”
Their voices were kept low, but they could still be heard throughout the hall.
Simon leaned against the counter, slowly sipping his cold coffee, his face still somewhat pale.
But compared to his physical state, he was more concerned about something else.
He looked up, scanning the crowd, and frowned.
“Where's Ryan?”
Simon waited a bit longer, but there was still no sign of him.
Just then, the main doors of the archive were pushed open again.
Alvin walked in carrying his heavy iron toolbox, casually tossing a brand-new cane to Simon.
“Catch.”
Simon caught it with one hand and hefted it.
“So fast?”
“I promised you last night, didn't I?”
Alvin patted his toolbox and chuckled.
“I stayed up half the night working on it. I couldn't have you walking around with a broken cane forever.”
As he spoke, his gaze instinctively drifted toward the desk by the window.
The desk was empty.
Alvin paused.
“Ryan's not here yet?”
Simon lowered the cane and shook his head.
“No.”
“I thought he was upstairs organizing files earlier.”
Alvin frowned.
“Strange.”
“With how hectic things were at the docks yesterday, that kid was still running all over the place with you. Though he looked a bit pale when we got back, he didn't seem like the type to suddenly collapse.”
Simon gave a quiet grunt of agreement.
“I think something's off, too.”
Deciding not to keep guessing, he said, “I'll go ask the director.”
Alvin pushed open the door and walked in.
The director was still sitting behind his desk.
A thick stack of new archives sent over last night was piled before him. His fountain pen moved slowly, each stroke remarkably steady.
Alvin stood there for a moment.
Only then did he speak.
“Director.”
“Is Ryan not coming in today?”
The director didn't answer immediately, his pen continuing to glide across the paper.
Only after the final word was written did he gently set his pen down and close the file.
“He requested leave again.”
Alvin was taken aback.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Early this morning.”
“Someone delivered a message on his behalf.”
“Medical reasons.”
Alvin's brow furrowed deeper.
“Wasn't that kid just helping Simon rescue people at the docks yesterday?”
“He didn't look like he had any issues when he got back.”
The director nodded slightly.
“Which is why I find it rather strange as well.”
Alvin fell silent for a moment, then sighed.
“I'll go check on him.”
The director did not stop him.
He picked up a piece of paper and copied down an address from the delivered message.
Alvin turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Silence returned to the office.
The director sat quietly, staring blankly at his desk.
After a long while, he slowly pulled open a drawer.
Inside the drawer, alongside some pens, stamps, sealing wax, and a few silver florins, lay a tarnished, ancient silver coin.
He reached in, took out the silver coin, and gently rubbed his thumb over its cold, worn engravings.
He murmured softly to himself, “Ryan.”
“What on earth did you see this time?”
As his voice faded, he gave the coin a light flick, sending it spinning into the air.
There was no flourish to his movement, only the crisp, metallic ring of the coin.
Ding—
The coin spun continuously, glinting in the morning sunlight. The director's eyes never left it.
Finally, the coin began to fall, landing back on the back of his hand. But at that exact moment, the director's expression shifted for the first time.
Because the coin did not stop. It was still spinning, incredibly slowly, as if nudged by some unseen force.
One rotation.
Another rotation.
It was as if destiny itself was hesitating.
The director watched silently. It was only after more than ten seconds that the coin finally ground to a halt. Yet the final result plunged the entire office into an even deeper silence.
It was neither heads nor tails. The silver coin stood balanced on its edge, tilted slightly on the back of his hand.
Defying gravity and common sense, it just stood there quietly.
The director stared at the standing coin.
He didn't move for a long time.
His gaze darkened bit by bit.
Only after a long while did he slowly reach out, taking the coin and placing it back into the drawer.
The drawer closed with a soft thud.
He looked out the window at the East End streets bathed in the morning sun. Yet his gaze seemed to look past the city, past the docks, and land on some far more distant, far darker place.
He let out a sigh.
“Ah...”
“Even more of a troublemaker than I was in my youth.”
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