Assassination

The ward fell silent once more.

Alvin placed the medical chart back on the nightstand, adjusted Ryan's glasses, and patted the edge of the bed after confirming his mental state had stabilized.

“There's one more thing.”

Ryan suddenly had a bad feeling.

“What is it?”

Alvin crossed his arms, his tone as calm as if he were reading an archive.

“The private ward has been paid for a week in advance.”

Ryan nodded.

“Okay.”

“It will be deducted from your salary.”

The air suddenly fell dead silent.

The expression on Ryan's face slowly froze.

“...Deducted?”

“Of course it is,” Alvin replied as if it were only natural. “You brought this on yourself. It's not like you were injured on duty for the Archive. There's no reason for the public office to reimburse you.”

As he spoke, he pulled a slip of paper from his coat pocket.

“Furthermore, you didn't show up for work today. It will be treated as a leave of absence, and your pay will be docked accordingly.”

Ryan fell silent.

Alvin continued: “The port incident yesterday was a temporary assignment, so you'll receive overtime pay for that, but that was yesterday. Today, you're lying in a hospital bed, so it counts as leave.”

Ryan took a slow, deep breath.

He suddenly felt as though his wounds were starting to ache again.

“...How much is a week in this ward?”

Alvin casually quoted a figure: “Three guineas—sixty-three shillings.”

Ryan froze completely.

His mind instinctively began to calculate the math.

His first month's salary after being formalized.

Rent.

Food.

Laudanum.

Plus the various items he had bought here and there recently.

He had finally managed to scrape together a bit of savings.

By the end of last month, his entire net worth was only two pounds and fifteen pence.

That was the first time since coming to this world that he actually had some savings.

Yet, a single hospital stay sent him right back to square one.

Ryan slowly closed his eyes, with only one thought left in his mind: Bankrupt. I'm truly on the verge of bankruptcy.

Looking at his expression, Alvin couldn't help but chuckle. “Hurts to lose your money, doesn't it? Why didn't you think of this earlier?”

Ryan leaned back against the pillow, exhausted. “I'll try my best to avoid Chris from now on.”

Alvin nodded in deep agreement. “That is the most sensible thing I've heard all day.”

The ward fell silent for a few seconds.

Alvin added: “But there's one thing you don't need to worry about.”

“What's that?”

“Meals are included here.”

Ryan was taken aback.

Alvin gestured toward the door with his chin. “Private wards are different from general wards. To prevent any issues during recovery, the hospital prepares all three meals. At least you won't starve to death.”

Ryan gave a bitter smile. “I suppose that's a silver lining.”

Alvin suddenly stopped smiling. “And one more thing. Don't forget to thank Irene.”

Ryan looked up.

“That girl watched over you for most of the day. The doctor said that when you were brought in, you were bleeding from your eyes, nose, and mouth, and your breathing was terrifyingly weak. She sat outside for hours, asking the nurses countless times when you would wake up. She's still just a young girl. Now that you're awake, you owe her a proper thank you.”

Ryan nodded in silence. “I know.”

Alvin looked at the wall clock.

It was getting late. He couldn't stay away from the Archive forever.

He picked up his toolbox and walked to the door.

Before leaving, he looked back at Ryan. “Just rest and recover these next few days. No more sleepwalking. And definitely don't go looking for Chris. If that guy ever decides to sell you out, you'll probably end up helping him count the money.”

With that, Alvin pushed the door open and left.

The door closed softly, and the ward returned to silence.

Ryan slowly lay back down, still feeling weak.

The recovery abilities granted by the extraordinary were mostly reflected in the mental aspect, rather than the physical body itself; his repeated overuse of the Lantern Principle, coupled with the pollution left behind from staring at the entity beneath the sea, had left his body completely drained. Even lifting his hand brought a dull ache from deep within his muscles.

Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened.

The hospital corridor grew quiet.

Occasionally, the sound of a nurse pushing a medicine cart could be heard passing by, the wheels rolling over the wooden floorboards with a rhythmic, soft rumble.

Ryan closed his eyes to rest.

...

The ward was quiet, save for the soft burn of the coal stove and the occasional crackle of charcoal.

The nurse pushed the medicine cart to the bedside, skillfully unwrapping his bandages and picking up new medicine. Her movements were no different from usual, but her eyes grew increasingly vacant, as if her consciousness were slowly sinking into another realm.

That voice had returned.

Gentle and soft, like a lover's whisper or a holy hymn echoing in a cathedral, it repeatedly whispered the same sentence in the depths of her mind.

The nurse's hand holding the medicine bottle trembled slightly.

One hundred pounds might be nothing to the gentlemen of the West End, but to a common nurse in an East End hospital, it was enough to change her family's destiny.

The voice seemed to know her deepest desires, constantly painting a picture of a life she had never possessed.

Her mother would no longer have to work as a laundress despite her failing health; her younger brother could wear decent clothes to school; and her family could finally leave the damp, freezing slums to move into a home with a fireplace, hot water, and fresh white bread every day.

She knew it was all a dream.

Because she had been having this dream for several consecutive days.

In the dream, there was always a long table laden with a grand feast, a silver chalice filled with red wine, and a figure sitting shrouded in shadow. The figure never showed its face, but simply pushed thicker and thicker stacks of banknotes toward her, waiting patiently for her to make a choice.

Until today.

For the first time, the voice had given her a name.

And when the head nurse handed her tonight's duty roster, she saw that the patient in Ward Twelve bore that very name.

In that instant, she finally understood that it was not a dream, but a summons that transcended reality.

Standing silently by the bedside, the nurse slowly pulled open the bottom drawer of the medicine cart and withdrew a long, sharp scalpel.

Just as the tip of the blade was about to plunge down—

Ryan snapped his eyes open.

There was no warning.

His perception of danger had long surpassed that of ordinary people. At that moment, he clearly felt a strange, intense malice intruding into his sensory range.

The instant he opened his eyes, he saw the descending blade.

Their gazes locked.

The nurse froze in surprise.

She had not expected someone who had been heavily injured and asleep for an entire day to wake up so suddenly.

But Ryan did not give her a second chance to strike.

The Lantern's glow instantly gathered, condensing into an invisible mental blast that struck the nurse's consciousness.

The expression on the nurse's face instantly froze. Her eyes widened as her mind felt as if it had been struck by an invisible sledgehammer.

She let out a sharp groan, her body swaying violently as the scalpel slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.

The sound of metal hitting the floor was exceptionally jarring in the quiet ward.

The next moment, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed heavily beside the bed.

Ryan sat up.

Instead of checking on the nurse first, he stared coldly toward the door of the ward.

This was no coincidence.

Someone had orchestrated this.

Someone knew who he was.

Knew he was hospitalized and injured.

And even knew exactly who the nurse taking care of him tonight would be.

Ryan slowly took off his glasses, wiped the fog from the lenses with the hem of his shirt, and put them back on.

His vision became clear once more.