"Lysander," she had whispered. One word. Just a name.
And yet it came tumbling out like a confession. Or a prophecy.
He turned slowly, those ever-watchful green eyes narrowing, not with suspicion, but the sharp curiosity of a man always looking for a hidden clue beneath a statement.
"You're awake," he said, his voice dry, "you know It's almost every Man's dream to be revered, his name sung all around the world. Though I must admit, it's not often strange girls in borrowed coats whisper mine like we're secret lovers."
Elena blinked once.
Then twice.
She wanted to answer, to say anything clever, casual, logical—but her lips did the opposite of that.
Nothing.
Her eyes widened. Her lungs tightened. Her body stilled.
Dark.
She woke to warmth and wool and the faint hiss of steam. Something floral and familiar—lavender, maybe? There was a rhythmic creak in the background, like the floorboards were shifting with age.
She sat up too fast.
And then froze again.
Standing across the room, shirtless and gloriously unbothered, was Lysander vale—in the flesh. Quite literally.
The steam was from a rusted iron, which he glided effortlessly over a dark woolen suit jacket, humming something off-key. His back was to her, and so were the three jagged scars that clawed across his shoulder blades—white lines against lightly tanned skin. His spine shifted as he pressed the fabric down, taut and efficient, like ironing was a battlefield and he'd long since stopped losing.
Elena clutched the blanket closer to her chest, blinking in disbelief.
"Where am I?" she croaked. "And more importantly—"
She swallowed. "Why are you shirtless?"
Lysander turned his head slightly, not enough to look at her, but just enough for his smirk to be heard.
"Because I was cursed with the decency of a laundry schedule. You, on the other hand, are in my house. And I do believe ownership allows me partial rights to breathable comfort."
She groaned and sank back into the chair, cheeks flaring as red as her winter scarf.
"is that right…" her mind drifting almost as if she's been here before in a sense.
Lysander finally looked at her, one eyebrow cocked,
He set the iron down and crossed his arms, the smirk curling into something more thoughtful.
"You fainted. Spectacularly, I might add. And forgive me for not dragging you to a hospital—Brighton isn't exactly the most welcoming place for a girl who looks distinctly not-English, especially when the Spaniards are still busy waving their colonial flags across the Philippines."
He walked over, picking up a pipe off the nearby shelf and tapping it against his palm.
"You're lucky my Aunt's a nurse. And a tolerant one."
As if summoned by her name, Aunt Jenna breezed in, a no-nonsense woman with silver streaks in her bun and a gaze that could saw through bone.
She took one look at Lysander and tossed a shirt at his face.
"For heaven's sake, boy, stop seducing the poor thing."
He chuckled as he caught the shirt with one hand.
"You caught me. Irons and abs so smooth you could press your clothes on em—my most diabolical weapon."
Elena let out an awkward laugh and tried to sit straighter, still wrapped in the thick plaid blanket.
Aunt Jenna walked over and gently checked her forehead with the back of her hand.
"Apologies, mam," Elena said, voice soft. "And thank you… really. For taking care of me, Aunt Jenna."
The woman stilled slightly. "well dear, I'm a bit curious as to how you know my name?"
Lysander didn't miss the shift either. He eyed her, thoughtful again. Less amused now.
"Interesting that you know who my aunt is. Especially since I don't recall introducing her."
"I, uh… overheard you say it," she lied, which was technically true, if you stretched the truth into a yoga pose.
Aunt Jenna smirked, clearly unconvinced. "He brings women home like this all the time, so I'm used to it. Poor boy has a hero complex."
She winked at Lysander.
He rolled his eyes. ", Aunt Jenna. Please don't frighten the strange girl."
Once he was fully dressed, now buttoned and booted like a man preparing for battle, Lysander stepped toward Elena.
She couldn't meet his gaze. Not because she didn't want to. But because it was him.
The man.
Her man.
Book-boyfriend-turned-breathing, scarred, sarcastic handsome young man.
I'm a swift motion his knees bent forward as he crouch in front of her and gently with tips of his finger lifter her chin.
Her dark eyes met his forest-green ones.
"Sweetheart," he said, quietly now. "The sooner we figure out how and why you're here, the sooner we can all go home."
She almost said it.
Almost told him everything.
But her mouth didn't move.
Because her mind was screaming that this was a dream—some wonderfully twisted, vivid dream crafted by loneliness and fiction and a dead writer's final page.
"This isn't real. Thats right I'm probably dreaming" almost allowing her thoughts escape her clouded mind .
He looked at her like he could hear the sentence.
Then, with terrifying calm, he said,
"sorry to to timber your apple tree love, but it's not a dream."
The phone rang—a heavy, brass contraption mounted on the wall. Lysander stood, muttered "Excuse me," and lifted the receiver.
A muffled voice. A nod. A clipped goodbye.
He turned, already reaching for his coat and flat cap.
"I've got a body in a stairwell and no time for drama," he said. "Get dressed if you're coming. Otherwise, I'm making you iron the rest of my shirts."
Aunt Jenna reappeared with a sleek 19th-century navy coat, gloves, and a ruffled high-neck blouse, handing them to Elena like it was an everyday request.
Minutes later, Elena stepped out onto the cobbled Brighton street beside Lysander. Her breath fogged in the air. The sky was grey. He was lighting a cigarette.
She glanced around.
"I don't see a carriage," she said.
Lysander didn't reply. He took a sharp turn down a side alley, pulled a key from his pocket, and inserted it into a rusted door in the middle of a brick wall.
He opened it without a word and stepped through.
She followed slowly, cautiously… until she paused.
On the other side of the doorway, she saw it.
The Brighton Order Headquarters.
Hidden. Real. Alive.
Lysander turned over his shoulder and arched a brow.
"Well?"
Elena's fingers curled tighter around the doorframe, A smile tucked at her lips as she wondered.
"God, if this is really a dream, I'm not sure I want to wake up".
The air inside the Order's Brighton branch was sharp with ink, steel, and freshly brewed trouble.
Boots clicked. Papers shuffled. Voices bounced off old stone and stained glass like echoes from several decades colliding all at once. The place looked more like a half-restored cathedral than a functioning office—vaulted ceilings, candle sconces converted into buzzing light bulbs, and a long line of desks that may have once been church pews.
And in the middle of it all walked Lysander Vale and Elena De la Cruz cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth like it paid rent, and hands tucked in her pockets like the tension surrounding them didn't make the air hunid enough as it is.
"oi, Xander," one agent called out without looking up, flipping through a case file.
"That's Detective Vale to you," Lysander muttered back. "And your coat's on inside out." His voice echoed reaching the ears of the other agents.
Elbow, a squat man with no neck and eyes like boiled eggs, cursed under his breath and yanked the garment off.
"You could've told just me."
"I just did."
A tall, raven-haired woman with bright orange gloves raised a brow as she walked past Elena.
"New recruit?" she asked, pointing her pen lazily.
"No," Lysander said. "Just a strange girl they found unconscious in the snow."
"Excuse me?" Elena blinked. "Strange girl?!"
But it was too late. A lanky, mustached fellow in an ash-colored vest popped his head over a divider.
"Oh, is this the strange girl?"
"Good heavens, she's real," added another—a wide-eyed blonde in suspenders with the energy of a caffeinated fox.
"Does she speak?" Raven Gloves asked.
"Not helpfully," Lysander said, stepping past another desk and flipping a file open on someone else's table.
"I do speak," Elena hissed, trailing behind him. "And I'm not strange."
"Right," Lysander nodded. "Completely normal to know my name, my aunt's house, and faint on first contact like a fainting goat in a corset."
One agent snorted behind her.
"Stop calling me strange girl."
"No promises."
They passed another desk where a man with rolled-up sleeves and spectacles sat muttering about chemical residue. Elena paused for a moment—so many faces. Different coats, different hats , different kinds of brilliant chaos. It was like a live-action Sherlockian fever dream.
But Lysander—calm, lean, coat flapping like a cape behind him—just weaved through it like a man allergic to caring. Except he cared. Too much.
And she saw it.
"I can tell You're really not, as unpleasant as you make yourself out to be" she muttered beside him.
"and I can tell You're really as annoying as you make yourself out to be" he replied dryly.
He stopped in front of a deep blue wooden door and knocked once before pushing in.
—
Brooks's office smelled like tobacco and old chairs. He sat behind a heavy oak desk, reading a report with the expression of a man debating whether to light it on fire or frame it.
"Well," Brooks said, looking up with a smile, "Detective Vale. Brighton's beloved storm cloud."
"Chief nepotism," Lysander returned with a nod. "Nice desk."
"IKEA. From the future, probably."
Brooks chuckled and stood. "I see you brought the little lady."
"The strange girl," a voice piped from outside.
Elena looked heavenward. "Oh, for the love of—"
Brooks stepped around the desk and finally addressed her properly. "Miss Elena, I apologize for the lack of care thus far. We were… unprepared. I hope you're feeling better."
She gave a polite nod. "Thank you. I am."
"We're just about to begin briefing a case," he said, glancing at Lysander. "Bit of a strange one. Body found at—"
"Let me guess," Lysander cut in, already removing his gloves. "Middle-aged man. Back of the head. No blood. No footprints around. Stone steps."
Brooks raised a brow.
Lysander grinned. "Lucky guess."
Elena felt a chill run down her spine. She knew this case. She'd read this scene. Chapter 7: The Stairwell Corpse.
Brooks gestured to the files. "We could use your insight, Detective. If Miss Elena wouldn't mind waiting—?"
"Of course she wouldn't," Lysander said. "She's only the center of a very bizarre transcontinental mystery and possibly a ghost. But your case, your rules."
Brooks chuckled. "You're welcome to stay here, Miss. Or stretch your legs around the office."
But Elena stepped forward. Her voice was small, yet clear.
"You're talking about the address on Temple Street, right? The building with the marble entryway and the broken railing on the third stair?"
Both men looked at her.
"And the body's about—" she caught herself "—was about thirty-seven? With something in his left hand that doesn't belong to him?"
Brooks stared. "How do you…?"
"She's a witch," someone muttered behind the door.
"I am not a witch," Elena snapped.
Brooks smiled politely, but his eyes were sharp now. "Miss Elena, if you could tell me how you knew all that—"
"We'll be late," Lysander interjected, already tossing on his coat. "Come on, strange girl."
"Not strange girl, Elena, E-LE -NA….." she retorted
"Heh"Lysander met her gaze with a smirk
Brooks blinked. "You're taking her?"
"She's already here. And clearly knows things. Might as well be useful."
"To be fair," Brooks said, "she is proving to be an asset."
Elena's eyes flicked between them, her heart hammering. What am I doing? Why am I doing this?
Lysander tipped his hat.
"Let's go see a corpse."
A narrow building of soot-stained stone loomed against the fog, its crooked windows and rust-bitten railing bowing with age. Lysander stepped out of the cab first, his coat flapping, cigarette barely lit, eyes already scanning the perimeter like the whole structure had offended him in a past life.
"Third stair's cracked," Elena said softly.
"I noticed," he replied, even though she knew he hadn't.
A third figure followed them out. Tall, broad, blond, and blessed with a grin that belonged in a tavern brawl, not a murder scene.
"Johnny Whitmore," he said, tossing Elena a playful salute. "Partner, occasional bad influence, and permanent headache to Vale here."
"Is this a date or a case?" Lysander asked. "Because I didn't bring flowers."
"Case," Johnny grinned. "But if you keep whispering like that, I might reconsider."
Elena smiled despite herself. The charm was obvious. But it was Lysander's silence that pulled her gaze again—he had that focused storm in his eyes, the one she remembered from Chapter 9: Vale in the Veil.
They climbed the steps carefully.
Inside, the stairwell was dim and bitter cold. Damp stone walls, flickering gas lamps, and the heavy silence of something unsaid. A constable stood guard, pale-faced and too young.
The body lay sprawled on the landing — a man in his thirties, suit well-tailored, shoes polished, and not a single drop of blood around him. But his neck… twisted. Wrong.
Elena's stomach clenched. I know this scene. She knew how it ended. And yet standing here felt unreal,
She was horrified first dead body she had ever seen in her life, but she hid it well.
"What do we know?" Lysander asked, crouching by the body.
"Name's Henry Thatch," Johnny said, flipping open his notebook. "Merchant, recently divorced, no criminal record, came here for a business meeting. According to witnesses, he tripped."
"He didn't trip," Elena blurted, too fast.
Both men turned.
"How do you know?" Johnny asked.
Lysander just watched her.
She swallowed. "His hand. Look—he's holding something. It's… out of place."
Lysander gently pried the hand open. A broken cufflink. Silver. Engraved.
But not with Thatch's initials.
"Elena," Lysander said quietly, "how did you…?"
She hesitated. "I… just guessed."
He didn't believe it. She didn't blame him.
Johnny whistled. "So he was meeting someone. Someone who didn't want him to leave."
Lysander stood and paced. "The stairs don't add up. No impact fractures. And the angle of the neck suggests it snapped clean. Fast. Clean."
"Which means," Johnny added, "the fall was staged."
Lysander nodded. "We're looking for someone strong, practiced, and not afraid of close contact."
"An assassin?" Elena asked.
Lysander looked over at her, something unreadable in his expression. "Or worse."
She followed him outside as the constables began taking statements. The wind had picked up, biting and relentless. Elena tucked the coat tighter around herself.
"You didn't flinch," he said suddenly.
She turned. "What?"
"You didn't flinch back there. First corpse. Real blood. You acted like you'd seen it before."
"I read a lot of murder mysteries."
Lysander smirked. "That so?"
A pause stretched between them—quiet, soft, but not awkward. The cold air hummed around their closeness.
"I've been meaning to ask," he added, tilting his head. "Do I always look that good shirtless, or was it just the fever?"
She flushed crimson. "I… you—You were ironing!"
He grinned wider. "Glad to know the fever didn't burn everything out of you."
She covered her face with her hands. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he said, stepping a little closer, "here you are. Still strange. But strangely interesting."
She lowered her hands, slowly, her eyes catching his.
They stood there, the cold sinking in beneath their boots, breath clouding between them.
Then—
BANG!
A single, deafening gunshot split the air, echoing off the alley walls like a hammer cracking glass.
Johnny burst out the door behind them, gun drawn.
"West side!"
Lysander spun on his heel. "Stay here!" he snapped at Elena.
But she was already moving, boots thudding against the frozen street.
Whatever quiet moment had existed was now shattered.
And the cold beneath had just begun to rise.