The rhythmic clatter of wheels on steel filled the air as the Midridge Express glided through the fog-draped countryside. Inside its elegant, oak-paneled compartments, velvet seats and golden fixtures gave an illusion of peace—an illusion Arthur Virelith had long since learned to see through.
He sat alone in Cabin B3, the soft hum of the heater barely audible over the whisper of the train's motion. His posture was relaxed, almost drowsy, but his eyes were anything but. Sharp, calculating—he scanned the reflection in the dark window across from him, noting every flicker of movement in the hallway behind.
He wasn't here for comfort. He was here for blood.
Not to spill it—but to prevent it.
According to the anonymous letter that had found its way to his apartment two nights ago, someone on this train would be dead before morning. No name. No reason. Just a time, a train, and a challenge. The kind of game only someone who knew exactly who Arthur Virelith was would dare to play.
He adjusted his gloves, pulling them tight around his fingers, as if to remind himself that the hands beneath them were still steady—still reliable. But they didn't feel that way. Not entirely.
His mind drifted, unwelcome, to the girl from three years ago. The one he couldn't save. The one whose case had mirrored this one a little too closely. The moment she died, he'd felt something lock around his wrists, cold and suffocating. Like metal chains forged from guilt and silence. Since then, every new case brought a weight that only grew heavier.
A knock snapped him from the thought.
Luke Crimson leaned into the doorway with his usual lopsided grin. His dark red hoodie clashed spectacularly with the train's polished interior, and his presence was like a gust of wind in a room with no air.
"You always look like you're about to bite someone's head off," Luke said. "You gonna invite me in, or should I climb through the window?"
Arthur motioned lazily to the opposite seat. "Window's sealed. Besides, I don't need a second dead body on this train."
Luke sat, raising an eyebrow. "So it's that kind of case?"
Arthur didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"Let me guess," Luke continued, voice dropping. "Murder. No details. One of these lovely rich bastards up front has a knife up their sleeve and a secret under their floorboards?"
Arthur allowed the faintest smirk. "Closer than you think."
The train jolted slightly as it curved around a bend, and Arthur's eyes instinctively flicked to the door, then the corridor, then back. Every movement was mapped, logged, and remembered. The conductor had passed twice in the last hour. No food cart yet. No signs of distress. Not yet.
Luke leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You still get that feeling?"
Arthur didn't speak for a long time. Then, almost too quietly to hear, he said, "Yeah. Like something's wrapping around my hands. Tighter. Every hour."
Luke studied him. "You think it's her again? The one from the Fenwick case?"
Arthur's eyes darkened at the name. Gregory Fenwick. CEO. Corrupt. Clean on paper, filthy beneath it. His name had been scrawled in the margins of dozens of closed cases—but Arthur had never made it stick.
Now he was somewhere on this train.
And according to the letter…
"Either he dies," Arthur murmured, "or someone else does. And I'm not letting it happen again."
Luke leaned back, expression serious now. "Then we start watching. Talking. Listening."
Arthur nodded once.
Outside the window, the countryside blurred into night, and the shadows grew longer.
Murder hadn't struck yet.
But it was already onboard.