It was late at night, as the damp fog rolling in from the Thames swallowed the cobblestone streets of London.

It was late at night, as the damp fog rolling in from the Thames swallowed the cobblestone streets of London.

On the second floor of an old building on Fleet Street, the door to Evill Kirline's detective agency, where a single candle flickered precariously, swung open roughly. The sound of a luxury carriage soaked by rain faded into the eerie air, which was a mix of ink, old paper, bitter bergamot perfume, and a faint scent of gunpowder.

Standing at the doorway was a figure who didn't belong in the back alleys of London at all: Guest, the heir to one of London's wealthiest families. A top-quality silk velvet coat, silver-decorated buttons, and leather boots without a single splash of mud. He was a wealthy young master who looked as if he had been raised in a greenhouse and had never seen the bottom of the world even in a picture book.

Evill Kirline, who was sitting askew at her desk writing something in a leather ledger with a quill, didn't even lift her head. Only the sound of the cold nib scratching against the paper filled the room.

Despite Evill Kirline's dry question, Guest did not lose heart and tilted his chin up. There wasn't a shred of hesitation in his voice as he steadied his ragged breath.