Tap. Tap. Tap.
Wei Chen recoiled, heart pounding, as he stared at the reflection in the cracked mirror. The face that gazed back was pale and drawn, a grotesque wound marring the temple—blood dried dark against skin, the edges singed as if by fire.
How am I even alive with an injury like this?
He turned his head, disbelief warring with fear. Even in the dim light, he could see the wound's depth, the blood that had seeped across his hairline.
Wei pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the frantic beat of a heart that was—impossibly—full of life. He touched his skin. Beneath the chill, there was warmth, a pulse of vitality.
He bent his knees, squatted, then stood again, testing his body's limits. Everything moved as it should. He was alive. Somehow.
"What is happening to me?" he muttered, frowning. He leaned closer to the mirror, but the crimson moonlight was too faint for a proper inspection.
A memory flickered—unbidden, not his own. He glanced at the tangle of brass pipes and the heavy, gridded lamp above the desk.
A gas lamp. The kind only the well-off could afford in Helmsgart. Emil's family, he realized, had once struggled to afford even candles. But when Emil was preparing for his university entrance, his brother had found a way—convincing their landlord to install gas lines as an "investment," and leveraging connections to buy the lamp at cost. Sacrifices, cleverness, and a little luck.
Wei moved to the desk, turning the valve and twisting the lamp's switch. A sputter, a flicker—nothing. He tried again, but the lamp remained dark.
He pressed his fingers to his temple, searching Emil's memories. The answer came: the gas meter.
He crossed the room to the wall-mounted device, gears and levers exposed. From his pocket, he produced a coin—bronze, stamped with the profile of a crowned emperor and a sheaf of wheat. The smallest denomination in the Free City: a krone.
He slid the coin into the meter's slot.
Clink. Clatter.
The gears whirred, a brief mechanical melody. Wei returned to the desk and twisted the lamp switch again.
This time, a sharp hiss—a plume of flame burst to life, filling the lamp with warm, golden light. The shadows retreated, the crimson moonlight fading to the corners.
Wei exhaled, feeling a strange comfort in the glow. He hurried to the mirror.
Now he could see the wound clearly. The bleeding had stopped, the flesh already knitting at the edges, as if some unseen force was mending him from within. The wound was still ugly, but no longer fatal.
Is this the effect of… whatever brought me here? Wei allowed himself a crooked smile.
He let out a long breath. Whatever else had changed, he was alive.
He opened a drawer, retrieved a sliver of soap, and grabbed a worn towel from the cupboard. Quietly, he slipped into the hallway, the gaslight from his room barely reaching the pitch-black corridor. The only illumination came from the crimson moon, painting monstrous shadows on the walls.
Wei moved softly, a shiver running down his spine as he reached the communal washroom. He turned the tap, letting cold water gush into the basin.
He thought of the landlord, Herr Frankl—a sharp-eyed man in a bowler hat who patrolled the halls, always listening for wasted water, always ready with a threat or a lecture about "the most affordable rooms in Helmsgart."
Wei washed the blood from his face, scrubbing until only the wound and his pallor remained. He stripped off his stained shirt, washing it as best he could.
A new worry surfaced: the blood. There must be more in the room. If anyone saw it—
He hurried back, towel in hand, and wiped the bloody handprint from the desk. By the lamp's glow, he searched for more stains. He found them—splattered beneath the desk, and a spent bullet lodged in the wall.
A shot to the temple… The clues aligned. Emil Weiss had died by his own hand—or so it seemed.
Wei cleaned the evidence, pocketed the bullet, and checked the revolver: five live rounds, one empty shell.
He glanced at the notebook:
"All things end in silence, even me."
More questions crowded in. Where had Emil gotten the gun? Was it truly suicide, or something staged? What trouble had he found? And why was Wei here, alive in a body that should be dead?
He changed shirts, sat at the desk, and began to think.
Emil's past was tangled, tragic—but not his concern, not yet. The real question was: why had Wei Chen crossed into this world? And could he return?
His family, his friends, the world he'd left behind—all seemed impossibly distant, yet achingly real.
He spun the revolver's cylinder, the click echoing in the quiet room.
Why me? Was it fate, or just terrible luck?
Then, a memory surfaced. Before dinner, desperate for a change, he'd tried a ritual—a luck charm from an old book he'd bought for fun. Four pieces of bread, four corners, four steps, four ancient names chanted in turn. He'd felt nothing at the time.
But now… now he was here.
Could that ritual have worked? If so, maybe he could reverse it. Maybe he could find his way home.
Wei straightened, resolve hardening. He would try the ritual again. He had to.
No matter what this city of shadows demanded, he would not give up—not yet.