The sound of rain fills the empty streets, a steady, unrelenting downpour. A few lone figures move through the gloom, their umbrellas shielding them from the cold, but their footsteps are swallowed by the rain.
On the side of the street, in front of a dimly lit café, beggars huddle beneath the outdoor umbrellas—once meant for shade, now useless against the relentless downpour. Water drips through the worn fabric, soaking them as they shiver against the chill. Their presence is ignored, just another part of the city's decay, fading into the shadows of the storm.
A man walks past the café, his gaze lingering on the beggars with a flicker of pity before he continues on. He is dressed in a black suit, his broad frame wrapped in a long trench coat—the kind often seen on police officers. But there is nothing about him that suggests he belongs to the law.
The rain glistens on his short, well-kept beard, framing a strong jaw. His sharp eyes, cold and calculating, scan his surroundings with quiet intensity. He is tall and powerfully built—muscular but not bulky, his presence commanding without a word.
He makes his way into a dimly lit inn, the warmth inside a stark contrast to the cold streets. Stepping up to the bar, he removes his coat with practiced ease before taking a seat.
"Good evening. What can I getcha?" the barkeep asks, his voice carrying the drawl of the countryside—common enough in this city, blending into the hum of conversation.
"Whiskey, a steak... and a room, if there's one available," the man replies. His voice is deep, steady, and unmistakably refined—his accent that of a nobleman.
The man glances around at the empty tables, his sharp eyes taking in the eerie stillness. The only souls in the inn are him and the bartender—an unusual sight, even for this part of town. The absence of patrons makes the place feel hollow, as if something had driven them away.
"Ah, sorry, sir, but we only got one room left," the bartender says, setting the glass of whiskey in front of him. "It's a two-person room, so you'd have to pay extra." Behind the bar, the faint sizzle of meat cooking fills the silence.
The man hums, lifting the glass to his lips. "That's fine. I just need a room," he says before taking a sip. The whiskey burns as it slides down his throat, sharp and unforgiving. A shiver runs through him, goosebumps prickling his skin, but the sensation fades quickly.
"So… not many customers, huh?" the man asks, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
The bartender shrugs, leaning against the counter. "Nah, most folks around here are day drinkers. Nights are usually peaceful." He slides a piece of paper in front of the man. "For how long will you be staying?"
"Just 2 days" the man says
"Alright," the bartender nods, tapping the paper with a calloused finger. "I'll need you to fill this out—first and last name, how long you're stayin', date of arrival, and your signature at the bottom. Oh, and if you got any special requests, there's a space for that too."
The man raises an eyebrow. "Hm. Special requests? Like what?"
The bartender smirks slightly, wiping down the counter. "Well, could be room service… or other kinds of requests too," he says, giving the man a knowing look.
"Ahh… you mean sexual requests or assassination requests," the man replies, his tone blunt, unwavering.
The bartender smirks, a small chuckle in his voice. "Well, that's up to you to decide. We can do both—we've got some lively women here."
The man blinks, more confused than embarrassed. "Ah… no thanks," he says flatly, before lowering his gaze to the form.
He picks up the pen and begins filling it out, the scratch of ink the only sound between them.
First name: Adrian
Last name: Voss
Stay: 2 days, 1 night
Date of arrival: 23.6.1865
Signature: AV
Adrian hands the paper and fountain pen back to the bartender. "there is that all" adrian asks
"Yes, it is," the bartender answers, handing Adrian the steak on a plate and providing him with a knife and fork. "Now, that will be 7 Gulden, sir."
Adrian reaches into his wallet, pulling out the 7 Gulden and placing it on the counter. He looks up, his gaze steady. "Seems inflation's hit pretty hard, hasn't it?" His tone is casual, but there's a hint of quiet observation in his words.
"Well, the new king has been printing bills like crazy," the bartender replies, shaking his head. "He's too young to understand much, but it's expected since his father died so abruptly." He places the key to Adrian's room next to the glass of whiskey.
"New king?" Adrian asks, his brow furrowing. "So King Vince died... when?"
"Hm, it was a month ago," the bartender says with a shrug. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of it yet. Are you perhaps a tourist?"
"No, not a tourist. Just been out of the kingdom for a while," Adrian replies, his voice even.
The bartender raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Out of the kingdom, huh? Where were you before coming back?"
"That's none of your business," Adrian replies, his tone sharper, a hint of defensiveness creeping in. He finishes his steak, downs the last bit of whiskey in one smooth motion, and stands up. Grabbing the key, he heads toward the stairs without another word, the heavy creak of the steps beneath his boots the only sound as he walks up to the rooms.
Adrian looks down at the key in his hand, the brass keychain swinging slightly, marked with the room number 8B. He grips it tightly, then makes his way to the door.
With a twist of the key, he unlocks it and steps inside. The moment he enters, he's met with the musty smell of old furniture and damp wood. Water drips steadily from the ceiling, the sound of raindrops splashing against the floor. The place feels abandoned, its age and neglect settling heavily in the air.
Adrian makes his way to the bed and sits down, only to realize he's forgotten his coat down at the bar.
With a sigh, he stands and leaves the room, heading back downstairs. But as he enters the bar, he's met with a chilling sight: a man stands in the middle of the room, his posture calm and unhurried. The bartender's mangled body hangs lifeless in the air, suspended by some unseen force. The man's hands remain at his sides, yet the body floats with unnatural stillness, clearly controlled by magic. Adrian's instincts sharpen, his mind racing as he takes in the scene.