Bailonz Street 13

“Let’s do that. It gets dark early these days.” Jefferson tipped his hat in a gesture of farewell and boarded the carriage.

After a while, the horses started moving, and we also got into our carriage, safely returning to Bailonz Street. The occasional jostling of the carriage and the passing scenery outside made me realize that I was truly experiencing the heart of 19th-century England.

‘Is there no way to skip this?’

My impatient nature began to surface, but the man sitting in front of me helped me keep it in check. I must emphasize, this game is driven by the butterfly effect of choices, meaning ‘there’s no benefit to creating trouble.’

Liam Moore remained silent throughout the ride, holding my hand. It was only when we were about to disembark that I noticed this, but we both let it pass without comment. Thanks to this, the turmoil in my heart subsided, and I felt rather grateful for it.

Of course, your actions are also just part of the scripted narrative, at the end of the day.

We arrived back at 13 Bailonz Street. The same scenery greeted me as when we had left.

There was no murderer lurking in the fog, no ambush.

We each changed into comfortable indoor gowns and had dinner, discussing the case before retiring to our bedrooms. The day ended without any incidents.

I opened my notebook to record the uneventful day as a save file, and after confirming that it was saved, I fell asleep reassured.

* * *

When I awoke to the commotion of the night, it was around 2 AM. The small clock by my bedside confirmed the time.

Ignoring the question of why I woke up at this hour, I instinctively got up. The bluish dawn air and the strange moonlight seeped into the room.

Where was this sense of foreboding coming from?

The outside was chaotic, with loud running footsteps, and surprisingly, there was the sound of someone rummaging through objects even right outside my door.

A thief? Liam is a light sleeper; did he wake up from this noise?

I soon realized that I would hear the scream that had killed me during my first attempt. Back then, in my panic, I had foolishly rushed out without any preparation, but this time was different. With several unmentioned playthroughs, I knew where to find a self-defense weapon. I carefully retrieved the revolver from the drawer and cautiously stepped outside.

I saw a large figure, turned away from me, focused on rummaging through the house. In the faint firelight, I could see he was a tall man with dark hair, over six feet, broad-shouldered, and muscular… Wait, why was he familiar?

I cautiously called out, “…Liam?”

Startled, the man’s shoulders shook before he raised the lamp’s brightness and turned to me. Relief washed over me.

The man, in his nightclothes, had clearly been woken up. His eyes were slightly unfocused from fatigue but still tense, and his usually neat hair was disheveled.

Normally, I would have laughed at his disheveled appearance, but this wasn’t the time.

Liam Moore seemed a bit taken aback that I was awake. However, he quickly grabbed a revolver from a small box on the mantelpiece. That seemed to be his objective.

After checking the bullets, he was about to rush out but paused when he saw the revolver in my hand, nodding once.

“Caution is a good attitude. But Jane, whatever you hear, don’t come outside. No matter what.”

Then, like a bolt of lightning, he dashed out of the house!

It was the early morning, and aside from the faint glow of the gas lamps, there was no light to rely on outside.

A woman’s scream pierced the air. That ominous, heartbeat-like background music began playing, causing my hands to sweat. My fingertips felt cold, and my neck prickled with unease. I even felt a bit breathless.

I was worried about Liam, who had rushed out with only a gun. I knew that when screams were heard, someone always died. I feared what scenarios might unfold because I was awake.

Clutching my gun, I locked the doors of all the rooms, then sat in the living room, trembling for about 30 minutes, worrying about Liam Moore who had run out without even properly dressing.

Damn that man, making me worry like this!

Just then, a gunshot rang out loudly from afar. Some light sleepers, woken by the gunshot, could be heard lighting lamps and looking out their windows. Houses began lighting up even in the late hours.

Another gunshot followed.

Was it Liam? Was he safe? I hoped he wasn’t hurt!

After a while, heavy footsteps came up the stairs, and there was a knock on the door (Liam’s distinctive knock: two knocks, a pause, then one knock, followed by three). I flung the door open.

Liam Moore stood there, his face drawn with exhaustion. His indoor gown, soaked with some liquid, clung to him in dark stains from his neck to his shoulders. His arms hung limply, and his face was so pale he looked like a sick man.

There was another person with him, almost supporting his body.

When we turned on a few lights in the house, the identity of his companion was revealed. It was Inspector Jefferson. It seemed he had encountered Liam while on night patrol.

The outside was now bustling with the sounds of whistles and running footsteps.

“There was an attacker,” Liam Moore’s voice mixed with short, panting breaths.

“The strength was incredible.”

He placed his four-shot revolver on the table. It was indeed Liam who had fired the shots. He spoke quickly as he began taking off his clothes and tossing them away from the carpet.

Under the light, his shoulder was revealed to be severely torn. The injury was deep, and the gash was exceptionally long, stretching diagonally from his shoulder to his chest.

Even for a robust young man who could handle himself, such a wound was severe! If it had been his neck, he might have been killed. Someone else might not have survived the attack.

“It was a woman in her forties. For some reason, she was still moving energetically despite being shot in a vital spot, so I had to shoot her again.”

“I heard gunshots during my patrol and rushed over, only to find Liam struggling with a woman. Judging by the blood already on the ground, it seemed she had been shot once. Despite that, she was rampaging and wielding a knife. She seemed to have lost all reason, Jane. It was truly madness. Liam was shouting, struggling to keep her away. When I arrived and tried to restrain her, she swung the knife at me. Eventually, she died after taking another shot. She had a blood-soaked hunting knife in her hand. I’ve instructed the subordinates to move the body to the mortuary.”

Jefferson finished speaking, and a brief silence fell among us.

Both men looked like they were about to fall asleep, having endured a tough night, but unfortunately, rest was not an option for us.

There was still the issue of Liam Moore’s battered shoulder. I’m an ordinary citizen with no proper medical training, only knowing a bit of sewing, but Liam seemed fine with that.

“It’s better than dying,” he remarked, taking a sip of brandy soda. Jefferson added that as long as the deepest wound on his shoulder was stitched up, he would be fine. The other wounds were bleeding less significantly.

TL/N: A brandy soda is a drink often used in historical contexts for its mild antiseptic properties, though not a proper medical solution.

As I used his shoulder as a makeshift canvas for stitching, a nonchalant voice broke the silence.

“I guess I won’t be able to shoot for a while.”

In this serious situation, while we all had grim expressions, he was the only one smirking and making jokes.

We all shouted simultaneously, “Is that really something to joke about!” Jefferson’s mustache quivered. I, too, wanted to give this carefree, audacious fellow a good smack on the back, but my morals, a shred of reason, and the principle of not hitting patients allowed the damned Liam Moore to survive my wrath.

With his shoulder stitched up, I felt some relief as I wrapped it with the bandages we always kept on hand (since we often got minor injuries while confronting criminals).

Now, the man seemed drowsy, his face showing signs of sleepiness as he sank into the armchair. Inspector Jefferson also looked exhausted, his hand bandaged.

Late into the night, we had an impromptu tea time, discussing the attacker. I asked, “Where did that woman come from?”

Liam answered in place of Jefferson. “She was from the Hyde Park area.”