After the people from the Suppression Bureau left, the attic fell silent once more.
Only the rain outside continued to fall, the drops tapping against the tin roof with a soft, pattering sound.
Ryan stood at the doorway, motionless for a long time.
His back was completely drenched in cold sweat.
Only after confirming that the footsteps in the stairwell had completely faded did he slowly lock the door again.
Then, he sank back onto the edge of the bed, feeling utterly drained of strength.
His hands were still trembling slightly. If even the slightest thing had gone wrong just now, tonight might have been his end.
He looked down at his palms; they were slick with sweat.
That encounter had felt far more dangerous than facing street thugs.
Because the people from the Suppression Bureau were simply too calm.
Especially the one named Jonathan.
He had spoken with such mildness, yet every single word had been a probe.
The truly terrifying things in this world were not those madmen, but these people who knew of the existence of anomalies.
They did not shout or act hysterically; instead, the more normal they appeared, the more dangerous they were.
Ryan let out a low breath.
Then, he looked at the laudanum on the table.
After hesitating for a moment, he decided against drinking any more.
The fright from earlier had left his mind exceptionally clear.
Unable to fall asleep at all, he spent almost the entire second half of the night leaning against the headboard, staring blankly.
Occasionally, he listened to the sound of the rain outside.
Occasionally, he stared at the gas lamps in the fog outside the window.
Until the distant church bells chimed seven times.
Daylight had finally broken. Today was Friday.
Morning in London was as cold and gloomy as ever.
Ryan rubbed his sore eyes and slowly rose from the bed.
Staying up all night had made his complexion look even worse.
The reflection in the mirror looked almost like a corpse.
His eye sockets were dark, and his lips were pale.
Only his eyes seemed to grow brighter and brighter.
They shone with a light that made even him feel a little uncomfortable.
Ryan averted his gaze.
After a quick wash, he threw on his coat and went downstairs.
The rain had stopped today, but the air was even damper, and the streets were covered in muddy water.
First, he went to the street corner to buy some food: two of the cheapest pieces of rye bread.
A small piece of hard cheese.
And a cup of very weak hot tea.
It cost him a total of four pence.
Ryan stood by the roadside and ate slowly, his stomach finally feeling a bit better.
Only then did he walk along the foggy streets toward the archive.
His journey today was completely peaceful—no strange dreams, no one tailing him.
There were no extraordinary incidents either, as if everything from last night had been nothing but an illusion.
Half an hour later.
Ryan arrived at the archive as usual.
The Formal Recording Hall was already busy with work.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink.
Simon was holding a large stack of files, cursing:
“Who mixed the North End census records with the death registrations?”
Someone nearby replied without even looking up:
“You did, last week.”
Simon instantly went quiet.
A few low chuckles echoed through the recording hall.
Ryan returned to his desk.
He set down his document bag.
Then, he began organizing today's new files.
Today's work was very ordinary.
In fact, it was so ordinary that it bordered on boring.
There were no special files.
No strange symbols.
Only a vast number of repetitive records.
Street numbers, birth certificates, relocation dates, and parish stamps.
One after another, the rustling sound of writing persisted for almost the entire day.
At noon.
Simon even joked:
“Ryan, why are you as quiet as a monk today?”
Ryan kept his head down and continued writing.
“Tired.”
Simon let out a couple of hearty laughs.
“Then you should spend less time looking for women at night.”
Several people nearby immediately joined in the teasing, but Ryan merely shook his head, too lazy to respond.
Because he truly had no energy left.
After staying up all night, he was relying entirely on sheer willpower to get through the day.
In fact, while organizing files in the afternoon, his vision blurred several times.
Fortunately, he didn't make any mistakes.
Until it was time to clock out in the evening.
Nothing happened today either.
This actually allowed Ryan to breathe a sigh of relief.
At least it showed that the Suppression Bureau had not continued to suspect him for the time being.
After leaving the archive.
London was already starting to grow dark.
The gas lamps lit up one by one.
Workers poured out of the factory districts like a tide.
Ryan didn't linger.
He headed straight back to St. Blaise Street.
The next day.
Saturday.
Today, the archive was only open for half a day.
And many people were visibly in a much more relaxed state.
Because they would finally get to rest on Sunday.
Ryan worked as usual in the morning.
After leaving early at noon, he went straight back to his apartment.
Just as he entered the hallway.
He ran into Irene, who was in the middle of collecting rent.
She held a ledger, knocking on doors one by one.
When she saw Ryan, she was clearly taken aback for a moment.
“So early today?”
Ryan nodded.
“Half-day shift.”
Then.
He fished three shillings out of his pocket.
And handed them straight over.
“Next week's rent.”
Irene looked down at the coins.
She was somewhat surprised.
“Paying in advance?”
“Yeah.”
Ryan smiled.
“Lest I forget.”
In truth, he was just afraid he would spend it recklessly.
He didn't have much money on him to begin with.
Handing it over early gave him peace of mind.
After taking the coins, Irene made a note in her ledger.
Then, she gave a slight nod.
“You still owe two weeks.”
“But at least you look like a normal tenant now.”
Ryan chuckled.
“I didn't before?”
“Before, you looked like you were about to die.”
She was very blunt.
For a moment, Ryan didn't even know how to respond.
Irene, however, had already closed her ledger.
She clutched her ledger and walked away.
Ryan stood at the stairs, watching her figure disappear.
Then, he looked down and patted his pocket; there was only one shilling and six pence left inside.
And there were still a full six days until payday at the end of the month.
Sunday morning.
Ryan woke up very late.
After several consecutive days of poor sleep, combined with the fact that nothing had gone wrong last night, he slept all the way until almost nine o'clock.
The attic was as cold and gloomy as ever.
Outside the window, he could hear the sounds of street vendors pushing their carts below.
He didn't have to work today.
The entire East End was a bit quieter than usual.
Ryan lay in bed, staring blankly for a while, before slowly sitting up.
First, he felt the money in his pocket—this was his entire net worth now.
He still had to survive until the end of the month. Ryan fell silent for a moment, ultimately deciding to go to church today.
Not out of faith.
But purely because many churches distributed free thick soup and rye bread on Sundays.
Especially in the East End, where there were too many poor people.
Quite a few relied on this just to get by.
He quickly washed his face, threw on his old coat, and headed out.
The fog was slightly thinner today.
Many people dressed in formal attire could be seen on the streets heading to service.
There were workers, women, and families carrying children.
Many of London's lower class were actually not very devout.
But they needed the church.
They needed some hot food.
And they needed a place where they could sit and rest for a while.
Ryan walked westward along the street.
About twenty minutes later.
He finally arrived at Greybell Church.
The tall, grayish-white building stood in the thick fog.
The stained-glass windows looked somewhat dim on this overcast day.
A crowd had already gathered at the entrance, with people lining up to receive bread.
Nuns were also distributing hot soup.
Ryan kept his head down and joined the queue.
No one paid him any attention, as most of the people here were just like him.
Thin, exhausted, and looking pale.
When his turn came.
An elderly nun handed him a piece of rye bread and a bowl of thick cabbage soup.
“May the Saints watch over you.”
Ryan softly offered his thanks.
Then, carrying the soup, he walked over to a corner bench and sat down.
The soup was very thin, with almost no meat inside, but at least it was hot.
Ryan drank it slowly.
His body finally warmed up a bit.
The service inside the church had already begun.
The sound of hymns echoed through the hall.
Many people bowed their heads in prayer.
Ryan, however, just sat quietly.
His feelings toward this world's religions were actually somewhat complicated now.
Especially after coming into contact with The Glory.
He could no longer simply dismiss the "occult" as mere superstition.
There truly were things that existed in this world.
It was just that ordinary people were unaware of them.
After the service ended.
Ryan sat in the church for a little longer.
He didn't leave until noon.
Rate on N.U.
