After ten minutes of walking, Zay reached the other side of the bridge and was greeted by the sight of several shattered houses, torn clean in half. A foul stench clung to the air—thick, putrid, and heavy—the kind that lingered in the back of the throat and made each breath a task.
He turned left after the bridge and continued along the fractured stone pathway. Dirt clung to every crack, broken shards of glass glittered faintly beneath the moonlight, and splinters of wood jutted out from the ground like forgotten remnants of violence.
Zay yawned very slightly and walked for nearly an hour through the decay before the atmosphere finally shifted. The buildings ahead stood taller, crafted from polished stone and multicolored brickwork, their surfaces clean and orderly. Lanterns glowed with a soft orange hue, and the air carried hints of lavender and warm bread—a paradise compared to the stench-ridden wasteland he'd just crossed.
'That smell was fucking terrible.' Zay grimaced, blinking several times to clear the memory of it from his senses. He ducked into a narrow alleyway, its cobblestone surface uneven but dry, and kept walking until he reached the end.
There it stood: Ironcloud Detective Agency.
The building was wide, three stories tall, with reinforced iron frames embedded into its brickwork—matte gray iron bolted tightly into black stone, giving the place an industrial, fortress-like presence. The windows were tall and narrow, each covered by metal grates that could slide open from the inside. A faded copper sign hung above the arched doorway, etched with the name Ironcloud in stylized block letters, steam curling from the vents built directly into the upper facade. Gears turned lazily along the walls as if to power internal mechanisms, and a pair of curved steel lanterns flanked the entrance, flickering with blue flames.
The doors creaked open, steam curling around the frame as three men stepped confidently. They were dressed in immaculate white suits, tailored to perfection. The fabric shimmered subtly under the flickering lamps—threaded with fibers that caught and held the light like spun glass. Their lapels were sharp, angular, and stiff with structure, pressed so clean they looked carved from ivory.
Each man wore a black fedora tilted slightly forward, casting shadows over their upper faces. The brims had a faint satin finish that reflected the pale glow of the city's artificial lights. Their gloves were a pristine ivory-white, made of a supple material that flexed like silk but held its shape like armor. They reached just past the wrists, ending in silver-buttoned cuffs etched with tiny gears.
Their trousers matched the suits, straight-legged and spotless, ironed to a crease so clean it could slice glass. Black boots completed the ensemble—thick-soled, reinforced at the toes and heels with matte steel caps, laced tight and polished until the leather gleamed like obsidian.
On the right breast of each man's suit was an embroidered insignia—bold and unmistakable. A dark cogwheel wreathed in broken chains, flanked on both sides by a pair of metallic silver wings, outstretched but clipped, as if once free but grounded. The emblem shimmered faintly with crimson aura.
Zay's eyes flicked to the three men, each having something made of bronze and silver fastened to their waists. He wasn't completely sure on what it was from how far away they were from him and how small the item was.
'Watchmen', he thought, recognizing their distinctive outfits. Every rank in Ironcloud had its own uniform, marking their place in the hierarchy.
'There are only six ranks,' Zay reminded himself. 'Watchmen are third in rank... below Scythe, and Wingbearer. I don't want to deal with them if I can avoid it.'
His gaze swept the area, searching for another way inside. The events that had unfolded here didn't quite fit with the memories from past lives.
Zay sighed quietly. His eyes widened briefly before narrowing sharply as he watched the Watchmen turn and walk away in the opposite direction.
'If they're out of Ironcloud, there must be a high-profile case that's ongoing. That's the only reason they leave the building, if I remember correctly.'
Zay waited several minutes, making sure the three Watchmen were completely out of sight. His eyes shifted back to Ironcloud as he scanned the building from the front—every window, corner, and edge.
He crouched low behind a cluster of tightly packed bushes, exhaling slowly. For five minutes, he remained still, watching. He searched for movement in the windows, a door left slightly ajar, even a hint of a hidden entrance along the side of the structure.
"Ironcloud... it sure is one hell of a bitch to get into without permission or some kind of formal acceptance," he muttered under his breath.
Eventually, he stood with a quiet groan and turned back the way he came, his boots softly crunching on the debris-strewn path. A yawn crept up on him, catching him off guard.
'I should've gotten a place to stay for the night... or a few nights before coming here. I really messed up on that part,' he thought to himself, rubbing his eyes and continuing down the darkened alleyway.
He left the alleyway, and after another hour of tired, sluggish walking, he arrived at the same bridge. 'Wasn't there a name for this bridge?' He wasn't sure if it had a proper name or not. He sighed wearily before stepping onto the bridge and making his way across.
Ten minutes passed before he reached the other side, scanning his surroundings for any sort of hotel, bar, brothel with a room—anything at all.
He wandered for nearly thirty minutes before rain began to fall, slow at first, then heavy enough to soak through his tunic. The cold bite of water down his collar made him shiver, and his eyes darted around the street until he caught a faint, flickering glow—a sign, orange and soft, barely visible behind a larger, rust-stained building. Without hesitation, Zay turned down a narrow alleyway, drawn to the light like a moth.
The alley was tight, the walls on either side towering over him. Boxes were stacked haphazardly near the back entrance of the larger building, some partially torn open with damp, rotting cloth spilling from the tops. A broken lantern lay in a puddle, the glass shattered, long extinguished. Rats skittered away from his approach, and he paused for a moment when something glinted faintly in the corner—half-hidden beneath a wooden crate was a dagger, its blade rusted and crusted with dried blood.
Zay narrowed his eyes, stepping around it carefully. The scent of mold mixed with metal and a hint of something acrid filled his nose. A discarded boot lay on its side near a rusted pipe, water dripping rhythmically into a puddle beside it.
Just a few seconds deeper into the alley, he reached the source of the orange light.
He stopped and looked up.
Above the neat wooden door, a neon sign buzzed softly, casting a hazy orange glow against the wet walls. The letters were bold, cracked in a few places, but still burning strong: "Cindra Den."
Zay glanced around once more, releasing a heavy yawn that slipped from his mouth unbidden. Tiredness clung to him as if possessed, wrapping around his bones and tugging at his mind. His eyelids fluttered closed for a heartbeat, and he forced them open with a sharp exhale through his nose.
'Do I really want to go to a place like this?' he asked himself, glancing back at the dagger he passed.
Then he sighed, shoulders heavy. 'It's better than sleeping outside in the rain.'
Zay stepped toward the entrance of Cindra Den, his boots making a soft, uneven tap against the rain-slick cobblestones. The wooden door loomed before him, tall and curved at the top like the arch of a cathedral, aged to a deep mahogany and framed with carved patterns long eroded by time and weather. Droplets clung to the grain of the wood, sliding down in slow, trembling lines.
His gaze fell to the doorknob—a perfectly round sphere of marbled stone, its surface unnaturally smooth, swirled with gold and onyx veins that shimmered faintly under the orange light of the sign above.
Zay reached out slowly, his fingers trembling slightly from fatigue dragging at his limbs like chains. His fingertips brushed the marble, and an immediate chill spread into his skin, like touching the edge of a frozen coin. He paused for a breath, then wrapped his hand fully around it. The knob was firm, unmoving at first—its polished surface almost slick beneath the curve of his fingers—but with a gentle twist, it gave way.
His knuckles tightened as he turned it further, the muscles in his forearm flexing faintly beneath the sleeve of his tunic. The mechanism inside clicked with a muted sound, followed by the softest shift of weight from the door's hinges.
It opened in perfect silence.