The lounge car was a hum of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. Jazz floated lazily from an old phonograph near the bar as passengers lounged in plush chairs, sipping wine and exchanging stories too polished to be honest. Smoke curled from cigars and cigarettes alike, wafting through chandeliers that sparkled with a warmth that didn't reach anyone's eyes.
Arthur stepped in with Luke close behind, both of them quiet as shadows among a room full of masks.
They weren't looking for noise—they were listening for silence. The kind that hid behind a fake laugh. The kind that dripped from a forced smile.
Arthur's eyes swept across the car like a spotlight.
There was Dr. Evelyn Cross, alone with a tall flute of champagne. Her posture was perfect. Too perfect. Every gesture controlled. Calculated. The way she held the glass—with fingers light but firm—was the same way a surgeon might hold a scalpel.
In the booth near the window sat Elric Monroe, his eyes buried in a thick leather journal, one ear tilted toward the conversation at the next table. His drink hadn't been touched. Whatever he was writing wasn't casual.
At the bar was a heavyset man in a well-tailored gray coat—Gregory Fenwick. His back was to them, but his voice carried, loud and oily.
"Business is about leverage," Fenwick said to the man beside him. "Control the narrative, you control the world."
Arthur's jaw locked for just a second. Luke didn't miss it.
"You okay?" Luke asked under his breath.
"I will be," Arthur replied.
They sat at a small table in the corner, eyes peeled, ears open. Arthur ordered black coffee. Luke ordered whiskey, because "coffee doesn't help you smile at liars."
They waited.
Twenty minutes passed before the first move came.
The train jolted again—slightly this time—but enough for Fenwick to spill a splash of brandy onto his sleeve. He cursed under his breath and excused himself to his cabin. Arthur watched him go without moving a muscle.
A minute later, the lights in the lounge flickered once. Brief. Barely noticeable.
Luke blinked. "What was that?"
Arthur was already standing.
"Let's go," he said.
They made their way through the narrow corridor, past the sleeper cabins. The train's hum was louder here. More honest. Every sound was clearer in the quiet.
When they reached Cabin A2, Fenwick's door was shut.
Arthur knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked again, firmer. "Mr. Fenwick. You alright in there?"
Still nothing.
He exchanged a look with Luke.
Then—Arthur moved.
One step forward. Hand to the lock. Twist. It was open.
The door creaked inward slowly.
Fenwick was sitting at his desk.
Still. Upright. Face turned away.
"Mr. Fenwick?" Luke called.
Arthur stepped in first. The scent hit him immediately—copper. Sharp. Familiar.
He reached out, gently turning the chair.
Gregory Fenwick's lifeless eyes stared straight through him. A fine, engraved fountain pen was jammed deep into his throat, ink and blood mingling in a grotesque spiral down his shirt.
Luke swore under his breath. "Damn…"
Arthur didn't speak. He didn't blink.
The chains tightened.
He reached out, checked for a pulse he already knew wasn't there.
Still warm. Still fresh.
He rose slowly. "This wasn't random," he murmured.
Luke's voice was low, tense. "You think it's connected?"
Arthur stared at the body, then at the small card sitting on the desk, half-tucked under Fenwick's arm.
He pulled it free.
It was a single playing card—the Queen of Spades. Written on the back in ink was one word:
"Redemption."
Arthur's hand curled into a fist.
The past wasn't just knocking anymore.
It had boarded the train.