The Queen of Spades sat cold in Arthur's palm, its edges sharp like a whisper meant to cut. The word Redemption, etched on its back in near-perfect cursive, stared up at him like a ghost calling from the grave.
Luke leaned in over his shoulder. "Redemption?" he muttered. "What kind of killer leaves cryptic calling cards like they're staging a play?"
Arthur didn't answer right away. He was staring at the pen. The one jammed into Fenwick's throat.
It was black, polished, engraved with the initials G.F.—likely a personal favorite. No signs of struggle. No overturned chair. No defensive wounds. Either Fenwick knew his killer… or the killer knew how to make him silent, fast.
Arthur knelt down and examined the floor, fingers brushing against the carpet's edge near the desk. Something… off. A faint scuff mark, barely visible—a size smaller than Fenwick's own shoes.
"Whoever did this stood here," he murmured. "Watched him die."
Luke glanced at the doorway. "They would've had seconds, maybe a minute, before someone heard."
"Unless," Arthur said, rising, "they knew exactly when the conductor would pass. When the lounge would be loud. When the lights would flicker."
Luke blinked. "You think it was planned that precisely?"
Arthur's voice was quiet. "I don't believe in coincidences."
He turned back to Fenwick's body. The man looked almost peaceful now—slumped in a pose that, from behind, might've just seemed like sleep.
But Arthur saw through it. Because he'd seen this same scene before.
Three years ago.
Different train. Different body.
Same card.
The Queen of Spades.
His chest tightened. The cold metal of memory gripped his wrists once more. He felt it—those invisible chains. Cold. Binding. Familiar.
He remembered the girl. The whistle of the train as it left the station. The color draining from her cheeks. The same damn card tucked into her pocket, mocking him.
Luke noticed the change in his expression. "Hey… Arthur. Don't spiral. Not now."
Arthur closed his eyes for half a breath. Opened them again. Steel returned.
"I won't," he said. "Not this time."
He straightened and pulled a handkerchief from his coat, delicately wrapping the card. He placed it in his inner pocket.
"We have maybe fifteen minutes before someone finds the body naturally," he said, his voice shifting to the tone Luke recognized—the one that came out when the detective took over. "We need to map out who's where. Who left the lounge. Who might've had motive."
"Anyone not have motive for this guy?" Luke asked, already pulling out a small notepad. "Half the city wanted Fenwick gone."
"True," Arthur said, stepping out into the hallway. "But only one of them was on this train."
They moved quickly. Quietly. Back to the lounge car where the music was still playing, now with a softer tune. The jazz had slowed, and so had the energy of the room. Arthur scanned faces again, looking not for fear—but for the absence of it.
Dr. Evelyn Cross was gone.
So was Elric Monroe.
Arthur tapped the table lightly. "Two missing."
Luke nodded. "Want me to check the rear cabins?"
"Take the dining car first," Arthur said. "If they're there, stall them. If they're not…"
"Got it."
Luke peeled off. Arthur stayed. Observing. Calculating.
He didn't know who the killer was yet.
But they'd made a mistake.
They'd pulled him into the game.
And this time, Arthur wasn't playing to save face.He was playing for redemption.