༺ The Fractured City XII ༻
Rowan wakes abruptly, his breath steady but his body heavy. A dull weight lingers in his chest—not quite grief, not quite guilt, but something unsettlingly in between. The memory of the envoy's final moments, impaled upon the iron fence, flashes in his mind. It was not his fault. And yet, the sensation of someone dying, the way their life had been snuffed out so abruptly, clings to him like an unseen chain.
Exhaling slowly, he reaches for his pocket watch. A familiar tick-tock greets him as he flicks it open. 11:42. He had been asleep for six hours.
Rising from the bed, Rowan moves through the motions of his morning routine with quiet efficiency. His injuries protest, but he ignores them. He washes his face with cold water from a small basin, the shock of it forcing him into full wakefulness. With careful hands, he adjusts his bandages, ensuring they are neither too loose nor too tight. His hair remains slightly disheveled, but he makes no effort to fix it. Instead, he dresses with practiced ease, fastening each button on his waistcoat with a precision born of habit.
His coat waits for him on the wooden coat stand, freshly sewn. The stitches, done before he went to bed, are neat but still visible upon close inspection—a quiet reminder of wear and time. He slips it on, feeling its familiar weight settle around his shoulders. Next, his hat, hung just above the coat, which he retrieves with a light touch.
The coat stand wobbles slightly as he moves away, its old frame creaking under its own weight. Rowan pauses for a second, watching it sway before it finally stills. Then, without another thought, he steps toward the door, pulling it open.
The corridor outside is silent.
Dim bunker lights flicker sporadically, casting momentary shadows that dance along the cracked walls and ceiling. Ghostly stains linger across the surface, remnants of water damage or something older, something forgotten. Lining the corridor are identical doors, each leading to rooms much like Rowan's, yet none of them stir. He walks, his steps echoing in the emptiness, the rhythmic click of his boots the only sound accompanying him.
He soon reaches the cafeteria.
It is a hollow, desolate space filled with rows of plain wooden tables and chairs. A few occupants dot the room—two, to be exact. One man sits hunched in the far-right corner, eating in silence, while another occupies a table closer to the left, his gaze vacant, his meal untouched. Neither acknowledge Rowan's presence.
The scene is bleak.
Rowan approaches a table where a dented steel water container rests. Beside it, a collection of ceramic cups, each bearing the scars of time—some chipped, others missing small chunks, a rare few still intact. Next to them, a tray of metal spoons, bent and dull from overuse.
Selecting a cup without damage, Rowan does the same with a spoon before turning to the steel container. He twists the tap, watching the water trickle into his cup. A quick touch confirms what he suspected—it is barely warm.
His gaze shifts to the nearby tray of tea bags. He plucks one up, then without hesitation, tears it open. The loose tea leaves tumble into the water, swirling aimlessly as he stirs. It is far from the proper way to prepare tea, but circumstances leave no room for preference.
Tea in hand, Rowan moves toward another table where a chafing dish sits. He lifts the lid, revealing a single, stale Brötchen. No butter. No accompaniments. Just hardened bread, left to grow cold.
With little choice, he retrieves it using a pair of tongs from a nearby plate and places it onto a dish. Carrying both back to his seat, he settles in.
The first attempt to bite into the Brötchen is met with resistance. It is rock-hard.
Rowan remains expressionless. Without a sigh or word of complaint, he simply tears a piece off and drops it into his tea. The dry bread begins to soften, absorbing the water slowly.
As he stirs, his thoughts wander.
Rowan sat back in his chair, the faint hum of the flickering lights above mingling with the rustle of his dampened bread. His hands shook slightly as they rested on the chipped ceramic cup, staring at the shallow, pale brew swirling inside. The warmth barely reached his fingers, but it was enough to distract him from the gnawing weight in his chest.
His thoughts, once anchored on the immediate survival of the fight with the envoy, now drifted further, beyond the dim cafeteria and the ruins of the world he once knew.
This world. A place that was both strangely familiar and alien all at once. The walls here had ghost stains that bled from the cracks, soaking into the very structure itself as if the building had absorbed centuries of secrets and regrets. He had started to feel as though he, too, was becoming part of it. A fixture of decay, a wandering soul in search of meaning, yet unable to escape the confines of the unforgiving shadows.
He took another sip of the barely-warm tea, the taste unfamiliar, harsh, but somehow grounding. Was this the world he had once set out to explore? The idea seemed distant now, almost laughable. The grandeur of unknown ruins and forgotten civilizations—now nothing but a faded dream, buried beneath layers of blood and broken promises.
His gaze fell on the chipped porcelain of his cup again, the tea leaves swirling lazily in the water. They reminded him of the note he had yet to read—the one left on the envoy's lifeless body. Why hadn't anyone taken a closer look? Was it just a scrap of paper or something more? He couldn't shake the feeling that it held something important—some cryptic message that could unlock a deeper mystery or maybe a more dangerous truth.
Could it be a warning?
He had fought the envoy without fully knowing what they were after, but the more Rowan reflected, the more unsettling the whole situation became. There was a strategy at play here, one that didn't involve just brute force. It wasn't random. He could sense it. Everything—the envoy's masked demeanor, their precision in the fight, the cryptic note—pointed to something far larger than just a deadly encounter. It was part of a puzzle that had yet to fully reveal itself.
Rowan leaned forward, elbows on the table, mind racing. The envoy had died with that note clenched in their hand, a final, cryptic message to whoever might find it. But what did it say? What was the envoy trying to tell them?
His fingers drummed lightly on the cracked surface of the table, his body still sore from the battle, but his mind fully alert. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel the lingering sting of that fight—the sharpness of the envoy's Kusarigama, the harsh sound of their footsteps echoing in the shadows before the confrontation. The memory of that moment, the rush of adrenaline, the piercing intensity of the struggle—it was all still fresh. The envoy had been determined, but in the end, even they weren't invincible. Rowan had killed them, but the question still loomed—why?
The taste of the unsteeped tea was bitter now, mirroring the discomfort gnawing at him.
His thoughts shifted back to the note. Would the answers lie within? Or had it been meant for someone else, a trap for another set of hands to untangle? His instincts told him it wasn't random—there was something deliberate in the way the envoy had acted. But what?
The soft crackling of the ceiling lights broke him from his trance. He looked around the cafeteria, the two figures in the corner now finishing their meals in silence. The world felt too quiet—too still. Rowan's fingers curled around his cup, trying to steady his breath. But the thought of that note—the unopened mystery—kept tugging at him, pulling him forward into uncertainty.
He couldn't shake the feeling that, somewhere hidden in the fog of this new reality, lay the key to everything he'd been searching for.
Rowan was about to take another sip of his lukewarm tea when the sound of footsteps caught his attention. He glanced up to see Elyssa entering the cafeteria. She walked with a purposeful stride, her expression as composed as ever, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper—something more complicated.
"Rowan," she called out, her voice cutting through the silence. "The leader would like a moment to speak with you, if you're done with your meal."
Rowan placed the cracked ceramic cup down with a soft clink. He didn't look at her right away, instead letting his gaze linger on the remains of his half-soaked Brötchen. The bread was soggy now, softened by the steeped tea, but it still felt like chewing through stone. He sighed, shaking his head, and stood.
"I can eat it later," he said, the words heavy with the weight of someone who had no appetite left to give.
Without a word, Elyssa turned and led the way back down the corridor. The faint echo of Rowan's footsteps followed hers as they walked in silence, the only sound the occasional flickering of the bunker's unstable lights. As they moved deeper into the building, the atmosphere grew more oppressive, the cold air wrapped tightly around them.
Rowan's thoughts swirled as he walked beside Elyssa. After a moment, he spoke, his voice breaking the stillness.
"What's motivated you to join The Chained Insurrection?" he asked, his tone steady but with an edge of curiosity. "It's too dangerous for someone your age."
Elyssa didn't look at him at first, her expression neutral, but there was a brief flicker of something in her eyes—something personal. She exhaled slowly before answering.
"It's revenge," she said, her voice colder now, tinged with something darker. "I lost my elder sister because of them."
Rowan's eyes softened, but his words came out slow, measured. "Revenge, Elyssa, is a poison that wears away at the soul until nothing of the original remains."
Elyssa glanced at him then, her gaze sharp and unyielding. "I know," she replied, a quiet conviction in her voice, as if she had already accepted that truth, despite what it meant for her future.
The two walked in silence for a while longer, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. It was a silence that felt heavy with unspoken understanding, as if each of them carried burdens that neither could fully express, but both knew existed in the spaces between them.
Finally, they reached the leader's office. Elyssa knocked on the door, and a voice from inside called out, "You may enter."
The door creaked open, and Rowan followed Elyssa into the room. Inside, the leader sat at a cluttered desk, papers scattered around in disarray. Viktor and Elias were standing near a small table, deep in conversation. The air was thick with tension, as if they had been waiting for Rowan's arrival before proceeding further.
On the table, near the leader's hand, lay a familiar object—a pocket watch, its gleaming surface reflecting the dim light from the ceiling. It was the same pocket watch Rowan had found on the envoy's body. Beside it was a note, its leather cover worn and frayed at the edges. It looked as though it had endured far too much—weathered, torn, with a few pages visible within.
The leader looked up, his gaze sharp, and beckoned Rowan forward. "We were discussing them," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Can you help too?"
Rowan nodded, his gaze already drawn to the note on the table. He didn't need to ask who 'them' were—the envoy, the cryptic message, everything was connected. He walked up to the table, his movements deliberate. First, he looked at the pocket watch—its surface was scratched, the face cracked in places. It held no new answers.
Rowan stood there, pondering the implications of those words. The note, the envoy's death, Elyssa's vengeance, and this organization—it was all part of something much bigger, something he couldn't yet fully grasp. But he would. He had to.
But the note… The leather cover was rough to the touch, the edges frayed, as though someone had carried it around for far too long. Rowan hesitated for a moment before he reached for it. The note was delicate, as if it could disintegrate with the smallest of movements. Slowly, he opened it.
Rowan's eyes skimmed over the pages, the weight of the situation settling into him. There was no immediate revelation, no clear answers yet. The pieces of the puzzle were still scattered, and this note, like everything else, only added to the mystery.
Rowan carefully set the note back on the table, his brow furrowing as he studied its contents. The leather cover was worn, and the pages felt fragile under his fingers, but it was the other object on the table that caught his attention—the pocket watch. It was old, tarnished, and clearly not a simple accessory.
"The watch seems like part of the puzzle too," Rowan muttered, his gaze narrowing as he looked between the two objects.
The leader nodded thoughtfully. "The watch is likely not just a timepiece. We believe it may be a key to unlocking something deeper in the note. The way the time is set, the marks on the back… they're all important."
Elyssa leaned forward, squinting at the watch. "There's no visible mechanism to open it. No obvious button, no hidden latch. It's just stuck at 11:42."
"I've tried," Viktor chimed in, sounding frustrated. "The time seems significant, but no matter what I do, I can't make it budge."
Rowan's fingers traced the edges of the watch carefully, his thoughts working in tandem with the moment. "What if it's not about opening it physically? What if it's the time itself?"
Viktor shook his head, crossing his arms. "I don't get it. What does the time mean? How is it connected to the note? We've tried all sorts of things."
Elyssa, still staring at the watch, had an idea. "Maybe the watch doesn't need to be opened. Maybe we need to adjust the hands. Set them to a different time, based on something in the note."
"I doubt it's that simple," Rowan replied, frowning as he examined the watch closely. He flipped it over in his hands, looking for hidden clues. "There's something else here, something we're missing. The watch isn't just telling time—it's part of the message."
"Wait," Viktor said, his voice taking on a more desperate edge. "What if there's a hidden compartment behind the dial? Something behind the face of the watch?" He grabbed the watch and began attempting to pry it open, but to no avail.
Rowan shook his head. "It's not about brute force, Viktor. We need to think carefully about the mechanics. The time, the note, the wear on both objects—they must align in a specific way."
Elias, who had been silent up until now, suddenly spoke, his voice calm. "I think Rowan's right. It's not about forcing the watch open. Maybe the note's clues are connected to the time on the watch. Like a combination."
"That's the key!" Elyssa exclaimed. "What if we treat the time as a clue—11:42. Maybe it corresponds to something in the note. A pattern."
Rowan, pacing back and forth, stopped at the table and glanced at the note again. "Look at the shapes. The lines in the note—what if they correspond to hours, minutes? Something geometric, something hidden in plain sight."
Viktor sighed, rubbing his temples. "None of this is making sense. We've got a torn note, a broken pocket watch, and some cryptic symbols. How are we supposed to make sense of it all?"
The leader stepped forward, glancing at the objects and then at Rowan. "There's more to this, Viktor. We just need to step back and think about it differently."
The room fell into a tense silence, everyone deep in thought. It was Elyssa who broke it, speaking quietly. "What if the puzzle is simpler than we think? Look at the crease in the note—the one that runs right through the center. It almost looks like something was folded there."
Rowan's eyes lit up with realization. "A fold! You're right. That's what we're missing. The note's supposed to be folded, but the pieces haven't been put together yet."
Elias nodded. "It's an origami fold, I'm sure of it. The trick is that we need to find the exact way to fold it."
Viktor groaned. "Oh, great. Now we're back to origami? First it's a watch, now it's paper art? I give up."
Viktor slumped down into a nearby chair, rubbing his face in frustration. "I'm done for now. This is too much. I need a break."
Rowan couldn't help but smile slightly at Viktor's defeat. "Sometimes a fresh perspective helps," he said, still staring at the note and watch, his mind turning the puzzle over.
The leader stepped forward again, his voice steady. "Let's keep focused. We're close. We'll finish this, but we'll have to look at the folding pattern again. It's clear now that the answer lies there."
Rowan nodded. "We can finish this later. Right now, we need to step back, make sense of the rest of the puzzle, and then come back to the origami part."
Everyone agreed, and though the tension remained, they all knew that the puzzle had just begun to unravel. They would need to solve it carefully, one piece at a time.
The meeting had ended, and Rowan found himself walking alone through the dimly lit corridor, a plate of stale Brötchen in one hand and a cup of cold tea in the other. The distant hum of flickering bunker lights filled the silence, casting long, wavering shadows on the ghost-stained walls.
Stopping in front of his door, he let out a quiet sigh. Both of his hands were occupied, making the simple act of opening the door an inconvenience. With careful balance, he shifted the plate onto his forearm, gripping the cup more securely in one hand while freeing the other to turn the doorknob. The old wooden door creaked open, revealing the quiet solitude of his room.
He stepped inside and, with a small nudge of his foot, kicked the door shut behind him. The dull thud echoed softly in the still air. Setting his plate and cup onto the small table, he exhaled, rubbing his temple before crossing the room to his bed. Without hesitation, he collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, his mind still tangled in the puzzle they had struggled to solve.
No matter how many times he turned the details over in his head, the pieces refused to fit. The note, the watch—something about it all felt incomplete. He clenched his jaw, frustrated.
Then, his thoughts drifted. The watch… the time. Midnight.
By now, he knew.
At 12 o'clock… he would not be here.
His fingers curled slightly against the bedsheets. A heavy stillness settled over him, thoughts slowing, fading. Eventually, sleep took hold.