Lord Of In Between

Elias slowly opened his eyes. His vision was still blurred, the dim glow of the lantern on the wall barely enough to chase away the shadows nesting in the corners of the room. The scent of aged wood mixed with dust seeped into his nose, carrying a sense of reality far stronger than any dream.

For a moment, he remained still, his mind caught between the remnants of sleep and the weight of wakefulness. Then, the rough texture of the wooden table beneath his fingers, the stiffness in his neck, and the lingering cold in the air solidified a single, undeniable truth—this was no dream.

A faint shiver ran down his spine, prompting him to push back his chair.

He scanned the room, his gaze settling on a worn-out coat draped over the back of another chair.

He could step outside in the long-sleeved white shirt of Victorian fashion that he now wore, but the chill inside the room told him enough. It would be colder outside.

Elias hesitated for a moment before stepping away from the wooden table. His fingers unconsciously tightened around the edges of the coat draped over his shoulders as he glanced toward the back of the room.

a door that had been behind him all this time.

I never realized.

Elias stepped towards the door and opened it slowly.

Inside, a narrow hallway stretched beyond, leading to a partially open door and two others.

From within, the faintest glimmer of light reflected against something smooth—glass, perhaps.

With measured steps, he made his way toward the doorway, his shoes barely making a sound against the aged floorboards. The air grew colder as he approached, carrying a damp, stagnant scent. Pushing the door open fully,

he found himself standing in a small, dimly lit washroom.

A large mirror hung on the wall above a simple ceramic basin, its surface lined with thin cracks that spiderwebbed toward the edges. Despite the imperfections, it still reflected his form clearly—too clearly.

Elias met his own gaze in the mirror. A young man with brown eyes and messy black hair, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt from the 19th century.

"...Not a dream " . Elias' finger slowly touched the right side of his face.

Elias, I grieve for whatever happened to you... but allow me to use this Body to find my way home.

He sighed and turned his attention to the basin. A tarnished metal faucet jutted out above it, and with some effort, he twisted the handle. The pipes groaned in protest before releasing a slow stream of water, its clarity distorted by the dim lighting.

Cupping his hands beneath the flow, Elias gathered the cold liquid before splashing it against his face. The shock of it hit him instantly, sending a sharp jolt through his senses. His breath hitched as the chill dug into his skin, burning away the last remnants of drowsiness clouding his mind.

He exhaled, water dripping from his chin as he straightened, blinking rapidly to shake off the lingering haze. Looking up, he caught his reflection once more. His face was a little pale. like seeing a corpse.

Elias then stepped out of the dimly lit room, shivering as the cold air gnawed at his skin. Though the biting chill had shaken off the last vestiges of drowsiness, it left an unsettling numbness in its wake.

"Cold..." He muttered under his breath, pulling his long sleeves over his hands before using the fabric to wipe his face. The movement smeared the remnants of dried blood on the sleeve, a stark reminder of something he couldn't quite recall.

He frowned but pushed the thought aside.

The hallway was dark, the air heavy with dust and the lingering scent of aged wood and candle wax. His sharp gaze swept across the corridor, settling on two doors ahead. One stood slightly ajar. A thin sliver of light stretched across the floor, flickering as if disturbed by an unseen presence.

A bedroom?

A sense of irritation flickered through him.

If there was a proper bed here, why had i slept outside?

With cautious steps, Elias slipped inside. Inside was a windowless room, lit only by flickering candles, some of which had already burned low.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness, and the first thing that caught his attention was a large wooden board covered in strings, notes, and hastily scribbled deductions. Lines of twine stretched across its surface, linking photographs and scraps of parchment like a spider's web—each thread a path leading toward an answer.

A clue...

His gaze landed on a few scattered notes, the ink hastily scrawled yet legible under the faint glow of candlelight.

June 12

Does Mrs. Agatha truly know nothing?

A strange expression crossed Elias' face.

"He asked her, didn't he...?" He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Agatha, one of the nuns at the Church of Light. A caretaker. If there was anyone who might know something, it would be her.

His fingers traced the edge of the parchment, the weight of the question pressing against his mind.

What had his friend nor Original Elias uncovered? What truth had warranted their death?

The answer eluded him, slipping between his fingers like grains of sand.

Then, his gaze shifted—drawn toward a familiar photograph pinned among the scattered notes. His breath hitched.

It was him.

A deep silence settled over Elias. The dim candlelight flickered, casting elongated shadows that twisted unnaturally across the walls.

"I swear Elias… I will complete your quest."

A quiet promise. A fragile thread binding the past to the present.

His attention moved to the bed, where a robe lay neatly folded. Thick, heavy, its fabric woven in the intricate style of the Victorian era—a relic from a time long past. Elias slipped it on. The weight settled over his shoulders, bringing a warmth that seeped into his chilled skin. It fit him almost perfectly.

First. I will look for clues from the letter.

His breath was steady, but there was an undeniable weight pressing against his chest.

"My arrival in this world… it coincided with Elias opening the letter."

Was it mere coincidence? Or was there a connection, an invisible thread linking his presence to the unfolding of events?

The latest clue is the letter that Elias received... unfortunately it doesn't have a sender, but whoever sent the letter seems to already know that something will come after Elias.

His grip tightened. He had no answers—only questions that continued to multiply, shifting like smoke in the depths of his thoughts. the only clue to the case was a letter that Watson received.

it's really unfortunate.

he was forced to ignore it at first because of the minimal clues about the sender. now his mind was on the letter in Watson which said that

"Elias is Dead" could be a big clue. clues that lead to the killer or sender of the letter!

"I hope Watson's letter could helps."

The letter Watson received contained a single undeniable truth—Elias Vayne is dead. A declaration, a statement of fact.

A clue.

Something within him stirred at the implications. Was it merely a cruel taunt? Or was there something more hidden within those words?

Who had sent it? The killer? A witness? Someone who knew the truth?

His fingers curled slightly, the weight of his coat pressing against his shoulders. The air in the room changed from cold to warm the longer he wore the 19th century detective style robe.

Elias exhaled slowly.

He had a lead. A fragile thread, but a lead nonetheless.

A clue that could guide him toward the sender… or the murderer, his mind was fixated on that when a faint murmur slithered into Elias' ear, carrying a weightless chill that seeped into his bones.

Elias… Vayne…

It wasn't loud. It wasn't harsh. Yet, it seeped into his skull, curling around his thoughts like fingers pressing against damp parchment. The name slithered through the silence, Elias… Vayne… as if something just beyond the veil of existence had learned to speak.

A slow, creeping chill slithered across his fingertips, sinking into his bones. The air felt heavier, as though unseen eyes pressed against his back, watching—waiting. He exhaled, but the warmth of his breath vanished too quickly, devoured by something unseen.

What was that!

His gaze darted around the dimly lit room, scanning every corner, every shifting shadow, but nothing stood out. The wooden floor remained still. The candlelight flickered with an undisturbed rhythm. There was no one here.

Yet, before he could fully process it—

Elias…

The voice came again, this time tinged with something heavier, something more… insidious.

This time, he felt it.

A presence.

His breath hitched as his head instinctively turned toward the source. The direction was unmistakable.

In the other room, in the closed room.

The air around him shifted, thickening with an almost imperceptible weight. The whisper droned on, an eerie hum that neither faded nor grew louder, lingering at the edges of his perception like an echo of something long forgotten.

It lasted for two minutes.

Then, silence.

A suffocating stillness fell upon the room, pressing against his ears as if the world itself had momentarily ceased to breathe.

Elias swallowed, his throat dry.

"What… was that?" His voice barely rose above a whisper, as though he feared disturbing whatever lay beyond the door.

A voice. No, a whisper. It repeated my name. Was it an illusion? A remnant of my thoughts, distorted by exhaustion? …No, the temperature changed. That was real Then—

Is it a ghost? A lingering specter of the past?

…Or was it the Original Elias, reaching out from the abyss of death?

The thought sent a cold prickle down his nape.

For a long moment, he remained still, his fingers unconsciously curling around the fabric of his coat. Then, slowly, he adjusted his collar. Elias stepped out of the room, the wooden floorboards beneath his feet groaning softly in protest.

The hallway stretched before him, swallowed in dimness, the candlelight behind him casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to move just a fraction too late, as if reluctant to let him go.

He pulled the heavy robe tighter around his frame. The cold within the detective's office was the kind that settled into the bones, silent and insidious.

He walked quickly to avoid the closed room.

Elias grasped the cold, brass handle and turned it slowly. The door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest, as if reluctant to expose the space beyond. A gust of crisp morning air slipped through the gap, carrying with it the scent of damp stone, coal smoke, and something faintly metallic—blood, or perhaps rust.

Beyond the threshold, the city breathed.

Workers in soot-streaked coats hurried past, their boots striking the cobblestone pavement in an uneven rhythm. Horse-drawn carriages rumbled in the distance, their wheels clattering against the uneven road. A newsboy weaved between the crowd, his voice hoarse from shouting the morning headlines.

Elias stepped forward, the heel of his shoe clicking against the threshold. The moment he crossed it, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck—a fleeting notion, as if something unseen had been watching from within the darkened office, now left behind.

He adjusted his coat, suppressing the impulse to glance over his shoulder.

"A place for a meeting with Watson..." Elias muttered as he walked past the workers who were already busy in the cold morning.