It was the second week of November. A pervasive dampness and biting Atlantic gales had settled over the city. As Bristol transitioned into winter, a thick "pea-soup" fog—a suffocating mixture of river mist and heavy coal smoke—smothered the streets, turning mid-afternoon into a murky, gas-lit twilight. The air carried the sharp, salty sting of the Bristol Channel, forcing the population to retreat toward the warmth of coal fires. It was a dark, soot-stained month defined by the constant struggle against the encroaching cold. Having grown up with the "northern bite" of Chester’s wind, I found the transition to this humid gloom seamless.

  “Young scholars!” Sterling’s voice cut through the morning's lethargy. “Mr. Wilfred Hayward, the watchman of the female dormitory, was found dead this morning in his quarters. We shall all pray that God bestows peace upon his poor soul.”

  A ripple of unease moved through the room. “His vigil will be held until the 16th, with the funeral procession on the 17th at 1:00 AM.”

  “Poor soul!” a girl cried from the back. “He was so gentle. He didn't even look ill when I saw him ere-yesterday!”

  “The details are still unclear, Ms. Shane,” Sterling replied, his expression uncharacteristically guarded. “But he was found in a very... unsettling manner.”

  Low whispers spread like a contagion, silenced only by the start of the lecture.

  Night.

  I crossed the breach in the wall and entered the gardens of the female hostel. After twenty minutes of navigating the grey veil, I found Graves. She was sitting on a stone edge, enveloped in a heavy wool cloak lined with fur. She was staring up at a full moon that struggled to pierce the fog.

  Upon hearing my footsteps, her head snapped toward me in alarm, which quickly melted into a weary, familiar shock.

  “You can’t claim you forgot the distinction again,” she murmured.

  “Very mercurial of you, Graves,” I replied, stopping before her. She looked smaller tonight, swallowed by her furs. She stood, though her head barely reached my shoulder. “One day you wait for me with a pleasant gift and a confession and next, you mock me for arriving.”

  She didn't move as I approached, her gaze fixed on the pale, dying light of the moon. Only when the gravel crunched beneath my boot did she speak, her voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the fog itself.

  “I was thinking of visiting Mr. Hayward’s quarters,” she said, finally turning her blank look toward me. The fur of her hood brushed against her cheeks. “It is his vigil. According to my calculations, he will be alone at this moment. The living are too afraid of the cold to keep watch over the broken.”

  I looked toward the far, shadowed corner where the watchman’s rooms lay as a squat, lonely building hunched against the dormitory wall. A strange, sharp thrill moved through me.

  “I must accompany you, then,” I said. It wasn't an offer but a claim.

  She took a step closer, invading the small circle of warmth I carried, her head tilted back to meet my eyes.

  “Suicide or murder, Markwood?” she asked, the question hanging between us like a challenge.

  I felt a ghost of a smile pull at my mouth. I had suppressed more smiles in these two months in Bristol than I ever had in twenty years in Chester.

  “I cannot give a precise answer without observation,” I replied, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Logic requires the blood to be cold before it can be read.”

  “Then let us go see how cold he has become,” she said.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She walked ahead of me, our shadows elongated and ghostly on wet grass. The fog thickened until she became a vanishing silhouette just three feet in front of me.

  We entered the room. It reeked of chloride of lime—the scent of a failed attempt to scrub away death. The body of the old man lay on a small, neat bed, covered head-to-toe in a white sheet. I stepped forward and lifted the cloth.

  Hayward’s body was a grim testament to fury. His face was a mass of deep purple bruising and jagged tears. Below the neck, the damage was grisly: his chest was marked by overlapping welts where sharpened leather had sliced through muscle, leaving the skin hanging in tattered, blackened strips. The pale gleam of his ribs peered through raw furrows.

  I waited for a shriek or a gasp. But Graves was as silent as a mouse, observing the carnage with a softly solemn gaze.

  “The work of ‘The Caines,’” she deduced softly, referring to the notorious local brigands.

  “That is why Sterling remained vague,” I said, replacing the cloth. “A brutal gang execution is not a story for delicate students.”

  “A convenient mask,” Graves whispered, walking to the window.

  “Now,” I announced, turning to her. “Suicide or murder?”

  “Suicide,” she said firmly.

  “Murder,” I countered. “Articulate your statement.” I adjusted my spectacles with the knuckle of my index finger.

  She began, “The welts are angry but they lack the bone-deep finality of a Caines execution. They are performative.”

  “I am aware,” I interrupted. “It was not the brigands. It was someone close. Someone with warmth in their heart for Hayward.”

  “His son, I assume. I saw a man of similar facial structure leaving this room after 2:00 AM last night when I was in garden.”

  “Then why haven't you spoken to the police?”

  “Nobody asked me,” she shrugged. “Besides, the man’s face held a look of... salvation as he left. I thought it best not to perturb another’s self-built morals.” She turned her face slightly, and for a moment, in the dim light I get to meet Rowel—the mole on her cheekbone.

  “A son killing a father is still murder,” I reminded her.

  “I am not certain,” a teasing spark flickered in her dull eyes. “But from the relaxed demeanour of him like he just got a final chance to be a filial son made me think, that Hayward himself ordered or requested his son to do this to him.”

  “Perhaps he was being a filial son to hismother by killing his father,” I countered.

  “No. I watched him lock the door. His manner was tender and devoted. And I was in the garden since midnight—I heard no cry for help. An intruding beating of this brutality would not be silent unless it was welcomed.”

  I took a deep breath. I was not an impatient man, but I craved the certainty of the truth. “This requires further investigation.”

  “It seems we are the only ones solving it.” Graves said, stepping out into the garden. “The authorities won't bother with a watchman when they can blame the Caines.”

  “The authorities won't bother with a watchman. When even the suspected opponent could be ‘The Caines’.” I concluded as we started to walk back.

  As we walked back into the night, Graves paused. “What will the winner receive?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “If I convince you it was a suicide, you must agree with every word I say for three days in Philosophy class. And I shall do the same if you win.”

  “Accepted.”

  “Goodnight, then, Markwood.”

  She turned and vanished into the fog. Again.

  I watched the grey veil swallow her whole, but the silence she left behind was louder than any scream. I didn’t head back to my quarters immediately. Instead, I turned my gaze back toward the watchman’s hut, the small building looking more like a hunched predator than a shelter in the gloom.

  A sudden, sharp thought pierced through the satisfaction of our bet, cold enough to make my lungs ache. Graves had seen the son leave at 2:00 AM. She had been in the garden since midnight, watching in the freezing dark, witnessing a "tender" slaughter without making a sound. My pulse quickened as I realized the true depth of the specimen I was dissecting. She hadn't just observed the crime; she had savored the atmosphere of it, staying silent while a man was flayed alive just a few yards away, all to protect the "salvation" of a stranger's morals.

  I looked down at my own hand—the one that had lifted the sheet off Hayward’s tattered chest. My fingers weren't shaking from the frost, but from a savage, electric realization. This wasn't just a hunt for a murderer. This was a race to see who could hollow out the other first. If I lost this bet, I would be her intellectual slave for three days, forced to echo her "ethereal" delusions. But if I won... I wouldn't just have her silence. I would have the right to demand her absolute submission.

  The fog pressed against my face like a damp shroud, and for the first time, the "gentleman of steel" felt the heat of a genuine, predatory hunger. November was just beginning, and the blood on the floor was already calling out for a second act. I didn't just want to win the wager. I wanted to see exactly how much of that those “dark whiskey brown eyes” would bleed once I proved her mercy was nothing more than a beautifully decorated lie.

  I turned into the dark, the image of Rowel burned into my retinas, already counting the hours until the 17th.

  Author’s Note: Who are The Caines?

  In this story, The Caines represent the most feared criminal gang in Bristol. They are famous for a specific, brutal way of attacking people using sharpened leather straps—a method so recognizable that it serves as their "signature."

  Because the local police are terrified of them, they often blame any violent crime on the Caines just to close the case quickly. This makes them a "convenient mask" for other killers; if you want to get away with murder, you simply make the crime look like the work of the Caines.

  Markwood and Graves aren't just looking for a killer—they are trying to see past a lie that even the police are too afraid to question.