What is this person hoping for every day?

  "You must be disappointed. My recent actions were purely of my own volition and have nothing to do with the organization's missions or the world behind the Veil."

  Hearing her words, the Duke of Lancaster showed evident regret: "Is that so?"

  "Regarding the matter of Earl Grey's bizarre sandwich last time, if we hadn't been there, by my calculations it would already be time to lay flowers on your tombstone. Supernatural incidents are extremely dangerous. Excessive curiosity isn't a good thing," Yvette warned him in a low voice.

  "Hahaha..." The duke laughed heartily, gesturing for her to dismount. Then placing a hand on her shoulder, he guided her toward a less crowded corner. "My companions and I greatly enjoyed the gift you sent last time. We spent a wild and passionate night together, the sweetness of which still lingers in my memory. Though I didn't reveal the hunter's name to them, I know everyone is eager to meet that person and share in the joy of the hunt together."

  As he led Yvette through the crowd, people's eyes lit up upon seeing him, wanting to approach and chat. But sensing his dismissive body language and the intimate nature of his conversation, they wisely turned away.

  They seemed to have misunderstood the duke was discussing some scandalously intimate topic. Only Yvette knew the truth was far from it.

  Last time, to suppress certain strange urges, she had handed over the ghoul doctor to the duke, thinking she could pretend it never happened. Yet she still ended up dreaming about the doctor.

  So the corrupt doctor had most likely been killed. Even though he was a monster, the fact that the duke and his friends would specifically hunt supernatural creatures to kill was abnormal in itself. More unbelievable was that the organization knew about it—probably because they were ordinary people without risk of losing control, and as high-ranking members of the ruling class, the organization simply couldn't be bothered to interfere.

  "For you, supernatural creatures might be novel, but for me they're just part of the job. I'm used to them and can't possibly derive any pleasure from them."

  "That's different, Yvette. To use a meal as metaphor—you simply boil and eat yours directly, while we take the time to prepare ours with patience and refinement."

  For some reason, when the duke mentioned meals, Yvette instinctively swallowed. That alien yearning came from the deepest part of her soul. She noticed it, and it sent a shiver through her.

  The mask had loosened a bit more.

  The Duke of Lancaster seemed to see a loose nail quietly falling, landing with a faint "ding" somewhere far below, the empty reverberations lingering in his ears. If he didn't look down to confirm the solid ground beneath his feet, it almost felt like standing at the edge of an abyss.

  How fascinating.

  "Even if you find it difficult to accept right now, we can still cooperate like last time. If you encounter anything hard to deal with, you can always leave it to me. Anytime, I'm happy to help. Additionally, many of my friends possess influence beyond your imagination, extending even to foreign lands. If worldly things are what you seek, rather than wasting time with these people..." The duke glanced around at the sycophantic smiles of the guests. "My friends would be glad to return your gifts with whatever assistance you require."

  He responded to those smiles, and like sharks drawn to blood, they began gathering around.

  At the "Mind Labyrinth" club, Yvette was about to go upstairs when she saw a plainly but elegantly dressed woman in her late twenties descending. Following the principle of "ladies first," Yvette stepped aside to let the woman pass.

  Was she here to consult the club's detective advisor? That seemed the only possibility, as the club never accepted female members at this time.

  As the woman passed, Yvette caught a faint herbal scent from her, which made her think the woman must have recently arrived in London. Her beige dress was only slightly worn and bore no unpleasant odors. Had she lived in London for long, such a light-colored garment would likely be stained with coal dust. Ordinary people couldn't afford chemical bleaching agents and instead used alkaline substances extracted from poultry droppings for washing, leaving a distinct smell.

  Yet her dress showed no dullness from coal dust and smelled natural. Judging by her attire, she didn’t appear wealthy enough to send her clothes to the countryside for laundering, so she probably didn’t live in London…

  Upstairs in the lounge, Yvette found the club members looking bored and disappointed, chatting half-heartedly.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen. What’s going on today?"

  Oleander brightened at her voice. "Yves, you would’ve been as disappointed as we are if you were here earlier. We received a plea for help from a lady who claimed she was being followed and spied on. She wanted us to track down the stalker. Today was the day we were supposed to meet her, but she was late. When she finally arrived, she told us it was just an admirer and they’re now in love. Well… Love is beautiful, but given how eager we were earlier, it feels like we’ve been duped."

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  "I see," Yvette chuckled. "On my way here, I saw a woman in a pale cheese-colored dress going downstairs. Was that her?"

  "Correct. Miss Sybil Hedges, a pharmacist on Shaftesbury Avenue."

  "Shaftesbury Avenue? She’s wealthier than I thought—rent there isn’t cheap. To work in a pharmacy near Piccadilly so soon after arriving in London..."

  "Of course not, Yves. She mentioned in her letter that she’s been in London for nearly twenty years, but only recently felt like she was being watched."

  "Hmm?" Yvette frowned. "Has anyone here met or seen Miss Hedges before?"

  "Never. But the letter was written on the pharmacy’s prescription paper, and the address matched. It should be genuine… Why?"

  Seconds later, she took her coat from the attendant and headed out while putting it on.

  "Yves, where are you going?"

  "Nothing important. Just looking around."

  She shouldn’t have gone far yet. The woman Yvette saw didn’t match the letter-writer’s profile—she might not even be the author, or perhaps she was the stalker mentioned in the letter.

  On the street below, Yvette looked for a cab. Since St. James's Street was in central London, there were plenty of hackneys nearby. She approached the nearest driver and asked if he’d seen a woman in a pale cheese-colored dress and which direction she’d taken. Fortunately, only two or three minutes had passed. The driver thought for a moment and said the woman had hired a cab nearby and mentioned Shaftesbury Avenue.

  Yvette tipped him generously and asked him to follow.

  "No problem, sir. I know all the cabs around St. James's. Unless she changed her mind, I’ll find that carriage!" the driver said confidently.

  True to his word, after about ten minutes, he pointed ahead. "That’s the one, sir—the cab with chipped paint on the left rear. That’s the lady’s ride!"

  It was rush hour, and the streets were crowded, making discreet investigation tricky. Yvette ordered the driver to follow at a safe distance to see where the woman was headed.

  When the cab ahead stopped at an alley, Yvette watched the woman in the pale cheese-colored dress step out and walk into the lane. She told her driver to stop as well.

  She trailed the woman from afar, trying to confirm if she was the letter-writer without alerting her. But after a few turns, she lost sight of her target.

  Lost her? What a shame…

  Yvette stared down the straight alley, puzzled. She’d heard footsteps heading this way and waited a dozen seconds before following, yet now the woman was nowhere in sight. The alley was long, with a clear line of sight—given the woman’s earlier pace, she shouldn’t have vanished so quickly.

  For some reason, Yvette couldn’t shake the feeling something was off. Maybe she should warn the club’s idlers and have them check the pharmacy’s address?

  As the thought crossed her mind, she suddenly felt watched, as if unseen eyes were tracking her every move.

  She didn’t react visibly or retreat to the main street. Instead, she weaved through the alleys, doubling back and circling until—

  "May I ask what business you have with me, sir?"

  When the unprepared figure followed her into a dead end, they found Yvette waiting calmly, a loaded gun pointed their way.

  Their eyes met, sizing each other up. The stalker had dark brown stubble, a plain dark coat, a bowler hat, and a rosary with a small cross peeking from his cuff.

  A clergyman?

  At the same time, the unknown clergyman uttered a brief divine word, and a faintly glowing, intangible shield materialized before him.

  "I advise you not to fire recklessly. Any malice from you will rebound upon yourself," he said.

  "A gifted? Aren’t you aware that abilities are forbidden in public in London?" Yvette kept her weapon raised but didn’t pull the trigger. "If a civilian witnesses this, you’re finished—I guarantee it."

  The man paused but showed no fear. "I’m the Special Missions Bureau’s assigned overseer for this district. And you are?"

  Yvette was taken aback—an ally? Verification was simple. The Bureau had recently circulated notices about the Nag Hammadi Codices and two fugitive malevolent gifted. She dropped hints about these, and the man responded swiftly, confirming his affiliation.

  "So we’re on the same side. I was wondering why I was being followed," Yvette sighed in relief.

  They exchanged no names, only codenames—better for both.

  The gifted who called himself "Stations" sighed. "Duty brought me here too. Last week, during my confessional shift, a repentant sinner—a thief—told me he’d targeted a lone woman at dusk. As he followed her into an alley, ready to strike where no one could see, something unthinkable happened. From dozens of yards away, he swore on his soul that the woman melted like summer snow, vanishing without a trace. Terrified, he believed a ghost had cursed him. I pacified him by calling it an angelic warning to repent. The location he described was near here."

  Melted?

  Yvette recalled the woman in the pale dress vanishing inexplicably. The parallels were unsettling.

  "Found anything yet?"

  "Nothing solid. I noticed you earlier—you didn’t seem like an ordinary passerby. Thought I’d investigate, but turns out you’re one of us," Stations said. "You here tracking something? You looked like you were searching."

  "Did you see a woman in her late twenties, in a pale cheese-colored dress, pass through here?"

  Stations shook his head. "Few come this way. In the last ten minutes, you’re the only one I’ve seen. I first spotted you pacing near the alley’s mouth. From the bell tower where I was posted, I had a clear view—no one else was around."

  "How odd..." Yvette rubbed her chin. "The woman I followed disappeared in that alley. The walls are high, and there’s nowhere to hide. I was right behind her, yet she vanished as if evaporated. If your thief wasn’t lying, we might be dealing with the same person—the same phenomenon."

  Stations furrowed his brow. "If I may, what’s your lead? How did you suspect her?"

  "It’s complicated. I thought it was a routine case at first. Since we’ve lost her, our only option is to check where she might be hiding. Do you know where Caduceus Pharmacy is around here?"

  Guided by Stations, they soon reached the address on the letter. Yvette approached the owner and asked about a pharmacist named Sybil Hedges.

  "Ah, her. She did work here, but she quit recently. Despite being a woman, her remedies surpassed many formally trained pharmacists. No idea where she learned her craft," the owner said, patting a row of bulbous tubes filled with vibrantly colored liquids—his shop’s pride. Ordinary folk judged a pharmacy’s skill by how visually striking its display was, so merchants often dyed distilled water with potassium permanganate or copper salts for effect.

  This shop’s array was particularly flamboyant—a marketing masterstroke.

  "Quit? Why?"

  "Returning home to marry, I hear. Shame—women always end up walking that path," the owner shrugged.