The manor’s door was opened by a tall, gaunt man with perfect posture and a face that could have been etched onto coins. A man sculpted from strictness and rules, as if he had been stitched together from old etiquette textbooks. The dark suit was as insanely clean as if he dipped himself in liquid starch every morning. There was a spark of something in his cold eyes that I couldn't catch.

"Mr Rains," he nodded slightly. And of course, he was clearly not going to put a period after 'Mr'. "Lady Longford is expecting you."

"You must be the butler?" I replied, stepping inside this den of secrets and courtesy, removing my hat.

"Yes, sir. My name is Woodsworth."

"Woodsworth," I repeated, placing my hands on my hips to make sure he didn’t even think about taking my coat. "Well, Woodsworth, you do realize that in cases like this, the butler is always the prime suspect?"

"I'm afraid you’ve been reading the wrong author," he replied, just as composed.

"Wasn’t it Sherringford Hop and Doctor Sacker who always caught the butlers?"

"I believe that’s more Agatha Christie," he corrected me with a faint smile before shutting the door behind me.

The smell of Longford Manor was... just right. Old wood, dusty carpets, a faint trace of cigar smoke - clearly preferred here over expensive perfume. The grand hall breathed with its own life: shadows from the fireplace stretched along the walls, the fire crackled but did not warm, antique paintings observed my every move, and the ticking of the clock sounded as though it were measuring not seconds, but the fates of others.

"Where’s the victim?" I asked, shaking the drizzle off my coat’s lapel.

"Mr Longford was found in his study. The door was locked from the outside. No windows."

"No signs of violence?"

"None, sir."

"And no one heard anything suspicious?"

"No one, sir."

"A classic setup," I murmured, stepping forward. "Lead the way."

"Would you not prefer to speak with Lady Longford first?"

Behind me, I heard the quiet tapping of heels. A maid entered the corridor. Young, yet with the eyes of someone who had seen too much and learned too early to stay silent. Her skin - almost unnaturally pale, as if the sun had long since crossed her off its list of those to warm. Her fringe fell slightly over her forehead, escaping from beneath a simple cap, and her dark hair was neatly pinned into a bun, as was proper for those meant to remain unseen. But her gaze - restless, as if she always expected to be called, not to receive an order, but to hear something terrible, something that could not be disobeyed.

She looked up - and froze. The rag slipped from her hands. Her two fingers twitched towards her shoulder, then stopped - was she about to cross herself? Orthodox-style? A northerner? Covering her mouth, she hastily disappeared around the corner. Not the rarest reaction to my presence.

"You do know who I am, right? I’m a psi-detective. The longer time passes, the more the victim’s mind decays. Lead the way."

"But, sir, you smell of alcohol," the butler noted discreetly, unwilling to offend but also unwilling to remain silent.

"That’s my personal assistant."

"Alcohol, sir?"

"I’ve hired bodyguards before, but they were far less effective at shielding me from reality," I smirked, but his face remained as expressionless as ever. Not even a hypothesis of a sense of humor. Fine, he deserved honesty. "Alcohol does soften the boundaries of consciousness. Helps me seep into other minds when sobriety keeps me chained. But I neither drink nor smoke on the job. So let’s get this case over with."

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We approached the broken study door, yet Woodsworth still opened it for me, letting me step inside first.

"Who discovered the body?"

"Lady Longford, sir. She noticed the master had not emerged for some time and called me to break down the door."

The room was just like the rest of the house - vast, grim, and full of secrets. The air was thick with layered scents: old wax, paper, varnished wood, the faint ghost of dried ink, the acrid tobacco that had seeped into the walls, and something else - metallic, weak but persistent, creeping through the other notes like rust on a blade.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, crammed with leather-bound volumes. Some bore a thin veil of dust; others looked as if nervous fingers had recently flipped through them. A thick carpet muffled any footsteps. At the center of the room stood a massive desk, behind which sat Jasper Longford.

Or rather, his discarded shell.

He sat in his chair, his head tilted slightly forward, as if he had dozed off. Only his eyes remained open - still, faded, reflecting the dim light of the lamp. Confusion lingered in them. We are all bewildered by life, what to say of death.

Jasper Longford was an ancient man, not merely touched by age but carved by it, like a sculptor shaping his work with patience and cruelty. His skin, thin as parchment, was etched with wrinkles deep as canyons, chiseled by time upon the cliffside of his face. At the corners of his mouth lingered the remnants of long-spoken words. His hair - white, sparse, carefully arranged with that fastidiousness found in those who cling to order even in the face of chaos.

His heavy, expensive suit, now creased, still bore the faint scent of lavender and wood soap, which he must have used daily.

"He could have simply died of old age."

"His personal doctor has doubts. He suspects a psi-attack."

"Well, Woodsworth, that narrows the list of suspects," I squinted, scrutinizing this paragon of composure. "Only those close can breach a mind. Or with consent."

"You would know better than I, sir. That is why you were hired."

"Was he found in this exact position?" I asked, stepping closer.

"Yes, sir. A day ago."

I examined the room. No signs of struggle. No evidence that anyone else had been here. Only death - so silent that no one had heard it come. I turned to Woodsworth.

"And how did you know he was dead and bore no signs of violence?"

"Oh, naturally, Mr Longford was moved by myself and Dr Graves, sir," he replied, that strange spark in his eyes again. "But then we returned him to his original position. For the police and detectives."

Returned to his original position. Clearly, this man hadn’t paid enough to buy posthumous respect.

"What was the deceased’s profession?"

"Mr Longford was a private investor and a benefactor."

A breeder of parasites, then.

"His family business dealt in fog repellents," Woodsworth continued evenly, without blinking.

A merchant of superstitious fear.

"Did he leave any family besides his widow?"

"Yes, sir. His son, Mr Henry Longford. He resides here."

"The heir?"

"In a manner of speaking, sir. The rest of Mr Longford’s children live in other cities. He had little contact with them."

"The rest? How prolific was he?"

"Sufficiently, sir."

"I take it Mr. Henry hasn’t built a financial empire, given he still lives with his parents."

"He is sixteen, sir."

"A curious situation. An elderly father and a child son. Were they... close?"

"They lived under the same roof, sir," Woodsworth evaded.

Just then, a figure flickered past the doorway. I turned, but only caught the edge of a black hem and slender fingers gripping the doorframe.

The maid. The curiosity of a cat catching a new scent in the house - or the anxiety of a criminal watching an inquisitor leaf through their journals?

I slowly drew my revolvers.

Zakhar and Danil. Two steadfast anchors that kept my mind from slipping into the abyss, without which I might never return. Smooth steel, black blued metal, reassuring solidity. I traced the intricate engravings on their grips like a map through the chaos of foreign minds. Their weight reminded me who I was - and what I was.

Revolvers made in the arms factory of the Russian Empire. Jocelyn still held that purchase against me - whether for its lack of patriotism or the sum I had spent on them, I couldn’t say. But she didn’t understand.

"I'm coming. Enough time has been wasted," I said to the butler, sat down in the chair opposite the dead man, crossed my arms over my chest, guns in hand, and took a slow breath.

A dead mind can be opened anywhere. The body no longer resists; the consciousness lies before you like an open book of filth and regrets. But the closer you are to the dead, the easier it is to convince your own mind that taking a stroll through the chthonic depths called the human psyche is a simple matter.

I looked at Longford. His body still held the posture of a man who had merely fallen asleep at his desk. His eyes, wide open, stared into the world and saw nothing but emptiness. I could only agree.

I closed mine.

And stepped inside.