The structure had warped into something far more sinister than the quaint tavern they’d entered. With each creaking step upward, Yvette confronted the Angel’s corrupting influence. The staircase now defied reason, its endless spiral vanishing into impossible horizons - a drunkard’s nightmare given form.

The second floor mimicked a nobleman’s quarters fallen to ruin. Behind an ajar door, the relentless plink-plink of water beckoned. But upon entering the candlelit chamber, the stench of decay overwhelmed her. A gruesome bathtub tableau revealed itself – murky fluid darkening linen into burial shrouds, blade abandoned beside telltale stains. Though no body remained, the suicide’s ghost lingered through a farewell note heavy with cosmic dread:

"It was no angel but a vast, uncaring hunger. We’re grains beneath its gaze. I pray you escape the game I’ve doomed you to..."

Higher floors unfolded as galleries of despair. Windows yawned over vertigo-inducing mists; blood-crusted textiles whispered of midnight agonies. One room mirrored the torture den where she’d watched the fat man snap his own neck – now maggot-ridden and reeking, though barely a day had passed. Illusions, all of it... yet the bile rising in her throat felt real enough.

The hospital floor chilled her most. Sunlight streamed cruelly across a deathbed’s tokens: fractured penmanship beside an emptied vial. The words carved into old wounds – memories of smiling through decaying flesh, bargaining with death between chemotherapy rounds. How easy it’d be to drink the tincture now rolling toward her...

A gunshot rang out before conscious thought. "Not today," she rasped, smoke curling from her revolver. "Your game ends here."

The Angel answered by seizing her arm. Joints popped as the barrel rose toward her skull. She’d anticipated this gambit – while mortal minds snapped like twigs under its grip, a Hunter’s will bent but didn’t break. Let it pull the trigger. Let it taste divine irony...

The blue-white flash left ozone sharpness. Behind her, the bullet’s true victim - the Angel’s manifested self - collapsed twitching. Its final glare held millennia of spite before dissolving into the floorboards.

Rules anchored even gods. By making it "suicide" its own conduit, she’d checkmated the cosmic parasite. Let it hibernate another century in defeat. Her boots echoed toward the exit, heavy with other people’s ghosts but lighter than they’d been in years.

Yvette blinked, suddenly aware of her surroundings—a noisy tavern corner, her boot resting on a rickety staircase. The air buzzed with boisterous conversations as drinkers clinked frothy mugs beneath tobacco-stained beams.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

A waiter did a double-take. The stranger had materialized by the stairs. Had they been there moments ago?

"Sir, second floor’s restricted," he said hastily.

Upstairs belonged to the working girls—a controlled space to prevent drunks harassing patrons or workers. Transactions happened under the tavern’s watchful cut.

Retreating, Yvette stepped outside.

The building had changed. Fresh whitewash gleamed under moonlight; polished windows sported new curtains in peony patterns. Where a splintered "Old Clock Tower Tavern" sign once hung, "Queen’s Bar" now flaunted a painted siren.

A century’s weight settled on her shoulders. She queried a passerby about the old tavern.

"Oh, that burnt down in the ’66 Fire," the local said. "Took half the street. Rebuilt years later, renamed."

1666…

The photograph in her satchel felt heavier. Retrieving it, she found everyone erased—except her doppelgänger.

There "she" stood, alone in the corner. Same face, but twisted with malice—a vengeful spirit trapped behind photographic paper.

Fear prickled her neck. She secured the cursed image, navigating London’s night like a minefield until reaching Hampstead Heath’s gates.

Midnight chimed as clockwork servants ushered her in. Winslow and Ulysses exchanged looks—her disheveled state spoke volumes.

"Why the late visit, Master Ives? And this… attire?"

She laid out the fat man’s diary and altered photo, skimming details. Winslow’s frown deepened with each word.

"This is beyond reckless! Letting Sir Ulysses mentor you was clearly—”

"—A masterstroke," Ulysses cut in. "Note how she survived."

"I distinctly recall teaching restraint."

Yvette tuned them out. Her powers neutralized the Angel’s tricks. The Barnacle Scion had required mass sacrifice; this thing preyed on lonely capitalists. Child’s play. Even possession attempts would fail—kinetic energy became heat, guns misfired. Why the fuss?

But logic wouldn’t sway Winslow. Time for theatrics.

Summoning chemotherapy memories—needles, nausea, sterile walls—she bowed her head. "I’m sorry… Winning felt hollow. Old wounds reopened..."

The steward deflated. "My apologies—relief made me harsh. Let’s… have tea cakes. Yes, tea cakes help." He fled kitchenward.

Ulysses snorted. "Bravo. But next time, blink slower when lying—enhances sincerity."

"You’ll play along?"

"Winslow’s ‘tonics’ taste worse than prison swill." Leaning closer, he added, "The sorrow wasn’t feigned, though. Who hurt you?"

"No one living." She changed tack. "There’s a brothel kingpin. Gets children from sniveling weasels. Should rot in Newgate."

"I’ll have Alto arrange a ‘residency.’ Prisons need vermin to clean their cesspits."

His grin promised creative cruelty, but Yvette intervened: "No gallows-view suites this time."

"Patience. Broken limbs first. Then decades as a brigand’s bride."

Winslow returned with a tower of pastries—sturdy scones, sticky maple pancakes. Homely, hearty.

As syrup melted on her tongue, darkness lifted. The Angel’s whispers had preyed on buried despair, but sweetness anchored her. Misfortune struck, yet kindness always followed.

"Young Master enjoys the pancakes?"

"They’re perfect tonight," she said, savoring the lie and truth alike.