I scan the reports with a sharp gaze, my eyes sweeping over the names and descriptions without missing a single detail. Claude had done his job well, but in the end, I was the one making the decision.

"Claude, focus on these three watchmakers. Old Wharfdale, that market in the Voldaine district… No shop will go unchecked."

I review the remaining list of watchmakers. Most of them share the same Dia Pescalle: Bracquemont.

"Assumed," I murmur. "We’ll head there first."

Four possible shops.

Daniel Quare & Co.

John Roger Arnold Watchmaker

Benjamin Lewis Vulliamy’s Workshop

Nararte Watchmaker

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STATE INSPECTION – WATCHMAKER REGISTRY

Date: 3rd day of the Month of Luxenor, Cycle of 1874

Inspection Report Drafted in Grimgem

District: Voldaine

Officer in Charge: Claude de Lorraine

Daniel Quare & Co.

* Owner: Cristian Quare

* Watches Sold: 15 units (pocket watches and carriage clocks, gold and silver-cased models).

* Watches Repaired: 8 units (marine chronometers, tower clocks, and striking mechanisms).

* Description: A traditional establishment specializing in precision watchmaking for officers and aristocracy. Reports indicate private orders for customized watches by high-ranking officials.

I exhale through my nose. Too luxurious to be in Voldaine.

----------------------------------------

John Roger Arnold Watchmaker

* Owner: Henrietta Roger

* Watches Sold: 10 units (high-precision pocket chronometers and table clocks).

* Watches Repaired: 12 units (escapement mechanisms and pocket watches with complications).

* Description: A historic supplier of chronometers for the navy and army. Records show sales to captains and regime navigators.

I drop the report onto the table with a sharp thud.

----------------------------------------

Benjamin Lewis Vulliamy’s Workshop

* Owner: Benjamin Lewis Vulliamy

* Watches Sold: 7 units (pendulum clocks, minute-repeating pocket watches).

* Watches Repaired: 6 units (tower clocks, striking mechanisms for government buildings).

* Description: A relatively new workshop created to sell "affordable" watches of supposed high quality.

Nothing particularly suspicious.

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Nararte Watchmaker

* Owner: German Beaufort

* Watches Sold: 3 units (handcrafted mechanical watches, custom models for workers).

* Watches Repaired: 5 units (antique pocket watches, damaged mechanisms due to wear or lack of maintenance, and one reconstructed watch).

* Description: An independent shop focused on repairs and manufacturing. Reports indicate a clientele mostly made up of the working class and minimal state contracts. Monitoring is recommended due to potential unregulated restoration of antique pieces.

I narrow my eyes.

"A reconstructed watch."

I don’t overlook that.

----------------------------------------

FINAL OBSERVATIONS:

* All watchmakers comply with inspection protocols.

* Continuous monitoring of transactions and customer records is recommended.

----------------------------------------

All solid choices, but the first to be discarded is John Roger Arnold Watchmaker.

"Not worth wasting time on someone from the regime," I finally say, setting the paper aside.

Andrew nods but says nothing.

"Daniel Quare & Co. is on the outskirts of Voldaine," I continue. "To be honest, I don’t think that level of luxury belongs here."

That leaves me with two options.

Benjamin Lewis Vulliamy… active, but nothing particularly suspicious.

Nararte.

"A reconstructed watch."

That tiny detail lingers in my mind.

I finally close the report.

"Andrew. Drive us to Bracquemont, coordinates 30 and 67."

My words linger in the air.

So, Nararte Watchmaker.

We descend the stairs, the sound of our footsteps echoing against the marble. Echoes of what once was. But also, the sound of change.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Officers," my voice cuts through the hallway. "My first order as Commissioner is to repair and reorganize the state archive. I want every record sorted by year and state priority. Brown, take charge of all records from 1849 and earlier. I need every single one, even the most inconsistent."

No questions. Just movement.

I glance down at the checkered floor, at the reflection of gold and cream in Claude and Andrew’s uniforms. Outside, the car is waiting. And the people devour it with their eyes.

Andrew moves first, cranking the engine to life. Claude, on the other hand, walks toward the parking area in search of the second vehicle.

Five cars.

Only five.

We need more.

I step into the car.

"I need to eat whatever Samantha packed… I didn’t even brush my teeth today."

I sigh.

I pull out the cold beef with mayonnaise. The meal is chilled, but I don’t care. The car rumbles. The vibrations in the seat reach me before the sound of the engine does. Like a warning.

The streets are alive, but not for us. The streetlamps cast reflections over rain puddles, storefronts rattle with a metallic clatter when the wind strikes them. The air reeks of stale tobacco, sugarless coffee, gunpowder from a shot no one reported.

And then, Andrew speaks.

"Captain, what do you think of the current situation?"

It’s not a casual question.

"My promotion? The search for the past?" I reply, eyes still on the street.

"You hide it well, but you’d have to be an idiot not to notice." His tone is heavier than usual. "What are your intentions?"

A pause. Not because he hesitates, but because he wants to see if I will.

"Let me rephrase." He wets his lips. "Are you ready to move forward when you find the truth?"

Silence.

Streetlights flicker at the corners. The city moves on, oblivious to the weight of this conversation.

"Andrew… I understand your question. But I don’t have an answer right now."

I close the food container, leaving it untouched on the seat.

"My problem isn’t a lack of reason or conviction." I rest my head against the seat. "It’s the justification. I have no qualms about killing those terrorists. I’ve done it countless times."

Andrew doesn’t look at me. But his grip on the steering wheel tightens.

"What I don’t understand is the Regime’s war. These days, it’s smaller and smaller. The ones still fighting have no power. They’re fragmented, poorly armed, without support. And yet, they keep going."

I roll down the window. The wind rushes in like a dry slap, like a gunshot with no echo.

"It’s ridiculous."

Buildings reflect in the glass. The streets are wet, footsteps lost in the sound of the car.

"Twenty people can’t overthrow the greatest empire. They have no weapons. No resources. No future. But they keep fighting.

Not because they think they’ll win, but because dying in battle is better than living on their knees.

They rip their own nails out if they have to. With their teeth, with a stone, with whatever they can. They sharpen their own bones, turn their knuckles into blades. They sew blades into their sleeves, their tongues, between their ribs.

They bite their tongues, not to keep secrets, but so their own blood drowns their voice before they betray someone.

If caught, they break their fingers before writing a confession. They swallow poison before anyone can interrogate them. They’d rather suffocate on their own blood than give up a name.

All you’ll get from them is chewed flesh and thick blood. They carry poison in their teeth because they’d rather die foaming at the mouth than live as traitors.

They carry poison in their teeth and fire in their eyes. Fire in their fingers, in their veins, in every step they take. They are suicides without graves, ghosts who would rather bleed out than leave a useful corpse. They die with mouths full of ashes, with throats full of screams no one will hear.

The car keeps moving, but the weight of the conversation doesn’t.

I watch Andrew in the rearview mirror.

"That’s what I want to understand." I pause. The wind howls. The car radio crackles before dying on its own. A final bandoneón chord drowns in the static.

"The idea. The ideology. The purpose."

Andrew doesn’t reply. His eyes remain on the road.

"And when I find out, Andrew…"

The car hits a pothole. The vibration rattles in my bones.

I exhale the smoke of my breath into the cold air.

"We’ll see what happens."

The Halberstadt M-12, manufactured by Steinmetz Automobiles, began production in ‘72. It had a reinforced steel chassis with aluminum panels and a fixed waterproof canvas roof. The interior was black leather with dark wood accents.

It started with a crank mechanism, its headlights powered by acetylene gas. But the Halberstadt M-12 had a small luxury that few cars shared: a built-in gramophone in the dashboard. A compact system, designed to withstand the rattling of the engine without the needle skipping off the record.

It wasn’t perfect. The music was grainy, with a faint, persistent crackle in the background. But it was enough to fill the silence—to drown out the thoughts no officer should have.

The record turned slowly, releasing the final notes of a forgotten tango. In the static of the worn-out needle, the song sounded more like a lament than a melody.

Bracquemont was still part of Gildmere—but barely.

A few blocks further, the pavement cracked and crumbled. The corners were littered with trash that no one bothered to collect. The signs were faded. The city showed its true face.

Voldaine District.

At first glance, it wasn’t so different from the rest of the capital. Old buildings, narrow streets, failing businesses. But the air… the air was different. Denser. Heavier.

Not with gunpowder. Not with blood.

With something worse.

Resentment.

It had always been this way.

The people here were never fully aligned with the Empire. Not entirely. Always on the edge. Always with something dangerous in their eyes.

That’s why they sank.

It wasn’t the Empire’s fault. The rules were clear. The rules worked.

If Voldaine District was in ruins, it was because they allowed it.

Poverty wasn’t a flaw in the system. It was the result of disobedience.

And therein lay the irony.

The Empire had brought order. Structure. Stability.

It had taken a city of chaos and turned it into the jewel of the crown.

And yet, just a few blocks away from Gildmere… the Empire was crumbling.

Not because the system was broken. Not because it was flawed. Not because it was corrupt.

But because there were those who refused to accept their place in it.

I rest my head against the seat.

It doesn’t make sense.

The grainy music hums through the gramophone, a worn-out tango dragging itself through the static.

The streets pass before my eyes. The poverty passes before my eyes.

And, for the first time in a long while, I wonder if there really is an explanation for any of this.