The silhouette vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the faint imprint of that strange symbol burned into Silas’s mind — a gear with an eye carved into its center. His chest tightened.


    “What the hell is happening in this city?” he whispered to himself, eyes darting across the crowd. His instincts screamed at him to chase after the figure, but the sheer number of people made it impossible. Bodies pressed against him, the murmur of voices and the distant hiss of steam overwhelming his senses.


    Frustrated, Silas pushed his way back into the main office. He dropped into a chair, gripping the arms tightly. His mind raced. First the lamppost. Now this. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "Okay," he muttered under his breath, "I’ll look into it when I get home."


    For now, he needed to focus.


    He stood, shaking off the unease, and made his way to the staff room. Inside, Victor sat at a polished oak table, speaking with three men dressed in formal suits. Their conversation hushed as Silas entered. Victor waved him over.


    "Ah, Silas! Come meet the ministers."


    The three men turned toward him, their expressions curious.


    "This is George," Victor began, gesturing to the man on the left. George was tall and thin, with slicked-back black hair and a sharp gaze. "Minister of Foreign Affairs."


    George nodded stiffly.


    "Harry," Victor continued, indicating the man in the middle. Harry had a round face and a perpetual scowl. "Minister of Law."


    Harry gave a curt nod.


    "And finally, Josh."


    Josh, the man on the right, leaned forward with a broad smile. He was younger than the others, with a thick mustache and a pair of brass goggles resting on his forehead. "Minister of Steam Technology. A pleasure." He extended his hand, and Silas shook it firmly.


    "Silas," Josh began, eyes glinting with interest, "I heard you’re an engineer specializing in prosthetics. Why not work for me? We need young talent to push the boundaries of steam technology."


    Silas opened his mouth to respond, but Victor cut in smoothly. "Silas isn’t interested in those things. He just wants to live his life without burdens."


    Josh raised an eyebrow but said nothing. George chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass. "Well, when the family is rich, the kids don’t need to work, do they?" His tone was taunting, eyes glimmering with amusement.


    Victor laughed. "You’re not wrong, George, but that’s not the case here. Silas genuinely isn’t interested. I even asked him to handle the new station, but he refused."


    Silas felt a quiet relief. For once, Victor’s protective nature worked in his favor. He wasn’t ready for the spotlight. Not yet.


    Clack.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    The door swung open, and Edgar stepped inside. The butler’s presence was as calm and steady as ever, his mustache neatly trimmed, his posture impeccable. He bowed slightly.


    "Sir. I was at the estate when one of the guards informed me you summoned me. Is something the matter?"


    Victor turned. "Ah, Edgar. No, nothing urgent. I’ll be heading out with Josh to discuss the airship gas systems. I’d like you to accompany Silas back to the estate."


    Edgar bowed again. "Very well, sir."


    Silas stood, eager to leave. As they made their way out of the station and into the waiting carriage, Silas turned to Edgar.


    "Edgar… Can you bring me all the newspapers? Every single issue. Even the oldest ones."


    Edgar raised an eyebrow. "Every issue, young master?"


    "Yes. Don’t miss a single day."


    Edgar considered him for a moment. "May I ask why?"


    Silas hesitated. "It’s… for research. Just bring them to my room."


    Edgar nodded. "As you wish."


    Silas leaned back into the carriage seat, staring out the window. The gears of his mind turned, much like the city itself. The symbol. The silhouette. The city was watching.


    And Silas was determined to find out why.


    —-


    They reached home. Silas climbed the stairs and went straight to his room, loosening his shirt buttons. He sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. But something caught his eye.


    A yellow paper.


    It rested neatly on his nightstand. Frowning, he reached for it. The back read:


    "To Silas Ashcroft."


    No sender. Heart pounding slightly, he unfolded the paper. It was blank at first glance — no, not blank. In the center, a single sentence was scrawled in dark ink:


    "The clock ticks for those who involve themselves with Ashcroft."


    Silas stared at the words. His pulse slowed, oddly calm. "Ashcroft? Involved?" He muttered the words under his breath. "Are they referring to me?"


    Before he could dwell further, a knock came at his door. A guard entered, carrying a stack of newspapers.


    "Sir, Edgar sent me to deliver these."


    "Alright. Thanks."


    He slid the newspapers under his bed. "Tonight will be a little busy."


    ---


    It was nearing eleven when Silas heard soft footsteps outside. He turned toward the door. Clara.


    "You didn’t go to school?" Silas asked.


    Clara stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, looking both annoyed and sad. "I was in school, but my sparrow stopped flying. I don’t know what happened."


    Silas tilted his head. "Show me. I’m a prosthetic engineer, after all. Maybe I can help."


    Clara’s face lit up. "Really?"


    She handed him the small mechanical sparrow. Silas inspected it carefully, turning it over in his hands, listening to the faint click of its tiny gears. After a few minutes, he smirked.


    "Ah. I see what’s wrong."


    Clara bounced on her heels. "Can you fix it? Can you?"


    He chuckled. "Yes. The spring gear in its left wing is broken. Bring me my bag — I’ve got some tools in there."


    Clara dashed off and returned moments later, clutching the bag. As Silas opened it, something shiny caught Clara’s eye.


    Twin pistols.


    Sleek. Classy. The metallic finish gleamed under the gaslight, each intricate gear polished to perfection. Clara gasped.


    "Let me see! Let me see!"


    Silas quickly tried to cover them. "Geez, why are you acting like a child? You’re eighteen, you know."


    Clara pouted. "Don’t you know? We girls are born abnormal. We act like this our whole lives."


    Silas burst out laughing. The sound surprised even him. He coughed, trying to regain his composure, but Clara only smiled wider. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh so openly.


    "Did you make these?" she asked, eyes still locked on the pistols.


    "Yeah," Silas replied, carefully setting them aside. "They’re custom-made. Only fit my hands."


    "Did you… ever shoot someone with them?" Clara asked, half-teasing.


    Silas froze mid-repair. "Does my face say I’m a murderer?"


    Clara laughed. "Why so serious?"


    Silas sighed, shaking his head. "What am I supposed to say to you?"


    The mood shifted. Clara grew quiet. "Hey… what happened last night?" she asked softly. "You weren’t looking well."


    Silas hesitated. He couldn’t tell her the truth — that he wasn’t the Silas they knew. That he was someone else entirely. Even if I told her… there’s no way she’d believe me.


    But she waited, patient and trusting. After a long pause, Silas decided to tell her about Elias. Or at least… parts of it.


    He spoke of bonds and betrayals. Of friends who once laughed with him, who turned on him once they learned he was adopted. He left out the darker parts, skimming over the worst of the pain.


    When he finished, Clara''s eyes were glistening. Without warning, she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.


    "Do you think they’d still love you if you went back to help them?" she whispered.


    Silas tensed. Then slowly shook his head. "I don’t know… and I don’t think so. I can’t forget their eyes. They hated me."


    Clara held him tighter. For a moment, Silas stiffened, unused to the warmth. But then something shifted. His heart ached — not with pain, but with a strange comfort. A delayed effect. Someone was accepting him. Him. Not Elias. Not Ashcroft. Just Silas.


    A single tear welled in his left eye. He wiped it away before Clara could see.


    "Here." He handed her the sparrow. "It’s fixed."


    Chirp. Chirp.


    The little mechanical bird sprang to life, fluttering its metal wings before perching on Silas’s shoulder. Clara gasped in delight.


    "You did it!" she squealed, hugging him again. "Thank you, brother."


    Silas smiled. "My pleasure."


    As the sparrow chirped softly and Clara giggled, Silas allowed himself a rare moment of peace. But deep inside, a quiet resolve burned.


    Tonight, he had work to do.


    The city was watching. And Silas would be watching back.