London's twilight began as early as half-past three. Thanks to the thick accumulation of water vapor in the clouds, the hazy sunlight filtered through the windows as a vibrant, bruised crimson. The church bells in the distance finally drifted into silence; the day's prayers were over.
Inside the office, the Old Priest sat with his eyes closed. His sparse hair twitched in a rhythmic, unsettling manner, reminiscent of the legs of an insect.
Chief Inspector Lestrade leaned in, whispering tentatively, "Miss Catherine... do you know the Detective?"
"I do not."
"But... you seem profoundly dissatisfied with him."
Catherine recalled that insufferable face from the elevator. Her voice was ice. "A ward of the clergy has been murdered! We require a formidable, professional elite—someone capable of unraveling this entire conspiracy alone and ensuring the killer's blood stains the Tribunal's notices by sunset tomorrow. And you? You bring me a lazy, shameless wretch who looks like he spends his days lost in a hallucinogenic fog?"
Lestrade stared at her, momentarily stunned by how accurately she had nailed Sherlock's character.
"But, honored Miss Catherine," he countered cautiously. As the head of London's law enforcement, his professional pride instinctively flared. He momentarily forgot that barely half an hour ago, he himself had been reluctant to even mention Sherlock's name. "I stake my title as Chief Inspector on this: if you seek a man who can meet your requirements, you will find no one else in all of London."
Once Lestrade departed, the Old Priest slowly opened his eyes.
He seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed his meditation. As the crimson rays of the setting sun brushed the hem of his robes, a jagged, pitch-black rift tore through the air. A massive, fur-covered spider crawled silently from the void.
It was the size of a pushcart. Its eight eyes, like polished black beans, glinted eerily in the dying light.
The old priest reached out, affectionately stroking the bristling hair on the creature's abdomen. It responded with a sickening, wet hiss.
"Lestrade has spent his life in the force," the Priest mused. "During the Second Demon Invasion, he managed the Lower District alone and reduced the civilian crime rate to a level the Church found... most satisfactory. It stands to reason his judgment is sound."
"I simply feel that such a lethargic man shows no sign of extraordinary talent," Catherine argued.
The Old Priest's lips curled into a curious smile. "I visited the holding cells just now. The Detective brought in a murderer today for a bounty. He had stuffed the criminal into a suitcase."
"A... suitcase?" Catherine's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Haha, indeed. A suitcase." The Old Priest gestured the dimensions with his hands. "I have never seen a man twisted into such a shape who remained among the living. Even the lunatics at the Academy of Life Research would require an array of machinery to achieve such a feat. Furthermore, that killer was no petty thief; his bounty was two hundred pounds. I heard the Detective caught him red-handed after only a few days of hunting. For a mortal, that is an exquisite performance."
Catherine processed the old man's words for a long beat. "No matter how exquisite," she said finally, "he is still just a mortal."
Her tone carried a natural, effortless weight of contempt. It wasn't the arrogance of a noble looking down at a peasant; it was a biological fact, a hierarchy of existence as logical as an eagle looking down upon a rabbit.
He was just a mortal.
Not a Contractor.
In an era where Abyssal forces influenced every atom of reality, the Church had mastered the art of tethering that power to the human form over a century ago. Thus, a mundane human was inherently subject to doubt.
However, the Priest's words held weight. Catherine's expression remained cold, but she offered a sharp nod of consent.
In the reception lounge, Sherlock was slumped on the sofa, teetering on the edge of sleep.
A book rested in his lap.
Survival Guide for Small-Scale Demon Encounters in the Wild. Author: A fellow named Bear Grylls.
The cover was made of the cheapest cardboard, featuring a crude illustration of a common Hellhound vomiting acidic bile onto a beautiful lady in a sundress. The printing quality was abysmal; the colors bled into one another like a bruised sky.
These survival guides had been bestsellers at one point. After all, no one knew where a void rift might open. If a rift tore through the space in front of you while you were using the privy, and a disgusting giant fly crawled out to suck your brains, reading such a book might—theoretically—increase your chances of survival.
However, after a decade of market testing, the public realized these books were utterly useless. When encountering Void life, you either had a Lescott shotgun and plenty of shells, or you ran.
You ran as fast as your legs could carry you toward the nearest Contractor, or toward the nearest church. That was it.
If you had nothing and tried to use "book knowledge" to duel a monster, your death would be darkly comedic. There was a famous story of one such survival author who tried a "sliding kick" only to deliver himself directly into the gaping chest cavity of a Carrion Beast.
Door-to-door delivery, straight to the stomach.
"Care for a smoke?" a voice asked.
Sherlock blinked, his heavy lids lifting to see Chief Inspector Lestrade holding out a cigarette.
"No thanks. I've got my own." Sherlock offered a cavernous yawn and pulled a crumpled pack of Blues from his pocket.
"I still don't get why you only smoke Blues," Lestrade grumbled, lighting his own. "It's an ancient brand, hard to find, and smells like a chimney fire."
Sherlock lit his cigarette and took a deep, dragging pull, offering no explanation.
"See, this is why people don't like you. You're a walking mystery, and you never bother to explain a damn thing."
Sherlock squinted through the smoke. "Just tell me what you want. Quit circling the drain."
"I've got a job for you. Homicide." The Inspector paused. "I hate to admit it, but... it involves the Church."
Lestrade watched Sherlock closely, expecting at least a flicker of surprise or excitement at the mention of the Holy See. Instead, Sherlock's brow merely twitched for a fraction of a second before he returned to his half-asleep stupor.
"Is that it? No reaction?"
"Oh. Well, thank you very much," Sherlock said tonelessly.
The sheer lack of sincerity made Lestrade's blood boil. He crushed his cigarette out in frustration.
"This! This is the second reason I hate you... you haven't got a shred of piety in your entire body!"