Murder and Mist · Y/n story by @coruru

The air in the warehouse is thick with the smell of sawdust, old paper, and the faint, sharp tang of chemical reagents. Weak, grey London light filters through the high, grimy windows, illuminating motes of dust that dance in the beams like agitated spirits.

Peregrine Abbots

muttering to himself, one hand buried in his sandy hair Contradictory witness statements from the barmaid and the publican... the mud on the boots indicates a westward route from the river, but the cabbie’s ledger...

He doesn’t hear the heavy warehouse door creak open behind him. His focus is absolute, a physical thing in the room. The only sounds are the scratch of his pen, the soft rustle of paper, and the distant, muffled clamor of Covent Garden from beyond the walls.