The steamy markets on Baker Street reeked of the fumes of rotting meat and fish. Each stall looked more horrible than the last. The mixed toxins travelled among Londoners rushing for the freshest cuts. A feminine figure strode amidst the morning chaos. Her cloak of mud-strewn black hid a large, black tome that hung from a chain across her body. And the smell of fish turned her stomach. She tramped along the main street toward the river which itself smelled no better than the meat market. Sooty, smog-smeared houses inert flanked her in a gloom of silence. 

Commonfolk peered at her with bewilderment. Men and women in the street stretched their arms for charity. At one doorstep, a young mother fed her newborn from her breast. The woman’s dull, empty eyes yearned to sink into an ocean of guilt and sorrow. Yet, the woman in black reached the next doorstep and marched past them. 

221B Baker Street. Its door blackened with dirt and dust from years of negligence, and thick webs stretched and split as she heaved it open; the scent inside hit her with dust, must, and stale grime. 

“Don’t waste time,” came a voice from the murky shadows in the back. With his face contorting in the half light, the tall hunchbacked man stepped closer to the entryway; tugging his wistful, thick black beard as he spoke, “He hasn’t lived here in years, ma’am.” 

She stepped back, eyes narrowing at him. He appeared to study her with interest, homing in on the large black book, inflexible in her grasp. Imprinted on the centre of its cover was the number 9 in fierce red lined with gold. 

She returned the curiosity with a formal introduction. 

“Amber Wolflight, High Enchantress of Darklight, the Warlock & Sorceress Academy. I’m here on business, and you are...?” She kept her eyes locked on him. She did not trust many these days, and threats lurked in every corner. 

“He moved away a long time ago. If you’re going to his former room, don’t make noise. You don’t want to wake the neighbours.” The man chuckled, leaving the building. 

She took the stairs to the second floor. Two rooms were empty as she passed open doors. Amber frowned and grabbed the book hanging from her waist. Black fumes mixed in royal purple ripples came off the tome, infusing her palm with power. With a wave of her hand, a door opened wide at the end of the hall. The door led to a torn apart room. A set of smoke pipes lay on a counter next to an old mug. The furniture was upturned and coated in thick dust with no sign of life. The two shattered wide-open windows illuminated the room. 

Where are you? Amber pondered and knelt beside the window. 

Almost as a response to her inward musings that she had reached a dead end, a wail echoed down the street outside. She headed downstairs, out into the street, and followed the street towards the noise. Amber became wary. A trail of droplets turned into thick patches of vermilion that led to a back alley. The man who had spoken to her only moments ago in the building was almost unrecognisable—his body crumpled in a heap, twisted, and bones crushed. Dark purple ooze flooded out from the man’s wounds. 

“May God grant you wings,” she murmured, knelt beside the body, and closed the man’s eyes. 

Many voices around the area approached in countless whispers. She took a step back and her body transmuted into a thousand shards of shattered glass. Every single piece of glass stood still and motionless for a few seconds in the air in a state of calamity before they twisted inward into nothing, leaving behind a deadly, empty silence.