Chapter 1: Whispers in the Rust

Berlin in November—the rain never comes clean. It drags a gray, exhausted weight onto everything, just like the busted pipes in the old blocks of Kreuzberg that never get fixed. The sky hangs low, soaked and swollen like an old rag wringing out more chill.

The plane trees lining the streets had shed their leaves long ago, bare branches crisscrossing under the gloom like a tangle of withered hands slicing the pedestrians into broken shadows. The wind whined through the alleys, carrying the dull, heavy thud of excavators from a construction site somewhere distant.

Niklaus wore work pants so faded they looked gray, mud caked into hard crusts at the knees that cracked with every step. He took a sharp breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, but he didn't slow down. He pushed straight through the creaking oak door of the Old Times antique shop.

The screech of the hinges cut sharply through the empty shop, like a groan forced out from the gut. The air smelled of aged leather, damp wood, and the faint, burnt scent of coffee roasting—a mix that fermented in the tight space, creating a suffocating sense of calm.

Shelves towered like a maze, packed with relics left over from the Nazi era and detritus from the Cold War. Dust motes drifted slowly in the cold white beams of the spotlights, moving like a sluggish river of stars. His gaze swept past the silent objects until it snagged on a Rusty Pocket Watch in the deep corner.

The watch cover was shattered, exposing a tangled mess of springs inside, looking like a heart that had stopped beating, resting in a velvet groove and waiting for a delayed judgment.

The moment his fingertip brushed the cold, jagged metal, a violent dizziness slammed into his brain. It wasn't a headache; it was a folding of his vision, like someone had twisted his optic nerve.

He saw the ignored blind spot from last night’s theft, the trajectory of dust rolling in the beams so sharp it was terrifying. He could distinguish the angle and depth of footprints. Memories didn’t flow linearly here; they reassembled like shattered shards of glass, details filtered out by his brain forced their way back in, sharp as needles.

He instinctively clutched his forehead. Cold sweat trickled down his temples, dripping onto his muddy pants and bleeding into darker stains. Just then, the crisp tap of leather shoes on hardwood approached. The rhythm was steady and oppressive, each step landing right on the pause between heartbeats.

Viktor emerged from behind the counter, his eyes scanning Niklaus with wary intensity. His mouth was pressed into a tight, cold line.

Viktor stopped two feet away, his gaze a blade. “You touched my stock.” His voice was low, carrying an undeniable pressure that echoed in the quiet shop.

“That watch was fine three days ago. Now the cover is cracked, and there’s dust inside.” Niklaus didn’t turn around; his fingers stayed pressed against the rust, the cold helping to stanch the roaring in his head. He felt that power spreading inside him, trying to tear his sanity apart.

He straightened up slowly, his voice hoarse. “Just checking the time, Mr. Viktor.” Viktor snorted, pulling a black notebook from a drawer. His pen tapped against the table in a rhythmic, sharp beat. “You don’t need to leave fingerprints to check the time, repairman. I know you were at the crime scene last night. No cameras there, just dust.”

Niklaus offered no defense. Instead, he slowly pointed to the dense shadow behind the shelving. It was a pile of expired maps and warped vinyl records, blocked by a heavy red velvet cloth that looked strangely conspicuous in the dim light, like an open, healing wound.

Marcus stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. The constable, born into an old bank family, wore arrogance and disdain on his face. A gold brooch sparkled on his chest, proclaiming his innate superiority. He waved a hand, signaling his two assistants to step forward for a search, their movements rough and casual, as if they were discarding trash.

“Search him,” Marcus said flatly, like he was ordering a stock count. “If you don’t find the stolen goods, detain him for disorderly conduct. Repairman’s hands are always faster than his brain.”

Niklaus let them pat him down. Cold metal buttons scraped against his ribs, but his eyes stayed locked on that red velvet cloth. His heart hammered, each beat accompanied by a fuzzy black blur at the edge of his vision, like ink spreading in clear water.

Marcus casually pulled aside the cloth to clear his view, a gesture full of condescending carelessness. His fingers probed the hidden cavity at the bottom of the shelf, then froze. There were no stolen goods there, only fresh mud stains and a distinct smell mixing cheap tobacco with old rain.

The scent didn’t belong to Viktor’s expensive liquor or the oil on Niklaus. It belonged to the bespoke fragrance Marcus’s own suits picked up—refined and hypocritical.

Marcus’s facial muscles twitched; his face went rigid. He quickly pulled his hand back, pretending to adjust his cuff to hide his panic. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the storm inside.

“This is... just clutter,” he stammered, his usual composure gone. “The mud is probably from the rain.”

Viktor narrowed his eyes. A complex mix of emotions flickered behind his hostility—coldness and sarcasm after seeing the truth. He realized he’d misjudged the situation, but as a senior member of the Antique Dealers' Guild, he would never bow to a constable.

He turned and pulled a delicate porcelain cup from under the bar, pouring warm black coffee, sliding it toward Niklaus. Steam rose, the bitter and rusty tastes mixing on Niklaus’s tongue. He felt an irreversible dark spot spreading at the edge of his vision—the cost of the Contract beginning, heavy as lead.

He picked up the cup but didn’t drink. He looked at Marcus coldly. “The Contract outlasts promises, Mr. Marcus. Your family’s rules remember even the dust. Do they remember other people’s dignity?”

Marcus, humiliated and angry, threatened to drag him out, but Viktor just gave a slight nod. The implied immunity under member privileges silenced the constable. Marcus finally backed down, turning away with a proud, thin silhouette.

The real culprit was already mixed in at the edge of the crowd, their flaw exposed in the refraction of light and shadow. Niklaus hadn’t seen the face clearly, but using the residual fingerprint position and light angles from his regression, he could outline the exact posture of that person touching the watch cover in the air.

Marcus was forced to lower his arrogant head, apologizing to Niklaus. The words came out hard, squeezed between teeth, full of resentment and humiliation. Niklaus wiped the rust from his fingers, a slow, meticulous motion, like he was cleaning a holy relic.

He refused the late kindness, simply gathering the watch fragments carefully into his inner pocket. The shards were cold to the touch, but the back seemed to radiate a faint body heat, as if possessing its own life, pulsing gently against his chest.

Viktor leaned on the counter, his voice dropping low, audible only to the two of them. “This watch leaked from old Marcus’s family vault twenty years ago. It recorded more than just time.”

His gaze deepened, pointing at the Berlin twilight darkening outside. “Did you see it? The emblem.” Niklaus’s palm trembled; he looked down at the metal shard.

Under the dim spotlights, the engraving on the back of the cover was clear. It was the cold Lion Emblem of the Marcus family: a lion’s claw clutching a broken sword, symbolizing inviolable authority and eternal debt. The rain intensified, pounding the glass windows like countless small hands knocking, urgent and frantic.

Niklaus turned toward the door, every step treading on shards of memory. From the cafe social area behind him, classical music drifted,舒缓 and elegant, clashing with the tension here in a way that felt absurd.

He didn’t look back. Only the mud on his work pants left wet trails on the hardwood, slowly drying into dark spots, like bruises left by time. The pocket watch shard in his palm grew warmer. The black spot in his vision expanded, but the dizziness was gone, replaced by a painful clarity.

He pushed the door open. Cold wind rushed in, rain soaking his cheeks, the sting bringing him back to reality. Berlin’s twilight was deep; car lights on the street stretched into long streaks, just like the distorted histories. He knew this was only the beginning. The shadow of the Marcus family was heavier than a pocket watch, and the Contract’s cost had only just bared its greedy fangs.

In the rain curtain, Niklaus’s figure quickly blended into Berlin’s vast gray backdrop. He walked along the edge of the sidewalk, dodging the flickering streetlights, because the light stung the iron shard in his palm. In the distance, the bells of City Hall rang, dull and solemn, echoing through the damp air, each strike hitting his nerves.

He remembered Sophia’s words: history isn’t just record; it’s a mold shaped by power. That pocket watch was the hardest piece in the mold. He quickened his pace, cutting through the narrow alleys of Kreuzberg until he disappeared into a small path leading to the Berlin Wall ruins.

Rain washed his face. He closed his eyes, feeling the heat in his palm coexist with the black spot at his vision’s edge. This was a chase of memory, class, and bloodline, and he was both the hunter and the hunted.

Niklaus stopped under a dead tree and pulled the shard from his pocket. Using the faint light of a distant streetlamp, he confirmed the emblem again. Marcus’s arrogance, Viktor’s hints, and the scenes in his head that didn’t belong to him all pointed to the same end.

He licked his lips. The salty tang of rust cleared his head. The Contract was made; the cost was escalating. He knew that next time he touched the shard, what he lost might not just be sight, but something more essential. He took a deep breath; the damp air smelled of wet earth and the faint wail of a siren in the distance.

Berlin remained asleep in the rain, but some things had been fully awakened.