The first thing Anger did upon arriving in the East End was head to a small inn by the docks. "Another round. On me," he said, nodding toward the old man sitting alone in the corner, lost in thought.

  Old Morgan had been sitting there all day."When the rain's coming, the old wound in my leg aches," he would say. And so, he would always order a drink at the tavern and sit in the corner.

  Anger moved closer. "The Lady's case is closed."

  "Closed, as it should be," Morgan replied. "With noble cases, what's investigated usually isn't the truth—it's their damned hypocritical pride. The face they care about matters more than a dead person. Even their own kin are no exception."

  Anger offered a cigarette to Old Morgan—a rare gesture, though he always carried them.

  "I need information on the Spindle of Oblivion," Anger whispered, lowering his voice.

  "The Spindle of Oblivion…" Old Morgan's fingers rubbed slowly against his knee. "In Whitechapel, there are three things you don't touch: the gambling tables, the working girls, and the opium dens. Which case brings you sniffing around this time?"

  Anger remained standing. "The Lady's case."

  Old Morgan chuckled."Lad, we have a saying in the East End: Those who know, know. Those who don't, are better off never knowing. You're reaching too far with those hands of yours. This retired old skeleton can't help you."

  Anger wasn't surprised by Old Morgan's stance. It was only human for a retired man to want a few more years of peace.

  Old Morgan lit the cigarette Anger had given him. "Go find Limping Jim. He owes me—too much. Two local hasbeens are better than one outsider, anyway."

  And as Anger turned to leave, Old Morgan added:"Oh, and stay away from Carter Fellows. That East End inspector is Whitechapel's own king snake. He's not a bad man—just tamed. But he bites worse than any serpent."

  ******

  "The Child "Anger found a child outside the tavern. He offered a penny. "Watch the bins behind the alley. If you see a limping man rooting through them, come find me. You’ll get another."

  The boy kept watch near the bins and finally came running back."Saw ‘im," he said, stretching out his hand and taking the second penny.

  The Informant.Anger approached the limping figure rummaging through the refuse,"What’s the word on the Spindle of Oblivion?"

  A twitch pulled at Jim’s mouth, bitter resignation plain on his face. He sat down on an upturned barrel, pulled out his pipe, and took a long draw before speaking.

  "What’re you after there? Dreams? Oblivion? Or a quick death?"

  "The source. The supply."

  Smoke drifted slowly from his nostrils. "Another nobleman’s woman, is it?" He raised his left eye to fix on Anger. "What’s in it for me, Constable? Old Morgan’s favour only gets you standing here talking. Not enough to loosen my tongue."

  Anger drew a shilling from his inner coat pocket. "For the way in. And for the word on the local snake."

  Jim took it. "Carter Fellows, the East End inspector. He collects his dues at the Spindle every Wednesday night. Anything that happens in Whitechapel worth the Commission or the Parish knowing—they write it down. Take it there, to a man called the Apothecary. If you can slip into his escort, you might get inside."

  "Would Fellows allow that?"

  Jim bared his yellowed teeth. "Course not. But he’s got a beat copper under him—Billy. A hophead. He always drinks himself halfblind at the pub near Red Brick Lane first. Too scared to go in sober. You could take his place, deliver the report. But the Apothecary ain’t easily fooled. You’ll be on your own from there."

  ******

  Once Jim had finished speaking, Anger placed the payment on the table beside him and headed for the pub. He intended to have a little game with Billy.

  Inside the dim tavern, Billy was a large man. His palms were already sweating as he slid a silver badge across the table. This was the pass required for patrolling the special precincts around Spindle Alley.

  "Just this?" Anger narrowed his eyes at the badge, his other hand tapping the wooden tabletop. "And the coat."

  Billy let out a loud, beery belch. "CConstable HHastings," he slurred, his tongue thick. "Ththis ain't… proper, is it? I gotta… gotta walk the beat tomorrow. Headquarters brass, wearin' my rags…"

  "You can wear your spare," Anger said calmly, already drawing his own constable's badge from his inner coat pocket and pinning it on. "Or perhaps we could have a chat about those fascinating entries in the nightly patrol log for your patch. Always such… familiar names popping up. Billyboy."

  The colour drained from Billy's drinkflushed face, fear sobering him with brutal swiftness. He said nothing more, his lips trembling as he began clumsily fumbling with the buttons of his heavy patrol coat.

  His fingers shook violently, missing the fastenings several times before succeeding.

  Anger waited with infuriating patience. He took the proffered coat and pressed a few silver coins into Billy's stilltrembling palm. "A little compensation," he said, his tone softening a fraction, though his gaze remained sharp as flint. "I'm just here following a different trail. Some tainted concoctions have been circulating in our end of the black market—hurt a few dockworkers. The higherups think the source might be over here. I just need to take a look around in your shoes. Your… mess," he said the word with deliberate distaste, "is none of my business."

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  Billy nodded frantically, closing his fist around the coins. "Understood. Understood. I… I don't know a thing."

  "Best you don't. Keep your mouth shut. By dawn, you never saw me."

  With that, Anger turned and left the tavern.

  As for how he had won the game against Billy? It came down to Anger's eyes. He'd noticed a peculiar shift in the hue of the coins Billy handled when holding certain cards, allowing him to guess the man's hand with unnerving accuracy. The odds had been decidedly in Anger's favour.

  But as he left the pub, he was spotted from a distance by a passing patrolman. The constable watched him exit the seedy establishment and hurried straight back to the East End precinct house.

  ******

  Inside the East End precinct house, Carter Fellows was in his office, reading a newspaper.

  A constable rushed in, slightly out of breath. "Sir, a bit of movement reported."

  Carter didn't look up from his paper. "What movement?"

  "That Yard detective, Hastings, is over in our patch."

  "Alone?" Carter asked, finally setting the paper down.

  "Alone, sir."

  Carter's gaze was steady. "If he's just making the rounds, leave him be. If anything else stirs..." He paused. "Then send some lads to invite him down to the station. Politely. Say there are new details on the Martha Tabram case that need verifying."

  "And if he declines the invitation, sir?"

  Carter looked at him. "Then let him be for the moment. But mark this: if he's sniffing around our business, he ceases to be a Yard man on our turf. Understood?"

  The constable nodded and left.By the time he next made his rounds past the bins, there wasn't a soul to be seen.

  ******

  Spindle Alley was lined with small workshops—most of them illegal, if one were being honest.

  Anger tugged the brim of the hat he’d won from Billy a little lower. He was also wearing an EastEnd constable’s uniform; it didn’t fit properly, but it would do.

  In the shadow of a doorway at the far end of the lane stood two men, guarding an entrance.

  Anger approached and showed the silver badge. A squarefaced guard took it, his eyes running over Anger from head to toe.

  After a long moment, the squarefaced guard gave a nod to his companion, handed the badge back, and opened the iron door behind him.

  Anger stepped through. Rounding a bend, he came upon a gaunt middleaged man wearing a soiled white coat—not unlike old Meb from the Viper’s Breath.

  “The badge.” The man stretched out a hand, took the proffered item, and ran his thumb over the worn numbers and indentations.

  “Billy,” he said. “Feeling generous today, is he? Letting someone else enjoy his perks.”

  Anger chuckled with an air of sheepish apology. “Billy’s had a drop too many by accident. Sent me to fetch his usual. The usual arrangement.”

  The new face didn’t scrutinise him further. He knew the EastEnd uniform wasn’t something just anyone would dare to wear. “Know the drill?”

  “Yes, yes.” Anger nodded. “Look, don’t ask.” He repeated what Billy had told him: the “drill” here meant that patrolmen could enjoy halfprice smoke and a dose stronger than what ordinary customers received.

  The Apothecary was silent for a few seconds. “Third cubicle on the right is free. Put the silver in the tray. Don’t look around. Don’t touch anything. When the lamp goes out, you leave—quietly.”

  ******

  Anger mumbled in vague agreement, ducking his head and striding quickly down the steps.

  Inside, the space was divided by simple spuncloth partitions into cramped cubicles. If not for those flimsy curtains, the whole place would have felt like one vast, open hall.

  In the second cubicle to his right, a man was already reclining on a low cot. He wore the coarse shirt of a dockworker, its cuffs frayed to a dull white. Facing partially outward, he was slowly drawing on a tin opium pipe, its tail connected to a glass jar where darkbrown paste bubbled gently over a low flame.

  Anger sat on a wooden stool beside the cot, watching the worker next door. Each drag was slow, and with every puff, his body relaxed a fraction more. His knuckles, which had been clenched around the pipe, gradually loosened; his shoulders sank.

  Anger focused, his gaze sharpening on the worker’s face. At first, it was just the usual vacant numbness. But after a few breaths, something shifted. A faint metallic sheen began seeping from the edges of the man’s irises.

  It wasn’t a reflection—the light here was too dim for that. As the worker took another drag, the metallic hue spread rapidly, almost coating the entire iris.

  The man’s lips parted slightly as if he meant to speak, but only a wet, rasping sigh escaped—not quite a cough. Something about it felt wrong, unnerving.

  When the worker finally finished, setting down the pipe, he turned toward Anger. His eyes were hollow, void.

  Anger ventured, “How’s the pull, mate?”

  The worker merely blinked once, slowly. His metallic pupils showed no flicker of feeling. He seemed unable—or unwilling—to stir at all.

  Anger’s stomach tightened. He had assumed this was just some potent opium blend popular in the East End, but clearly its effects ran deeper than mere numbness or hallucination.

  A kerosene lamp on the wall nearby crackled, spitting sparks. Anger’s eyes swept quickly over the nearby cubicles.

  The floor was littered with empty vials, instruments, and wooden crates—and on several of those instruments was stamped the emblem of the Industrial Commission’s Mining Consortium.

  When Anger looked back at the worker, he saw them: faint, shadowy chains beginning to coil in the empty air around the man. One looped especially close to his neck, poised to tighten and drag him away at any moment.

  Anger placed the silver coin in the designated tray. The payment was made; the pipe was set before him. But he was here to investigate, not to partake.

  After a moment, he stood up, stretching as if to ease his limbs, and drifted naturally toward a cluttered wooden shelf in the corner of the cubicle. On it stood several unopened dark glass bottles. Through the glass, he could see the thick paste inside flowing slowly, as if alive.

  ******

  partition was drawn aside softly. A gaunt apothecary appeared.“Constable. Time is running short. The lampoil will only last half an hour.”

  Anger turned, keeping his posture relaxed. “This paste… it’s not the same as what Billy let me try. The pull is… purer.”

  The apothecary gave a thin smile. “Upgraded ingredients. A newly opened vein from the southern mines—higher purity extract.”

  “The Commission’s doing?” Anger probed.

  “Partly. Some of the special additives come from the Parish. Blessingtinctures, they call them—to ‘steady the mind’.” He let out a short, dry chuckle. “After all, doing business here… without the station’s cover, things would be awkward. Doesn’t hurt to share a harmless detail or two.” Seeing Anger was a new face, the apothecary didn’t seem concerned.

  “Works well enough. No fuss, no rambling. Quiet as a lamb back in the womb,” the apothecary remarked wryly.

  Anger nodded. “Quiet indeed. Only… what if it’s too quiet? Suppose something sudden happens—”

  “Then that’s their own fate,” the apothecary cut him off. “I’ve said what’s needed. Keep asking and the welcome won’t stay warm.” His tone turned dismissive. “Right, officer—you’re here for enjoyment, not an inquest. The Keeper says he’s sending you something special today—his private stock, ‘Southern Repose’. I’ll come for the tray before the lamp dies.”

  The spindlecloth fell back into place. The apothecary didn’t leave immediately; instead, he lingered outside, moving about deliberately.

  Anger returned to the low cot. He did not smoke the paste, only catching its faint, bitter scent—clearly quinine extract, but blended with many unknown materials. He merely held the pipestem loosely between his lips.

  Suddenly, a thread of white smoke from the smouldering paste twisted like a living worm. From nowhere, it slipped on its own into Anger’s nostrils.