Chapter 4: Even the corpse’s bow was more sincere than the boss’s greeting.

“Ugh—”

Paris Police Department, outside the Morgue.

A young trainee officer was clutching the mottled iron door, his face ashen.

“I can’t take it anymore… really can’t…” The officer waved a hand, as if trying to shoo away nonexistent flies.

Three meters behind him, Vivian sat on a long bench, holding half a piece of black bread.

“Crunch.”

She took a bite, her expression blank.

Her teeth collided with the bread, producing a sound reminiscent of a stone crusher at work.

The bread was hard enough to kill a man, but her current body felt like a bottomless pit.

“Look at you. Get out of here,” Jacques called the young officer away, then turned to look at Vivian, who was wolfing down her food. “You’re eating right outside the Morgue?”

“That’s what you don’t understand, Inspector.” Vivian forced down the mouthful of bread.

She brushed the crumbs from her hands, speaking with perfect confidence, “If you’d stayed up all night writing papers and only had instant noodles to eat, you’d understand that corpses don’t affect appetite. Poverty does.”

“Ignore her.”

A cold voice drifted down from the stairs.

Cicero held a pristine white handkerchief, tightly covering his nose and mouth.

“For certain single-celled creatures that survive purely on instinct, eating is indeed rather important.” Cicero stopped in front of Vivian and tapped her shin with his cane.

“Stop eating. That bench is for corpses.”

“I’m about to starve to death.” Vivian stuffed the last bite of bread into her mouth, her cheeks puffed out like a hamster.

“And this bench is way more comfortable than your three-legged chair.”

Cicero raised an eyebrow but didn’t retort. He turned and pushed open the heavy iron door.

“Come in, and don’t let the cold air escape. Every wisp of chill here is the blood and sweat of the Taxpayers.”

Inside the Morgue, it was very cold.

The unlucky councilman lay in the center on the Dissection Table, covered with a white sheet.

Of course, the sheet only covered up to his neck—after all, there was nothing left above it to cover.

Cicero stopped at the doorway and didn’t move. He was a dignified charlatan; the dirty and tiring jobs were always outsourced.

“Go ahead, Miss Detective.” He gestured toward the corpse with his chin. “See if the killer left any souvenirs.”

Vivian protested, “It’s a male corpse! If I touch him, how will I ever marry into wealth and live a life of leisure?”

“Just think of him as a slab of pork.” Cicero was utterly unsympathetic.

Vivian sighed. If she couldn’t solve this case, her fifty francs would go up in smoke.

She walked up to the Dissection Table and lifted the sheet.

Jacques peeked nervously from the door, clutching a Cross in his hand and muttering prayers.

The corpse was remarkably “well preserved.” Except for the charred cut across his neck.

“Tsk tsk.” Vivian reached out and pressed her finger against the scorched edge.

It was hard as stone.

“See anything?” Cicero stood three meters away, his voice muffled behind the handkerchief.

“He wasn’t sweating before he died,” Vivian examined the corpse’s armpits and palms.

“That means he never sensed any danger. Death came in an instant.”

“But that’s not right.”

Vivian frowned, her fingers running down the corpse’s spine—a motion that made Jacques at the door shudder in disgust.

“The force should have knocked him backward, but he was sitting upright when he died.”

Her fingers slipped into the depths of the corpse’s collar.

The expensive tailored shirt had a scorched collar, but the buttons beneath remained fastened, neat and precise.

Wait.

Vivian’s fingers paused.

In the hollow of the collarbone, there was a small, hard object.

It was wedged between the flesh and the fabric, and if she hadn’t felt for it, she’d never have found it.

“There’s something here,” Vivian whispered.

“Take it out.” Cicero’s tone was as calm as ever.

Vivian wasn’t sure where her courage came from, but she slipped two fingers in and gave a strong tug.

“Bang!”

It felt like she’d snapped a metal wire—the small object was yanked free.

Suddenly—

“Click!”

The corpse abruptly sat up!

“Ahhhhh! It’s risen from the dead!!!” Jacques screamed at the door, leaping back and crashing into the frame, his Cross flying out of his hand.

Vivian jumped too; the object she’d just pulled out almost dropped to the floor.

The corpse sat upright, the gash in its neck facing straight toward Vivian.

It raised its right hand to its left chest, its upper body slowly leaning forward in a perfect bow.

The Morgue fell deathly silent, broken only by the scraping sound of bones rubbing together.

Vivian felt her scalp explode, goosebumps standing at attention all over her body.

The corpse held the bow for about two seconds.

Then—

“Thud.”

As if all its strings had been cut, it collapsed back onto the Dissection Table, limp and lifeless.

This time, it was truly, utterly dead.

“Phew…” Vivian’s legs almost gave out; she nearly knelt on the floor.

“This is evil! Witchcraft!” Jacques sprawled on the ground by the door, legs kicking helplessly like a turtle flipped on its back.

“Shut up, Jacques.”

Cicero finally lowered his handkerchief.

He reached out and took the small object from Vivian’s still-trembling fingers.

It was a Gold Gear, no bigger than a fingernail.

Even in the dim light of the gas lamps, it gleamed. The gear’s edges were razor-sharp, intricate patterns carved into its surface.

“This is… a neural reflex?” Vivian finally found her voice, though she was still shaking.

“In a sense.” Cicero lifted the gear to his eye, scrutinizing it.

“To be precise, it’s a ‘memory.'”

“Memory?”

“Not only people have memories. Objects do too,” Cicero’s voice was deep. “This gear records the rules the maker imbued in it. Once it was embedded in that poor man’s body, it forced those rules onto the flesh.”

“That bow…” Vivian swallowed hard.

“Is Court Etiquette.”

Cicero took a Monocle from his pocket and peered at the gear through it.

“Such a complex mechanism… look here.” He pointed to a tiny indentation at the gear’s center.

Vivian leaned in to look.

Carved inside the depression was a fleur-de-lis, entangled with thorny vines.

“That’s the mark of the Royal Craftsman of the Bourbon Dynasty.” Cicero sneered, taking off the Monocle.

“This technology vanished after the Great Fire of 1789.”

“This thing is a century-old antique?” Vivian exclaimed in shock.

“So how did it end up inside this man’s body?”

“That, we’ll have to ask those still dreaming of the old days.”

Cicero wrapped the gear carefully in his handkerchief and put it away.

“Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Jacques was still slumped on the floor, terror in his eyes. “Aren’t we going to the church to find an exorcist?”

“Underground.” Cicero straightened his collar, eyeing his dusty sleeve with distaste.

“Besides the City of Light above, Paris has a Shadow City beneath.”

He looked at Vivian, a meaningful smile curling at his lips.

“If you don’t want to starve, Miss Detective, you’d better keep up.”

Cicero strode out with long steps, his leather shoes tapping crisply against the damp floor.

“Jacques, clean up the vomit on the ground. That’s your jurisdiction.”

Vivian glanced at the now-silent corpse on the Dissection Table, then at Cicero’s departing figure.

Wait a second? That gear… it’s pure gold, isn’t it? Definitely pure gold.

“Wait for me! Boss!”