Breath heavy, ragged, as if my lungs were trying to escape their ribcage prison, and my heart - break through my ribs with the same intent. My throat was parched, as if I had truly been breathing in the frozen air. The world was slowly settling back into pce - sounds, scents, the weight of my own body. I gathered myself back.

  In front of me sat Eleonora Longford. Her figure, still like a statue, seemed to be part of the interior of this somber house. Beside the widow, a rge white dog rested its head on her p. Eleonora, without looking, slowly ran her hand over the animal’s muzzle. It was the first sign of life I had seen from her all this time. The dog cast me a sidelong gnce - the kind only dogs can - its orange eyes fring like embers in the snow. A slight shiver ran through me.

  "Are you alright, detective? What did you see?" her voice was quiet, but not indifferent.

  I exhaled slowly, gripping my revolvers as if they could anchor me in this world as well.

  "I have no right to disclose the contents of minds. Contract policy."

  "What policy?"

  "The one I just made up."

  A pause. It stretched longer than it should have, as though the widow was seriously considering my words.

  "What do you pn to do next?"

  "It’s time to speak with your family doctor. I assume he is in this house?"

  Eleonora, as if from a deep slumber, called out, "Woodsworth."

  The butler appeared instantly, as if cut from a different frame and inserted into this one.

  "Escort the detective to Doctor Graves."

  "Of course, madam."

  Woodsworth touched his gloved fingers to his pel, and I rose, brushing off an invisible frost from my shoulder.

  Doctor Graves. The name sounded like a shovel striking a coffin lid. And it was that very coffin I now had to pry open.

  Woodsworth moved forward, his steps silent, like a shadow gliding across the wall. I followed, feeling each of my own steps reverberate in my temples with a heavy echo. The corridors seemed endless. The dark wallpapered walls pressed inward. The air smelled of old wood, wax... and something indescribable. Something that whispered of sickness, of medicine, of death. It hung in the air like an unspoken threat.

  "Doctor Graves," I began, trying to dispel the fog of tension, "has he been serving the family for long?"

  Woodsworth didn’t turn, but his emotionless voice reached me as if echoing from the depths of a cave.

  "Doctor Graves has been the Longfords’ physician since before Madam Eleonora was married. He is... a devoted man."

  "Devoted," I repeated, feeling the word settle in my throat like a bitter pill refusing to go down. Few Bedm lunatics were capable of what devoted people were. Devotion was a bde that cut both ways.

  We stopped before a massive door. Woodsworth knocked, the dull, heavy sound rolling down the corridor.

  "Enter," a muffled voice called from beyond.

  The first thing I saw - hands. Long, thin, spider-like. They moved smoothly yet deliberately, putting away slender metal instruments into a wooden case on the shelf. Unhurried. Without fuss. As if there was no need in this world to rush. Metal gleamed briefly before vanishing under the lid. These were instruments. Not surgical - no, rather, jeweler’s tools, meant for fine work.

  The owner of the hands turned, and I could finally take him in fully. He wore a meticulously pressed gray suit, its rigid lines imprisoning him, and a crisp white coat, perfectly fitted, without a single crease, as though even the air around him refused to create disorder. A high forehead steadily cimed more territory from his pale hair. Strict round gsses with thin metal frames sat precisely in pce, as if they were part of his face; behind their gss lenses, his eyes remained obscured. His face, gaunt and composed, resembled a medical chart, marked with years of observation, but devoid of participation.

  "Oh..." Graves seemed to hesitate, assessing his guest with a faint flicker of curiosity. His voice was like the scratch of an old quill on parchment: dry, slightly hoarse, yet eerily precise. "You...?"

  "Psi-detective," I answered. "Decart Rains."

  "Ah, of course," he said in a tone as if convincing himself of my existence. "I was the one who suggested calling you, after all."

  Doctor Graves' office wasn’t just neat - it was calcuted. And at the same time, it resembled the set of an old medical horror theatre. Desk, chair, shelves filled with books, a leather examination couch. Everything arranged precisely, without chaos, without traces of disorder, as if even the air here was a subjugated servant. On the shelf where the doctor had pced his instruments stood strange devices, fsks, vials with bels marked with symbols I couldn’t decipher. Something alchemical, or perhaps even witchcraftian.

  Posters on the walls, depicting human anatomy, seemed overly detailed, almost intrusive. As if drawn by people who not only studied the body but also sought to understand where matter ended and consciousness began. A skeleton, caught in the middle of Hamlet’s monologue. A man without skin, swatting away Latin words as if trying to rid himself of his own diagnosis. Lines crossing the skull marked “key access points,” though the rest of the office did not suggest any invasive procedures.

  The doctor lowered himself into the chair with the unhurried grace of someone who owned time. His fingers, long and pale, folded into a lock.

  “How is your health, Mr Rains?” he asked, his tone too caring to be genuine.

  “Still on solid ground. For now.”

  “Do you often have nightmares, Mr Rains?”

  I smirked.

  “Comes with the job. But I’m here to ask you questions, not to answer them, Doc.” I remained standing on purpose, refusing to take the role of his patient.

  “Mr Rains,” Graves smiled without the slightest hint of embarrassment, though the smile never reached the corners of his eyes. “Your job comes with high risks. And mental pressure is one of its greatest factors. When was the st time you saw a doctor? Perhaps you should take this chance? Do you ever forget things? Simple, everyday things?”

  “Enough, Doc. My mental faculties are still sharp enough to be a detective.” I stepped closer and leaned on his desk. “And that’s exactly what I intend to do right now.”

  “My apologies, I just... Memory loss can sometimes be a side effect of stress. And your job is all about dealing with stress. Sometimes literally.”

  I took my hands off his desk.

  “You think Mr. Longford was subjected to a psi attack.”

  “Yes,” he extended his hand toward one of the posters - a schematic image of a dissected brain. “When the brain is subjected to psi influence, anomalies appear in the limbic system.” He ran his finger along the image like a scalpel. “The hippocampus may undergo atrophy. In rare cases, we can observe tissue growth in the frontal lobe, as if the brain is trying to adapt.”

  I looked at the poster, then back at the doctor.

  “And all that can be determined without an autopsy?”

  Graves nodded.

  “Certainly. They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul. As a doctor, I can confirm that, if we py around with definitions.”

  “Did your employer have any special projects right before his death?” I asked, steering the conversation back to something I could actually grasp. “Anything unusual? Experimental?”

  The doctor tilted his head slightly, weighing whether to answer me directly or let me wander through my own specutions.

  “Patrons are generous people, Mr Rains. They must have many different projects. And Mr Longford was no exception.” He paused, as if giving me a chance to reach my own conclusion, but seemingly disappointed by my pace, he continued, “But I was merely his family doctor. His projects interest me only as incentives for his calmness or stress.”

  Oddly enough, I believed him. I believed that was exactly how he saw it.

  “I need to enter your mind.”

  Dr. Graves subtly shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping the office like someone who had suddenly grown tired of the pce he was in.

  “You suspect me?” his voice was almost zy, tinged with the exhaustion of an actor whose paycheck had been cut. He didn’t want this. Of course, he didn’t. He studied psionics. He knew about contamination. But he also knew that refusing would mean admitting he had something to hide.

  “Of course.” I shrugged and let the words settle in the air, seeping into the room like strong liquor into aged wood. “It’s my job to suspect everyone. This is the first time I’ve seen you in my life. Why does everyone react as if, out of politeness, I should exclude them from the list of suspects upon our first meeting?”

  Dr. Graves silently removed his gsses, pcing them on the table with the slow precision of a surgeon putting away his instruments after an operation. His eyes, cold and penetrating, glided over my face like a sculptor studying marble before striking, deciding where to carve and where to leave the surface untouched. Or like a taxidermist deciding what to preserve and what was already beyond saving. For a moment, it felt like he was the one about to peer into my soul, not the other way around.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  I sat down across from him. Revolvers. A sigh. Closed eyes. A step inside.