Crack.
My knuckles struck the glass, a gentle stream of blood followed as it hit the window of the storefront. The crack slowly webbed across the surface, one push away from shattering entirely. I stretched my fingers to open and close, sensing the weight it brought upon my fist.
"No shit, this is reality alright." I mumbled, one hand covering my mouth in disbelief.
However, it felt odd how it hurt less than I imagined. I guess the owner of this body was a trained fighter. Am I supposed to be someone that hurts people for a living or was it perhaps built for a defense mechanism?
Memories from my previous identity came rushing back all at once.
What about my thesis and the panelists? An image came to mind—the look on my professor's face as if he was torn between failing me or framing me for a crime I didn't commit. Where is everyone? What happened to my GPA? The humiliating way I justified those damned 2.25 in Macroeconomics in the first semester and Microeconomics on the second semester as "a period of personal recalibration" before, were all those for naught? Will I still get to graduate once I return to my original body?
Here I was, stuck in this twisted fog-soaked world that smelled of coal smoke, tobacco, damp wool, and death. A corpse and cops awaiting me in a crowded street far from here in the dead of night. This overly long, damp coat I wore that looks too old fashioned for my taste. A reflection in front that definitely didn't belong to me. And apparently, I was supposed to be an inspector of some sort.
It was all starting to click together. A little too slowly. As if assembling a puzzle with gloves on and no reference image or nunbers on the back. My memories of the old world were crashing into this grimy noir stage play I'd been thrown into—business lectures, coffee-fueled cram sessions, dependency on my father's bank account.
I stumbled back. My head reeled across all directions. Rainwater ran down my back quicker than how I could process everything. I clutched at the nearby post to keep myself from falling.
A series of whispers shot through my eardrums. Not of voices, but thoughts... or maybe echoes of the past.
"Inspector Everard."
"Brilliant man, but his eyes. Oh, his stare could freeze a person."
"Came out of nowhere and solved that Southampton case in only three days."
"He doesn't even carry a notebook. They said all it takes for him to solve a case is just staring at the scene and locking himself in his office for a few days."
Everard?
The name lodged in my throat, yet it rolls off the tongue so easily.
All of a sudden, my legs were stricken by a surge of energy. I splashed through puddles. I didn't know where I was going. I ran past red postal boxes. A dog barked at me like I was a ghost. Then, finally, I found myself returning to the very street I came from earlier.
My hands shook. I looked down at them. Long fingers. Pale. A scar on the right thumb I didn't remember earning. My gaze shifted in front—back at the crime scene still vivid from my mind as if I had already spent hours there.
What the hell am I doing here?
Was I dead? Was this the purgatory? Worse... was this some final exam the universe had cooked up as poetic justice for a guy who coasted through life on charisma and caffeine?
As much as I'd like to think that this was time-traveling, this isn't the life I had. What purpose would it serve? There also exists concepts of reincarnation through being hit by a truck or sucked by an old piece of literature, have I shared the same fate as them? Speaking of which, if this was a game in an alternate universe, there must be a personal holographic display that shows my status and level.
My hands traveled all over my body—from pressing my chest to tapping down my legs, but nothing came into view.
If not on me, then in front of me...?
Like an idiot, I waved my fingers around the air. There was nothing. No status chart, no missions or tasks, no world maps. So how the hell can I get back?
I glanced around the fog-laced street again. The cars were old, like the ones in my grandfather's vinyl jazz album covers. I took a second look at the flashlights held, heavy coats worn similar to mine, and the way the officers carried themselves. I noticed this earlier too: there's no technology, monitors, not even a pager.
It's the 1950s. Probably.
Hell if I know. It could be a very elaborate historical role-playing game with murder as a bonus.
Questions were sprinting through my brain, tripping over each other, and yet I know of too little answers.
"Hey!" A firm voice sliced through the air.
My body turned on instinct.
A man approached from the mist, with his collar up, shoes soaked, and the coat dragging the fog behind him like a second shadow. He seemed to be around his mid-thirties. His hair was short, coat too long for his height. He held a notebook that seemed too cheap for his posture right between his torso and arm. Truth be told, he looked like someone whose face belonged on the third page of a local magazine or newspaper, in this timeline.
I could only blink at him in response.
He was looking at me dead silent. I had no idea what I was expected to say. I didn't know who this man was, what he thought of me, or what my predecessor, the real Inspector Everard, would've done in this moment. Was I supposed to clap back at him or answer politely?
A light nod felt cool and professional. The kind of nod you give when you're buying time for your soul to catch up with your skin. It seemed like the right thing to do at the moment.
"Private Inspector Catch Everard," he said, "They're ready for your remarks. Press is being held off, for now."
My mouth went dry at his pressuring statement.
Remarks... like my insight of the case?
I was expected to talk right after seeing the crime scene for only a few seconds?
What did they think I was, a commander? A profiler? A walking solution with perfect diction? Well, maybe the owner of this body was a that much of a genius, but not me. If I said the wrong thing, would they just laugh or lock me behind bars?
My brain spiraled. I was not for to be a detective. After passing the college entrance test, I had never solved anything in my life that didn't involve a Google search bar or late-night cram session held under the influence of caffeine and alcohol alike. Now, I had to be a fraud? I'm only a business student, barely about to graduate, not some smart-mouthed detective wannabe. Hell, I barely even passed Statistics 102.
"What am I to you, Sherlock Holmes?" I muttered, the words slipping from my mouth before my brain could cuff them.
Silence followed suit.
"Shit, did I slip a 2000s joke into an old timeline?" I thought to myself. My fist clenched tighter, heart was pacing faster every second I didn't get a reaction from the man I was talking to.
Suddenly, there was the sound of laughter coming from the man beside me.
"If you're Holmes," he grinned, wrapping his left arm around my neck, "then I'll be Lestrade." He chuckled again, as if that was the funniest thing he has heard for the entire week.
I managed a thin smile. It was either that or faint. One that didn't seem too forced, although it might have already been noticeable.
He walked ahead, motioning for me to follow. I did. Because what else could I do? I couldn't break into this new character I got myself into somehow. Deep inside, I was still dumbfounded. A lost soul in a dead man's trench coat, pretending to be someone brilliant. Someone who was supposed to make sense of crime scenes and corpses and cut throats.
Was this a joke? A trap? Divine punishment? Or was this something else entirely like an alien invasion?
If I could arrive here, then there has to be a way to get back. The world would be too cruel if otherwise. I'm sure that won't be the case, will it?
First, I had to survive the role I had been cast in.
That meant faking brilliance a little longer.