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Turning Gear

Capítulo 1: Time Is Starting

It was a cold winter evening, and the chill seeped through the cracks of Isaac's office window. The gas lamps outside cast a dull glow over the cobblestone streets, their light diffused by the ever-present fog that clung to New Aldmoor like a second skin. Isaac sat in his worn leather chair, propped up against the window as he scanned the latest edition of The Aldmoor Chronicle. His mechanical arm, the one he had built after an unfortunate accident in the early days of his detective work, whirred softly as he flipped through the thin, yellowing pages.

The office was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the brass clock hanging above his desk, and the occasional groan of pipes in the building's old walls. The article he was reading caught his eye, not for its content, but for its absurdity.

"Killed without a trace of evidence?" Isaac muttered, half amused, half annoyed. His eyes scanned the bold headline again, as if trying to find some hidden meaning in it. "What a joke. You're just not good enough."

He tossed the paper onto the cluttered desk in front of him, leaning back in his chair with a deep sigh. The victim was Edward Bransfield, a wealthy industrialist known for his dealings in steam technology. Bransfield had been found dead in his estate the previous night, the body discovered by his servants. No forced entry, no sign of struggle. A locked-room mystery, if there ever was one.

Isaac reached for his cold tea, bringing the chipped cup to his lips. A murder like that would usually grab his attention. But this time, he wasn't biting. The wealthy had their games, their power plays, their petty squabbles that often ended with someone's throat slit or a body dumped in the river. This felt no different. The authorities were already knee-deep in the investigation, he assumed, and would eventually pin it on some unlucky sap or call it an accident.

And if they didn't? Well, that wasn't Isaac's problem.

As a private detective, Isaac worked for himself. No clients unless he found the case interesting. No police interference. He was his own man, answering to no one but his own instincts. Some might call him a recluse, others a maverick. Isaac preferred "selective." He solved the cases that piqued his curiosity, the ones that had real puzzles to untangle. He wasn't in the business of justice for the sake of justice. He was in the business of mysteries—intrigue, and the thrill of uncovering the impossible.

This Bransfield case? Too clean. Too much of the same old thing.

Isaac set the cup down with a clatter, his mind already moving on from the headline when the familiar jingle of the bell above his door broke the silence. He glanced up from his desk, mildly annoyed at the interruption but unsurprised. Only one person let themselves in without so much as a knock.

Seraphine.

She moved with the kind of quiet grace that made her presence unsettling, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow. The clinking of metal limbs beneath her clothing was almost inaudible, but Isaac's sharp ears picked up the familiar sound. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, met his as she stepped further into the room. She was all business, as always.

"You heard about Bransfield?" she asked without preamble, her voice cutting through the stillness of the room like a knife.

"I heard," Isaac replied, his tone indifferent. He didn't bother standing or offering her a seat. She never sat. "Not my concern."

Her eyes narrowed, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. Seraphine was used to his indifference by now, but she knew him better than most. She knew when something would pull him in.

"Really? No interest in a man killed in his locked estate, no weapon, no clue how anyone got in or out?" Her voice was light, almost teasing, but there was something else in it—something that hinted she knew more than she was letting on.

Isaac raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. He had known Seraphine long enough to understand that she didn't come to him unless there was more to the story. She liked to test his patience, but she was never frivolous with her words.

She stepped closer to the desk, her mechanical hand resting lightly on the back of the wooden chair in front of her. "I've been inside the Bransfield estate. The guards are baffled. They've closed the case as an unsolved mystery, but..." She trailed off, letting the weight of her words hang in the air.

Isaac frowned, his curiosity piqued despite himself. The police closing a case that fast was unusual. They loved to drag their heels when it came to the rich—especially someone like Bransfield. "And you don't think it's as simple as they're making it out to be?"

"Of course not," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, though there was no one else in the room to hear. "There's something they're not seeing. Or they don't want to see."

Isaac leaned back in his chair, considering her words. He had worked cases like this before—ones where the authorities were either too incompetent or too corrupt to uncover the truth. It wasn't uncommon in New Aldmoor, especially when the city's elites were involved. But something about the way Seraphine spoke, her measured tone, made him think this wasn't just another case of bureaucratic failure.

"What exactly is off about it?" Isaac asked, his voice now showing the slightest hint of interest.

Seraphine's metal fingers tapped lightly on the chair as she spoke. "Bransfield wasn't just some rich industrialist. He was connected—deeply connected—to the people who run this city. And from what I've gathered, his death wasn't random. There's something bigger at play here."

Isaac let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting to the window where the fog outside seemed to thicken. New Aldmoor was full of secrets, most of them tangled up in the web of industry and politics that ran the city. A man like Bransfield didn't just drop dead without a reason. And if there was something larger at work, that meant there was a real puzzle to solve. A challenge.

Isaac stood, pulling his coat from the back of his chair. The weight of his mechanical arm settled comfortably as he shrugged into it. Seraphine watched him, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. She knew he couldn't resist.

"All right," he said, fastening the buttons on his coat. "Let's go see what's so special about this one."

Together, they stepped out into the cold, fog-drenched streets of New Aldmoor. Isaac felt the familiar tingle of anticipation in his chest. He wasn't chasing just any case now—this one had layers, hidden gears turning beneath the surface. And Isaac only solved the ones that mattered.