𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄.
alaric's pov.
4,141 words.
sound recommended.

❝If such a mystery exists, so incredibly
complex and unexplainable that I find
myself inextricably dumbfounded,
I bid you summon me, for it really is
rather dull being right all the time.
Not that you would understand that.❞

Tick. One, two, three ticks. Three seconds precisely, and the clock will strike 7:00pm.

His stature was a symphony of grace in motion, looking almost like a sculptured piece of art as he sat behind his desk, the type of person whose presence commanded attention as soon as he entered a room. Shadows were painted onto the walls, the amber glow within a kerosene lamp flickering softly against the backdrop of his wooden desk. So the heartbeat of the city beat steadily beyond the frigid glass, but within this isolated office, it was the reign of the grandfather clock that ran supreme.

Alaric Wu was a detective, and a rather adept one at that. Perhaps it would be even more commendable, if it weren't for the fact that the man was so painfully aware of his own talents. What room was there for humility? A waste of time, in his eyes. Why pretend one is unmindful, unsuspecting and unobservant of their own prowess? No. Diffidence was for the fool who thought himself better than the rest, but had not the courage to voice as much.

When people attempt to picture the elusive 'Detective Wu', there tends to be two interpretations that come to mind. The first is the image of someone unkempt, crazed even, wearing a trench coat that has weathered one too many storms, strands of thick, dense dark hair falling over tired eyes, relentlessly in search of answers. Perhaps his desk might be strewn across with papers, his typewriter bent out of shape from hours of slamming manic fingers against its keytop. Would the aroma of vodka perpetuate the air? The faint scent of raw grains, the subtle undertone of warmth? And perhaps his unfortunate neighbours would hear shouting each time a client approached him for his work. Perhaps Alaric was little more than an unconventional man with unconventional methods, and Lady Luck on his side.

Then there would be the second portrayal, a paragon of law and order. A man whose hair is always combed back, not a stray hair out of place, not a detail amiss. Would his shelves be organised, each book categorised by colour, or in alphabetical order? Would he relish in the scent of carbolic soap, turning his contoured nose up at any hint of dirt or blood? Maybe such a man would always carry a miniature spray bottle, as important as his keys on their metal ring, just in case he should encounter something so criminal as dust. There can be no doubt that his mind would be methodical, locking each piece of information to enter his mind into neat boxes, each with its own place. There would be no room for disorder, not in appearance nor investigation.

The truth is, Alaric was somewhere in between these depictions. Like each human being, he was a certain shade of grey, though he would have you induced to believe that the world operates in black and white alone. He was put together, certainly, yet there was something unusual about him. A certain characteristic? An unconventional belief? Something odd in his manner of speech?

Well, it is entirely possible that all of the above apply. His contemporaries would use six words to describe him: seasoned, weathered and a little rough around the edges. The man was calm, infuriatingly so, and he rarely lost his head... by that same hand, he was still human. Alaric had many a time slammed his rough hands against this beaten wood, ran a hand against his hair in frustration, leaned back in his chair so far that he would be a degree away from falling down entirely.

But the world would not see such a side to the detective, for he positioned his mask carefully, never allowing it to slip. He was satisfied being a vehicle for justice, someone who sacrificed all such things as sentiments for the common good. He would refuse to allow the criminal minds of the 20th century to conquer him, to dare think that he could be vanquished in this never-ending game of cat and mouse.

He was a handsome fellow, for those who dared slander his face since there was little to critique about his work. Uncommonly tall, broad-shouldered, his eyes dark and magnetic, almost drawing you in - get too close and they may just drown you, long enough that you find yourself cuffed and in a jail cell when you come up on the other side. His tanned skin had a certain celestial glow, his jawline sharp and refined, his features strong but not necessarily overpowering. His dark hair was combed neatly, as was fashionable for the time, but not too neatly, a few dense chunks of hair evading him.

Above all, Alaric had a determined look about him. His eyebrows, set in straight lines, were almost always lowered beyond a natural resting face, his mouth set in an intransigent expression, gaze aflame with tenacity. He got rather a kick out of dressing the part too, wearing a white-collared shirt, the collar ironed to a point of stiffness, though it melted nicely along his physique. This was almost always paired with either a formal jumper of a neutral colour, or in this case, black suspenders attached along his strapping form, and as always, a tie, today a shade of sea green. His shirt was tucked into a pair of black slacks, to match his polished black shoes, sheening enough to look polished but not so much that you should be able to see your own reflection.

The winter months are always the busiest. This was the thought running through his mind as he listened to the clock tick, waiting impatiently at his desk. He was astute enough to understand that crime always spiked in this bitter season, where the most destitute would rather spend time in the slammer than be forced to sleep along frosted pavements, with naught for company but the constant blizzards.

Detective Wu was not a heartless beast, despite what some of his less familiar colleagues might imply. He did feel for those people, only, feelings obstructed the job he was made to serve. Someone of his prestige in this field of work could not afford to act with empathy, nor has he ever been bound ethically to do so, faced with hardened criminals who lacked the ability to do the very same.

He frowned, lost in thought for a moment until there was a loud creak, and the sound of a handle unapologetically ramming itself into the peeling wallpaper of his office.

And so the evening ushers in a new challenge.

"Detective Alphonse Delcroix," Alaric acknowledged, bowing his head almost imperceptibly in greeting. His accent was not French, despite having lived in Marseille for the past few years. There wasn't quite a definitive accent at all, a blend of the various cities he had inhabited, although his voice was distinctively resonant, deep and low, not 'icy' sounding but containing just glimpses of amusement, largely monotonous. It carried a certain enigma with its nuanced cadence, his words clearly deliberate, almost hypnotic-sounding, making each syllable spoken feel weighty and intentional. Characterised by unwavering resolve.

"C'est toujours un plaisir de vous voir..." Alaric continued, although his voice had a decisive edge to it, irrespective of the pleasant greeting. He and Alphonse had a rather complex relationship, not entirely friends, not entirely enemies. Alphonse was one of the only people to ever challenge the man, and Alaric he, creating a sense of mutual respect arising from the constant back-and-forths they engaged in. Alphonse was around the same age as him, and as much as they would wrestle intellectually, Alaric would still go to him first for advice on a case. A dynamic of brothers, or rather, cousins who are constantly compared to one another, one might say.

"Detective Alaric Wu," Alphonse replied, just as testingly, though his voice was a little lighter. The lithe blonde man slipped easily into the chair opposite his colleague, his brown fedora tilted fashionably towards the desk. He took out a box of cigarettes labelled Gitanes, lighting the first one as he looked out under the brim of his hat at Alaric. The light of the flame momentarily danced along Alphonse's sharp features as he paused to puff out a cloud of smoke, putting out the cigarette on a brass ashtray on Alaric's desk.

"Make yourself at home," Alaric snapped back wryly, leaning back in his chair a little as he continued to watch his colleague, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't deign to ask Alphonse what he was here for.

Sometimes silence works best to get people talking.

"The Chief Super is in want of you in Constantinople. They say a diamond has gone missing. It's a real boondoggle of a case," Alphonse grinned, resting his shoes up on Alaric's desk. The dark-haired man frowned slightly, taking a ruler and pushing the other man's feet off of the surface.

"Delcroix. You must stop using the slang that kids use these days," Alaric insisted, feeling his eyes might just roll to the back of his head at the use of the term boondoggle. "I assure you it does not make you look any younger. Now, what makes it such a waste of time?" He raised a brow, having to concede that he was interested. The 'Detective Chief Superintendent' in question, James Albury, had been Alaric's mentor during his time in England. A talented detective, so for him to require assistance... this might just be the break in his career that Alaric was waiting for.

"Why, because it's impossible to solve," the fair-haired man smirked, shaking his head in disappointment. "Someone has stolen the Oppenheimer Blue, and they've done a darned good job at it. I pity the miserable fellow who thinks himself intelligent enough to explain the unexplainable..." Alphonse trailed off, looking the man opposite him straight in the eyes.

"Impossible? A missing diamond..." Detective Wu scoffed, staring down Alphonse condescendingly. "Elementary, my dear Watson."

The man stood up now, striding straight past Alphonse as he went towards the coat rack, first slipping into a thick, dark trenchcoat, before taking a black fedora by its crown, settling it neatly on his head. He ignored how Alphonse was staring at him, perplexed, as he pulled down the handle of his office door.

"Where could you possibly be going at this time, Alaric?" Detective Delcroix questioned, his tone sounding genuine for once. They still had an hour left on the clock, after all, and it was bitingly cold outside at this time in December, nearing the end of the month. At this question, Alaric paused in the doorframe, sliding on a pair of leather gloves to combat the wind.

"To catch a train."

━━━━ °⌜ 火车 ⌟° ━━━━

And so he had. He hadn't spared a single moment, glad to finally be working a case, leaving home in rather a rush after packing what he deemed the 'essentials'. Other than the minimum that you would expect for a train journey lasting several days, he had with him things he would always carry whenever detecting - plastic wallets, tweasers for evidence, a pocket watch to ensure he is always conscious of the precise time events take place, a fountain pen for taking notes, a compact magnifying glass, a small yet powerful flashlight, a vintage camera for documentation, a set of detective novels from his favourite author, and a hip flask, where sharing a drink with a potential informant might hold the key to extracting valuable information. That was not all that he had brought, but the things that were at the forefront of his checklist as he walked silently along the dimly lit path of the night.

The storm waged as he trod along the paved cobble, unperturbed by the wind, always able to lock himself into his mind whenever he no longer felt like being a part of the material world. He did enjoy to retreat to the darkest depths of his mind, to reflect on life's greatest questions. On himself.

Who was Detective Alaric Wu?

A small boy, left to his own devices, as his mother disappeared to drink herself into old age and his father slaved away in the coal mines of Taiwan. They had loved each other, once, long ago. But some things are unable to withstand the test of time. This was something that young boy, with fluffy hair and chubby cheeks, conveying no sense of emotion, had learnt very early on.

Such a boy would cook for himself far earlier than most children learnt to do so, and would practice in the mirror how to smile, for it did not come naturally to him. Each and every time he tried, it looked unnatural, almost forced, and how it was the bane of his existence. Wu Wu, as the children would taunt him, a play on his surname, which ironically used to mean 'emptiness', conveying the idea of lacking something. What could they expect, really, from someone who never had anyone around to be a rolemodel? Not that he didn't find replacements for this gaping hole in his life.

He would sit for hours and hours reading detective novel upon detective novel, and he knew before he had even turned nine that he would one day become a detective. Stubborn child that he was, he followed through, never doubting that this path was the one he was made to embark upon. He would travel wide and far, beginning to work small jobs at the tender age of ten, where he would encounter many people of different ethnicities and nationalities. It was through this that he learnt many different languages aside from Mandarin - English, French, German, Russian, Arabic... only comfortably fluent in English, French and Mandarin, but able to quite steadily converse in other languages. One of his many talents, you might say, and one that he found to be very useful as a detective.

Alaric never did stop caring about his parents, especially as their only child, but he did grow into his independence. What was once loneliness blossomed into a certain fondness for solitude, and where he was once incapable of expressing emotion, he now was stoic by his own accord, though not without naturally evolving to express such things as cockiness and amusement. The small town he grew up in became a distant memory as he travelled far and wide to the marketplaces of Marrakesh, the quietest corners of Moscow, the boulangeries of Paris... each and every city shaped the young aspiring detective, and these skills would come to define who he was as a person.

It was almost miraculous, how a boy who at one point in time struggled to even summon a smile was now a man with a profound understanding of the human psyche, able to effortlessly connect with people from all kinds of backgrounds. He could have become a master manipulator, an expert cold-blooded killer even, if reading novels of justice had not impacted him from such a young age. Instead, he threw himself into the task of serving retribution. He took a hardline stance on criminals, deciding that there was no such thing as an 'innocent' criminal. As the detectives in his novels would reiterate, it was a choice to commit a crime. Perhaps that was his one flaw, something he was yet to learn - the notion of a victim of circumstance.

So this man of the world carried on, the storm within him subsided, leaving behind only a steady resolve mirroring the eye of a hurricane. Raindrops clung to his trench coat, bearing his silent badge of honour, and he was determined to unveil each and every truth that his investigations would have him stumble on. He could not rest when there were equations to be solved, people to break down until they would come to their senses and see the error of their ways. The satisfaction of closing an old dusty case folder, putting it to rest once and for all... that was what Alaric lived for.

He approached the platform, having obtained a special letter from the French superintendent to board the Orient Express along its Simplon route, provided there was space. If not, it was no matter, he would simply catch the next one, however long it took - but the earlier the better. While the detective had been on the Orient Express before, he had never taken this specific route, and being a well-travelled man, was rather interested in seeing what this passage had to offer... what kinds of people might be thinking the very same as im.

To dare hope for a mystery on this train would be unrealistic.

He shook his head, straightening the lapel of his coat as he waited along the platform, handing his compact luggage to the porter. Alaric did not carry much on him, partially because he was too invested in logic and philosophy to care about material items, unless it was evidence at a crime scene, and partially because that wasn't the lifestyle he was born into. His own parents lived paycheck to paycheck, and while the detective was earning a modest living now, he was no Prince of Russia. Not that there was one, anymore.

Living too comfortably has its drawbacks. The discomfort is but part of the thrill of life, to not know quite what's coming next, where you'll end up.

Alaric glanced up at the sky as soft snow began to fall, brushing what snowflakes he could off of his shoulder, although they only attached themselves to his glove. He grimaced, surrendering to the snowflakes as he placed his hands into his pocket, tilting his head towards the tracks as a conductor told everyone to stand back. He did no such thing, although he wasn't dangerously close to the edge. He pulled out his pocket watch, checking as it ticked, looking satisfied.

"11pm precisely. Punctual," he commented to no one in particular, though the fact that a young woman who looked to be Chinese, if he were to take a guess, glanced at him curiously, was not something that was lost on him. Perhaps he looked out of place, not wearing the newest fashion like most passengers on the luxury train inevitably would.

The detective examined her briefly before doing the same to her father, who appeared to be lost in a newspaper. Well, as much as Alaric enjoyed studying people for no particular reason, he would have plenty of time to do so on the train. As the passengers were invited to board, he lingered back for a moment, waiting for all the others to board first so that the conductor would be able to see if they had any vacant compartments.

As he waited, he pulled out a letter that he had received from his mentor, Chief Super James Albury, that had been waiting for him in his letterbox on his arrival home. He only now took a moment to read it, having made the long journey from Marseille to Paris, with too much on his mind to give the letter much thought. As he examined it now, back and front, he saw it had no name or address, only the words 'CONFIDENTIAL' written across in bold caps, and a red wax seal. With no letter opener to hand, he slid his index finger under its opening, the seal giving way as he pulled out a piece of parchment and studied each word carefully, meticulously printed using a typewriter, eyebrows furrowed.

ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴏᴍ ɪᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴇᴅ,

ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴀʀɪᴄ ᴡᴜ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴅᴇᴀʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴇ, ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴜᴍʙʟʏ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴀꜱ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ.

ɴᴏᴡ, ᴀʟᴀʀɪᴄ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀᴛ ʟɪʙᴇʀᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴀʟᴀʀɪᴄ, ɪ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢᴏɪɴɢ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ʙᴀɴᴀɴᴀꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀ ʙᴏᴏɴᴅᴏɢɢʟᴇ...

The detective took a moment to look up from the paper, sighing in exasperation as he massaged his temples with his free hand, before he deigned to continue reading.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ 'ᴏᴘᴘᴇɴʜᴇɪᴍᴇʀ ʙʟᴜᴇ' ʜᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ ꜱᴜꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴀɴ ᴏʀɢᴀɴɪꜱᴇᴅ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱɪʙʟᴇ. ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴇᴜᴍ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʙ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱɪʙʟᴇ, ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ... ɴᴏᴡ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀʟᴘʜᴏɴꜱᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɪɴ ᴅɪʀᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱꜱɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ ɪɴ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛɪɴᴏᴘʟᴇ.

ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟʟ, ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴏʀ, ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ɪ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ. ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀꜱᴋ ᴡʜʏ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍʏ ɢᴜᴛ, ᴅᴇᴀʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴘᴜᴘɪʟ.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴀʀɪᴄ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴅɪᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ᴛᴏ ɪɴᴅɪᴄᴛ ᴀ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠɪʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙʟᴜʀʀᴇᴅ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴀʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ, ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ, ɪ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇ ɪᴛ, ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ.

ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ. ɪ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴍᴇᴀɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴅᴀʏ ꜱᴏᴏɴ.

ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴅᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴇ.
ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ,
ᴊ.ᴀ

Alaric paused to reread the 'advice' before tearing the letter into pieces, mainly because that was what they were taught to do with confidential letters, although he had to admit that there was more feeling that went into ripping the parchment than he should have liked. The Chief Super was rather a superstitious man who believed in ill omens, so perhaps something had occurred which made him say such a thing. Maybe he hit a rabbit with his car or something to the like of that, how was he to know?

A victim is a victim, and a criminal is a criminal. What more is there to such a simple concept?

The man scoffed, putting the Super's words out of sight and out of mind. As he looked up, he realised he was the last standing on the platform, moving forward now closer to the train. The polished brass and mahogany details of the train, seeming inviting, yet there was something strangely eerie about this very train.

Alaric was not a superstitious man. He shook his head in annoyance, feeling that the Chief Super's words had gotten to him now.

A perfectly normal train, full of perfectly normal people, who have probably never met before in their lives.

This was the thought that echoed in his mind as the click-clack of his shoes echoed against the platform, a rhythmic prelude to the mystery that was to come. Steam billowed out from the locomotive, and seemed to wrap around the whole platform in a mist, the distant hum of the engine playing in the background. And so he ascended the steps to the train, determined not to be influenced.

That was how Detective Alaric Wu happened on the Orient Express.

Elementary, really.

𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒.
an agatha christie inspired applyfic.

A/N - hello guys!! First chapter finally done... took me a while, though I did take a break in between haha
For those of you who I haven't explained this to, each character will have a chapter from their perspective before the murder even takes place, and some of these will be published even before the deadline (ex. this one).

Alaric's was particularly long since I don't plan on doing a form for him, although the other ones might be just as long, it really depends! The next chapter will be someone else's OC ;) I'll have to figure out which order makes the most logical sense! Ideally it will be based on which stop they board the train on, beginning with Paris, but that also will depend on which characters I have forms for.

I haven't proofread this so if it's not very good... whoops mb! I had a lot of free time today so I decided to just get this done to set the tone for the book :) Let me know your thoughts!

To add, absolutely loving everyone's forms so far, and if I could accept them all, I genuinely would!! Anywho, I hope everyone's having a great day, and remember to look after yourselves <3