When you reached the age where childhood gives way to duty, your parents—wise and weathered by time—decided it was your turn to help sustain the family. And so, you found yourself in their bakery, where the warmth of rising dough mixed with the scent of sugared dreams.

It was a charming bakery in the heart of London, in the year 1886, a beloved treasure among the cobbled streets. Everything was crafted by hand, with care and devotion, each pastry a small work of art. The sweetness of the shop called to passersby. This bakery was one of the most favoured in London.

As evening descended and the soft glow of dusk kissed the shop’s windows, the stillness was broken by the gentle chime of the bell above the door. A man stepped in, his obsidian-black suit, impeccably tailored and worn with a careful grace, shimmered subtly in the waning light. Black leather gloves, slick with a mysterious sheen, gleamed as his hands moved with deliberate precision. With a tip of his hat and a courteous nod, he ordered a black coffee. You accepted the order with a smile, suggesting he take a seat while you prepared his coffee.

Strolling over to a secluded table in the corner of the bakery, he took out a small notebook and a bundle of papers from his Gladstone bag. He spread the papers out in front of him with careful levity.

However, what your parents hadn't revealed to you was that this bakery, once a cherished haven, had never really belonged to your parents, but to him.

Unfamiliar to you, the man was well-known to everyone else. Simon Riley, the lieutenant with various ventures, commanded both respect and unwanted attention with his wealth.