The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 40 ~

Camden, London, 1924.

She found herself standing in the middle of a foggy, dimly lit street, the air heavy and cool against her skin. The buildings around her were crumbling, their edges blurred, as if they were fading into the mist. Her feet moved of their own accord, drawn to something in the distance, something familiar yet unrecognizable.

The shape of a warehouse loomed ahead, old and forgotten, its dark silhouette a stark contrast against the gray haze. The air around it felt thick, like something was waiting just beyond her reach. Florence's heart began to race as she stepped closer, her feet dragging in the dust of the street. There was an eerie energy in the air, something she couldn't place, but it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Voices—raised voices, arguing, shouting. The sound echoed from inside the building, harsh and grating, filled with anger and frustration. The voices clashed with one another, but she couldn't make out the words. Fear gnawed at her stomach, yet she felt compelled to move forward, her curiosity outweighing her caution.

She hesitated for a moment at the door, her hand trembling as she reached out. The wood was cold beneath her fingertips, the sound of the shouting growing louder, more intense. There was something else, though. A low hum—something familiar, something unsettling. Florence pushed the door open, the hinges creaking in protest as she stepped into the darkness of the warehouse.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of old wood and rusted metal hung in the air. The shouting grew louder still, echoing off the walls, but Florence couldn't see where it was coming from. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she took a step forward, her breath shallow and quick. She saw something. Something out of place, yet deeply familiar.

On a table in the center of the room, a set of items lay scattered in a disarray—broken glass, a gleaming dagger, and a half-empty bottle of something dark a pocket watch one she saw before many years ago with single razor beside it broken in half layer beside all this was a few silver coin's scattered along but at the edge of the table, something caught her eye—a bloodstain, fresh and dark, smeared across the worn surface. But it wasn't just the blood that froze her in place.

It was the coat. A dark coat, tossed carelessly across the back of a chair. The sight of it stopped her in her tracks it wasn't till she saw the green headed viper slither from out the pocket she began to step back. Florence's chest tightened, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. She felt her legs go weak as she took a step backward, her mind racing to make sense of what she was seeing. The shouting intensified, the voices indistinguishable now, overlapping in a chaotic clamor. But she couldn't focus on them. All she could do was look at the snake—her body pulled toward it, but her mind screamed at her to run.

She turned, her heart hammering in her chest, and tried to move toward the door. But it was too late. The exit seemed to stretch further away, the door now an unreachable distance. Panic flooded her, and she stumbled, her breath coming in short gasps as the shadows in the warehouse seemed to shift around her, closing in like a tightening noose.

The voices grew louder, louder still, until they drowned out everything else—the blood pumping in her ears, the feeling of being trapped, of being caught in a nightmare she couldn't escape. She glanced back at the snake it slowly moving her way, Florence's pulse raced as the dream twisted into something even darker. She could feel the cold, stale air of the warehouse pressing against her skin, the oppressive silence broken only by the distant, still-intense shouting. But then, something else stirred in the darkness.

Frozen in place, Florence couldn't move, couldn't speak, as the snake inched forward, its body undulating with smooth, terrifying grace. The clamor of voices faded into a low hum, as though the world around her was narrowing, closing in. The snake moved with chilling deliberation, weaving its way towards her, each movement a step closer to the inevitable.