Prologue: Letter from the Rain

To whom it may concern,

I do not know who will read these words, nor whether they shall find their way into any honest record. Perhaps they will be dismissed as the mutterings of a weary man, or burned as the ravings of one who has peered too long into shadows. Yet I set them down, for silence is heavier than ink, and silence has followed me too closely of late.

London has grown strange. The rain no longer falls as it once did. It lingers at windows, it traces shapes upon glass, it gathers in ways that suggest intent. The bells toll at hours unclaimed by any church. And there are places in the city—streets, chapels, counting-houses—where the air itself weighs upon the chest, as though the stones remember something they will not speak aloud.

Keys have begun to appear, tied with thread as black as mourning cloth. They are left at thresholds in the dead of night. I have held one in my hand, and even through my glove I felt the chill of water that was not there. The sigil etched upon it mocks geometry, refusing the eye.

I have been retained, though not in the manner of ordinary work. The patron who supplies my coin does not name himself. His notes arrive without seal, damp as though carried by the river rather than a messenger. Each letter bids me forward. None speak of retreat.

I am no stranger to violence. I have seen men kill for coin, for pride, for nothing more than the sour thrill of it. Yet what stalks these streets is not born of such motives. There is design in it, and judgment, though I cannot yet say whose hand holds the scales.

If these words are found and I am not among the living, let it be known that Nathaniel Harrow did not abandon his charge. I write not to warn nor to plead, but simply to place a marker in the record. Something moves in the rain. Something that remembers.

—N. Harrow

Grathok: The Shadow at the Gates

Hidden Stages + みつけようよ♪(Mashup)

Tracklist
1. ペトリコールを渡って
2. タカラモノ (Prod. picco)[ど～ぱみん Remix]
3. Spot AA by maeshima soshi
4. Platinum White
5. Starchild (feat. BOOGEY VOXX & D.watt)
6. Eat Sleep Dance (feat. Moe Shop)
7. Hand Over(Prod. TEMPLIME)
8. teardrop 2nd (Prod. picco)　（『Prayer』『タカラモノ』マッシュアップあり）
9. EDGE OF LINEN by 早川博隆
10. Night Flying (feat. banvox)
11. KOI WAZURAI (feat. OHTORA & maeshima soshi)
12. Be All Right (Prod. Tatsunoshin)
13. 焼ケ鮭
14. Shining Lights (Tatsunoshin Remix)
15. THE ONE (Prod. Tatsunoshin)[P*Light Remix]


このコンテンツはファンメイドコンテンツです。ファンメイドコンテンツポリシー（ denonbu.jp/guidelines ）のもと制作されています。

電音部ウルポMIXコンテスト_ハスお

ひろプリ、プリキュア20周年の期間を繋いできてくれてありがとう。

ひろがるスカイ！プリキュア オンリーmix

シスカラ公募『夏』

このコンテンツはファンメイドコンテンツです。ファンメイドコンテンツポリシー（ https://denonbu.jp/guidelines ）のもと制作されています。

Nichilin × In My World (ハスおmashup)

London, 1782. The streets swelled with rain like veins brimming too close to the skin. A storm dragged its heavy cloak across the city, rattling shutters, drowning alleys, and turning the cobbled lanes of Bishopsgate into black mirrors. By candlelight and guttering lantern, the city’s wealthy fastened their doors against the night. They were accustomed to thieves, footpads, and cutpurses, but what weighed upon them now was different. It was heavier, a dread that had no coin purse or purse string to cut.

That morning, before the storm, the first key had appeared. A long iron shaft, pitted with age, dangled from a black thread tied in a meticulous knot upon the door of the shipping magnate Lord Ephraim Colgrave. By noon, word had spread. Keys had been found on the thresholds of others as well: a banker in Cheapside, a judge’s clerk in Temple, and a charitable priest whose benevolence carried the stink of unpaid rents and purchased absolution. Each key was marked with a sigil, faint and sharp, as if carved by a hand both ancient and impatient.

Servants whispered of a shadow moving between the rain, of a figure vast as a rampart whose presence bent gutters and chimneys. When asked what face they saw, they fell quiet. It was as if the word itself could not be brought to lips.

By dusk, Lord Colgrave had dismissed the rumors. His counting-house was a fortress of oak and iron, his ledgers stacked in neat towers, his guard a veteran of His Majesty’s navy. “Superstitious rot,” he called it, brandy warming his belly. The storm grew meaner. At the witching hour, the watchman swore the rain ceased in a single circle around the door, like a stage cleared for an audience unseen. He raised his lantern. The wick dimmed, as though ashamed.

Inside, Colgrave’s pen scratched across parchment. He revised his accounts, striking out columns of losses and transmuting debt into profit with a confident flourish. Yet the ink blurred, spreading like spilled silt. He cursed, leaned close, and found the grain of the page wet. The water was thick, dark, and smelled of river rot. His hand trembled.

From the shadows between rafters, something shifted. The watchman outside later insisted the ceiling bowed as though under great weight. Colgrave turned, his quill snapping. The air grew heavy, not thick with smoke but with a silence deeper than thunder.

The watchman’s shout went unanswered. He forced the door, lantern in hand. Inside, he found his master seated upright, spine unnaturally aligned, head tilted back as though in study. The man’s mouth was filled with Thames silt, packed as tightly as mortar between bricks. His eyes were wide, glassy, staring at the ledgers which now lay soaked, ink dissolved into black pools that mirrored nothing.

In the margins, written not in ink but in a residue like ash dissolved in rain, was a single word: Grathok.

By dawn, the tale had spread across the coffee houses and taverns. It was spoken by printers’ apprentices and drunkards alike. Some claimed Grathok was a hired blade, a mercenary turned specter. Others swore he was a revenant risen from the gutters, vengeance given form. A beggar at Moorfields swore he had seen him crouched atop Ludgate, armor gleaming like wet stone, sword angled like a lightning rod to the heavens. A washerwoman muttered that he was no man at all, but the city’s own conscience, risen from filth to collect its debts.

No one agreed except on one point. With the keys came death, and with death came a silence that even thunder dared not disturb.

That day, as the rain still clung to the eaves, men of standing checked their doors twice. Some hired more guards. Others prayed. But all watched the dripping thresholds, waiting to see if a black thread and iron weight would hang upon their own.


And beneath the storm, Grathok walked unseen, his mission beginning.

Chapter I: The Rain of Keys

Chapter III: Devotions of the Gutter

The bells of St. Cuthbert’s tolled beneath a sky the color of tarnished lead. The rain came down in sheets, steady and unrelenting, as though the heavens themselves wished to wash the city clean of memory. Yet London was not a city to be scrubbed. It clung to filth the way ivy clings to stone, feeding upon it, hiding behind it, exhaling it back into the lungs of its people.

In the nave of the church, all was not as it should have been. The candles guttered with no wind to move them. The pews, meant to hold the faithful, stood empty save for a scattering of parishioners who had come to whisper their devotions. They sat far from one another, as if each feared contagion from the soul of his neighbor.

The priest, Father Ellory, stood at the altar. He was a man renowned for charity, beloved in pamphlets and praised by those of means. Yet those who lived in his parish knew another side, whispered through cracked shutters. Rent collected with violence, alms withheld unless coin was given in return, comfort purchased as if it were a commodity.

That evening, Father Ellory read from his Bible, voice wavering. He spoke not of compassion but of obedience. Each word seemed to falter beneath the arches of the nave. The rain tapped steadily at the stained glass, each droplet striking like a finger against a drum.

At the third psalm, the sound changed. The tapping grew rhythmic, insistent, like knuckles against the pane. The congregation stiffened. The priest faltered, then continued, sweat running down his temple. He raised the chalice. The vessel, meant to hold wine, filled instead with rain that did not fall from the ceiling but rose upward, climbing against gravity until it brimmed.

The candles went out. Darkness folded across the pews. In that silence, there was a shift, a presence not seen but felt, like the weight of stone lowered upon the shoulders of every man and woman present. Some swore later that the stained glass seemed to bend inward, as though something vast pressed its face against the walls of the church, hungry to be let in.

Father Ellory’s voice cracked. He grasped his throat as though strangled by an invisible hand. When the candles sparked again, his eyes were wide and his tongue was dark as ink. He fell forward, striking the stone floor with a hollow crack. The chalice spilled its contents, yet instead of water spreading across the flagstones, it soaked upward into the ceiling, leaving the stone dry as parchment.

The congregation scattered. One woman swore she saw a figure move between the columns, tall as the arch itself, cloaked in rain, armored as if hewn from the very walls. Another insisted she heard footsteps upon the roof, heavy enough to bow the beams, though no tiles were disturbed. No one could agree, except that the church had grown suddenly smaller, as though the very act of breathing were crowded.

When the constables arrived, they found the hymnals stacked in neat towers upon the altar, ordered by size and wornness, a librarian’s precision imposed upon sacred text. Upon each cover, a line had been carved so thin it could not have been done with a knife. Together, the lines formed a sigil too complex to be born of accident.

Cats gathered in the nave that night, slinking in through the open doors, dozens of them, silent and unblinking. They arranged themselves before the altar, watching the chalice with eyes that gleamed green and gold. The constables beat them out with truncheons, but they returned, night after night, until the church was shuttered.

By morning, Father Ellory was laid out in the vestry. His body bore no wound, no sign of poison. Yet his tongue was as black as coal, and his hands were clasped not upon a cross but upon one of the iron keys tied with black thread.

And so it was whispered in London that the rain itself might one day tap your window, not to enter, but to watch.

Chapter III: Devotions of the Gutter

The rain has not stopped. It pools in the seams of my coat and runs down the collars of men too frightened to notice. When I arrived at the counting-house of Lord Ephraim Colgrave, the constables were gathered in the street like hounds at a gate they dared not cross. One of them spat into the gutter, as if to expel the name that none of them wanted to speak aloud.

“Inside, Agent Harrow,” said Inspector Dray, a tired man with eyes red from sleeplessness. “He is seated at his desk still, as if waiting for another day’s work. Only, well, you will see it yourself.”

I stepped into the counting-house. The place stank of mud and iron. The ledgers were waterlogged, pages fused together, and the ink had run in great black rivers across the table. Above me the rafters dripped a silt that should not have been there. The Thames was streets away, yet it seemed to have paid a personal visit.

Colgrave himself sat upright, too upright, with spine aligned as though some invisible tutor had corrected his posture. His mouth was packed with filth, his eyes staring into nothing. The watchman muttered a prayer behind me. I told him to wait outside.

I examined the desk. Among the sodden papers lay the key I had heard so much about. Iron, long and heavy, with a sigil etched into the shaft. I took it in my gloved hand and felt an unease climb my arm like frost. Its lines resisted comprehension. I tried to count the angles but lost myself after the third, as if the thing twisted when not watched directly.

“Do you see it too?” asked Inspector Dray. He had followed me inside despite my order.

“I see a key,” I answered.

“No. The other thing. The way the air feels thick. My lungs hate it.”


Later, when I questioned the watchman, he swore the rain had drawn a circle about the door at midnight, leaving the threshold dry while all else drowned. “Like the heavens were holding court,” he said. His hand shook on the lantern handle. I wrote it down though I doubted any magistrate would take such a statement.

I searched Colgrave’s body. No wound, no mark save the filth stuffed down his throat. His pockets were empty of coin though untouched otherwise. It was not robbery. His rings still clung to his fingers. His ledger, ruined though it was, bore evidence of alteration. Columns of debt scratched out, profits inked where none existed. He was a man who had created wealth out of lies, and now he sat dead among them.

Back in the street, Dray lit his pipe with trembling hands. “Do you think it is him?” he asked.

“Who?” I said.

“Grathok. The one they whisper of in taverns. The shadow in the rain.”

“I think it is a man,” I replied, “and men leave patterns. This one will too.”

I wrote my first notes that night in the lamp-lit corner of the Guild offices. Case File Twelve, subject: the death of Lord Ephraim Colgrave, merchant of Bishopsgate. Cause: unknown. Evidence: iron key, sigil of impossible geometry, circumstances aligned with rumor of a figure known as Grathok.

The coin for this commission arrived with no seal. It smelled faintly of river reeds. I asked no questions, as coin is coin, but I begin to feel as though the weight of it is unnatural in my purse.

I cannot shake the thought of the key. Its angles turn in my head when I close my eyes. When I traced the sigil in my notes the ink ran, just slightly, as though the paper recoiled.

I am an agent of logic. I pursue thieves, traitors, counterfeiters. I walk in shadows but I do not fear them. Yet tonight, with the river swollen and the rain gnawing at the windows, I feel as though I have been summoned, not hired. Someone has led me into this case with a steady hand, and already I have stepped too far to walk back.
Still, I will press on. Whoever or whatever Grathok may be, he bleeds or he does not. If he bleeds, I will kill him. If he does not, then God help us all.

Chapter II: Case File 12 — The Magnate

To Miss Eliza Wren,
Fleet Street, London

Dearest Eliza,

Forgive the lateness of this letter. The hours here have become my enemies, slipping past like shadows that move when no candle burns. The rain has not ceased for three days, and London has grown sodden with fear. You will have heard by now of the death of Father Ellory at St. Cuthbert’s. The papers say little, yet the streets speak more than the press dares print. The city insists that Grathok has passed among the pews. I wish I could call it rumor, but what I witnessed compels me otherwise.

I arrived the morning after. The nave smelled of wet stone and smoke though no fire had been lit. Constables kept the doors barred, yet the cats had gathered again. They prowled the aisles as if searching for a master. When the men tried to drive them off with sticks, the animals only hissed and returned. Their eyes glowed like embers caught in the gloom.

The priest lay in the vestry, tongue black as ink, hands clasped around an iron key tied with black thread. I touched it only briefly, and even through gloves I felt the cold of river water. I asked Inspector Dray what was done with the chalice. He told me it had been empty when they came upon it, though the floor about it was dry, as though the liquid had chosen to flee upward.

I spoke with the few parishioners who dared remain in the city. An old woman swore the rain itself had tapped her window the night before, spelling words in the glass that she could not bring herself to repeat. A boy who had hidden in the choir loft confessed he had seen a shadow pressed against the stained glass, its helm and sword vast enough to eclipse the saints. He has not spoken since.

Eliza, I am no stranger to crime. Men kill for coin, for pride, for vengeance. Yet these deaths are different. They are precise, deliberate, like a scribe crossing names from a ledger. Each victim so far has carried respect among the wealthy, yet beneath the surface their charity was false, their power rooted in cruelty. Colgrave the magnate twisted debts into profit, Ellory the priest sold salvation for coin. Both are now corpses. Both clutched keys.

What strikes me most is the atmosphere of the places he has touched. It is not blood or the stench of rot, but silence. The silence is so heavy it presses into bone. It lingers even when the body is carried away. I cannot help but feel I am not tracking a man but a judgment, one that has chosen me as its unwilling witness.

I walked the streets after leaving St. Cuthbert’s. Coldharbor Lane was drowned in fog so thick it seemed alive. Every window looked down on me with suspicion. I swear I saw words forming in the condensation upon the glass of an abandoned bakery, but they vanished when I drew near.

Dray, who follows me despite my orders, asked if I believed the stories. I told him truth is not found in rumor but in pattern. Yet as I write to you, I admit that I begin to doubt myself. The pattern here feels older than any man could devise.

My patron continues to fund the work. The coin appears in envelopes without seal, each smelling faintly of river reeds. Who but Grathok himself would pay a man to hunt him? Why would he wish me to follow? Unless the hunt itself is part of the judgment.

If this is so, then I have already stepped too far. Still I will not abandon it. Whatever Grathok may be, he is flesh or he is not. If he is flesh, I shall strike him down. If he is not, then may God forgive me for accepting coin against such a foe.

I write you this not to frighten but to prepare. If I should fall silent in the weeks to come, know that I kept my oath to the Guild, and to you. I will not run.

Your servant always,
Nathaniel Harrow

Chapter IV: Letter to Miss Eliza Wren

The magistrate’s house stood on Fleet Lane, its windows shuttered tight against the storm, though the rain still found ways to whisper through the cracks. Judge Alastair Rendell was known across London as a man of temperance. He drank nothing but weak tea, spoke with measured words, and passed judgment with the gravity of scripture. The pamphlets lauded him as incorruptible. Yet in the shadowed corners of taverns, whispers told another story.

It was said he took coin from merchants who trafficked misery into the rookeries, that he signed warrants not by law but by bribe, and that those who could not pay in coin paid in silence. Rendell’s chambers were lined with papers, not only the records of his trials but ledgers of names never meant for the court.

On a night when the city drowned in thunder, Rendell sat alone in his parlor, his wig discarded, his robe hung upon the wall. He leaned forward toward the fire, though it burned low. The logs hissed. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, but the flames seemed to recoil from his touch.

Then the fire changed. It ceased to crackle. It turned pale, a blue light without smoke, cold to the skin, yet it consumed the logs with unnatural hunger. The judge recoiled, reaching for the bellpull to summon a servant. No servant came.

Upon his mantel lay the bones of small birds, collected from his garden and arranged for ornament. Now they shifted. They aligned themselves upon the stone in two scales, perfect in their balance. The judge cried out, struck the bones with his cane, but they returned to their order with the patience of eternity.

The portraits upon his wall turned their faces inward. Where once proud magistrates and lords looked down in oil and gilt, now only the backs of their canvases showed, as if ashamed to witness what followed.

Rendell tried to flee. The door would not open. The latch turned but the hinges refused. He struck it with his cane, and the wood gave no sound. His own footsteps vanished into silence, as if swallowed.

The blue fire climbed higher, yet gave no smoke. It licked the edges of his docket books, turning ink to ash without heat. Each page burned to dust, leaving only blank parchment that drifted to the floor like tired moths. His own name was last, his signature curling away into nothing.

A pressure filled the room, vast and suffocating. He fell to his knees, gasping. The silence pressed his chest flat against his heart. His lips moved in prayer, but no words formed.

When the servants at last entered in the morning, they found their master seated before the cold hearth. His eyes were wide and glassy. His body bore no wound, but his lips were blackened, as if kissed by soot. Around him lay the remnants of parchment, all blank, every record erased.

Upon his lap was an iron key, tied in black thread, its sigil carved deep into the metal. The servants whispered and crossed themselves. None dared touch it.

The constables who arrived spoke only once of what they saw upon the wall. Above the mantel, where the bird-bones still sat in perfect scales, a word had been written in soot. No hand could have reached so high, and no ladder was found. It read:

Grathok.

That night the taverns roared with tales. Some said he was a spirit of fire, others that he was the hand of balance come to judge the false justices of men. A drunkard insisted he had seen a shadow climb the courthouse steps, pausing only to lift its visor toward the storm. Another claimed the rain spelled words upon the courthouse roof, too vast to read, before vanishing at dawn.

Yet in every retelling the fire remained blue, and the silence heavier than any law.

Chapter V: The Counting of Ashes

Este año la Bóxer Party se pone canina con un concepto único en la fiesta.
Zvñiga sabes que te amo verdad? 
Me encanta trabajar contigo :) 

Daniela Carranza B2B ZVÑIGA @ BOXER PARTY GOOD BOY | 30 AGO 2025

The pattern has sharpened. It was never chance, nor madness, nor the ordinary hand of a killer. Each life ended in the very place where its power was strongest. Colgrave, among his ledgers; Ellory, at his altar; Rendell, in his parlor of justice; Gorham, within the house that tilted to bow before gallows. Each victim is a stone removed from the wall of corruption. The structure weakens.

Why then was I called? Why am I left alive to trace the outline of these events? The keys sit before me, each one heavy beyond its iron. They rest like judgments passed upon my desk, and when the candle burns low they appear to shift, aligning themselves into an order I do not comprehend.

I returned to the first key tonight. I turned it in my hand and saw a flaw within the metal, a crack like lightning frozen mid-strike. And in the mirror above my hearth I thought I saw the same flaw within my chest, as though I too had been marked.

Inspector Dray warns me to rest, but he does not understand. Rest is not permitted. The silence follows me into sleep. I wake to the tolling of bells that no church claims. Last night they struck thirteen, though no tower in London knows such a number. The sound was not heard by Dray, only by me.

When I left my rooms this morning, I found another envelope upon the stoop. The paper smelled of the river. No seal, no signature. The note inside: Harrow, stop me. The letters had not been written but cut into the page, as though the quill had been a blade.

I have walked these streets for years, through blood and treachery, through lies and betrayals. But I have never felt so tightly bound to a case as I do now. It is as though the leash is around my own throat, drawing me closer with each death.

I suspect, with a certainty that chills me, that my patron is none other than the quarry. That Grathok himself summoned me. That I am not meant to destroy him, but to bear witness until the end.

Why does he require a witness? Why me? Perhaps because I still cling to logic. Perhaps because someone must carry the record. Or perhaps because the inheritance of his curse requires a man who thinks himself incorruptible.

I write this deposition for the Guild, though I do not believe they will ever read it. If these words survive, let it be known that Nathaniel Harrow understood too late that a hunt can be a snare, and that some contracts cannot be broken once the ink has dried.

—Nathaniel Harrow

Chapter XII: Deposition of Nathaniel Harrow

The song was created and written by: 
J J Samuel
The production, the music and Vocals were done by: 
J J Samuel  

#introspective #Emotive #Club #Soul #EDM #House #Real #Family #Love #Gold

“More Than Money” - Story Behind the Song
This track tells a raw, personal tale of growing up in a well-off family where material wealth was abundant, but emotional support was scarce. Raised with lavish holidays and every comfort money could buy, the lyrics and vocal’s reflect on a childhood overshadowed by bullying at school—scars left by taunts and isolation that went unnoticed by parents too busy to see the pain. Despite the gilded life, the lack of love and care fueled a deep longing, a cry for connection over cash.
Inspired by resilience, the song weaves a journey from despair to strength, turning a haunted past into a promise to break the cycle for the next generation. With its upbeat soulful pop beats and cinematic brass, it’s a powerful plea for love over wealth, delivered with a husky, passionate voice that demands to be heard. This isn’t just a song—it’s a story of survival, hope, and the legacy of care that money can’t buy.
Released: September 21, 2025

Chapter XII: Deposition of Nathaniel Harrow

chum

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