The sky above London, the glorious capital of the steam engine powerhouse that was the British Empire, was once again veiled in gray clouds. The dense smog, a byproduct of advanced steam technology, choked the heavens.

Below, life in Britain carried on as usual. The streets bustled with people, their heads covered by coats or sheltered by umbrellas against the falling soot. Countless skyscrapers pierced the sky, Gurney steam carriages whizzed past with a deafening roar, and horse-drawn carriages, pulled by Steam Horses, clip-clopped along the main thoroughfares. Steam locomotives, belching black smoke, hauled passenger cars along the city's sprawling network of tracks, while Da Vinci-Flights (ornithopters) and steam airships navigated the gray skies. This chaotic tableau was the everyday face of London.

And as always, London's back alleys teemed with vice and despair.

Whether in the dazzling City of London or the poverty and disease-ridden Whitechapel district, it was all the same. Just as there are always shadows where the light doesn't reach, away from the public eye, violence and extortion thrived alongside theft and smuggling. The homeless and prostitutes mingled, and even the trade of engineered laborers took place—literally anything was possible.

Pickpocketing, especially, was commonplace in this city.

The victims were often well-dressed members of the affluent class or tourists from afar.

The perpetrators, on the other hand, came from diverse backgrounds: those who had lost their jobs to the rise of steam engines and mechanized labor, orphans, or children specifically trained as pickpockets. This could be considered a side effect of prosperity, a consequence of the widening gap between rich and poor fueled by technological advancement.

And so—

“—Stop! Stop right there, you filthy thief!”

Once again, such a cry echoed somewhere in London.

A well-dressed, portly man’s bellow caused passersby to turn their heads. Weaving through the crowd, a shadow darted away.

The fleeing figure’s appearance was far from tidy. Rather, they were covered in grime, dressed in rags—a child who fit the description of a street urchin.

The boy, a triumphant grin on his face, glanced back several times at the pursuing man. The man's size, combined with the dense crowd and his reddening face, only served to increase the distance between them.

Confident he wouldn't be caught, the boy smirked.

Then—

“—Whoa! Watch out!”

Mid-stride, he collided with someone. Looking back, he saw a young man who appeared to be returning from shopping. The man glared at him with sharp eyes, but didn't seem inclined to do anything more. “Sorry!” the boy called out insincerely before darting into a nearby alley.

He ran through the narrow alley, turning right, then left, then right again, finally breaking free of his pursuer. He stopped, catching his breath.

“—Heh, serves you right, rich bastard.”

He muttered, recalling the face of the man who had chased him so desperately. The image of the man’s red face and sweat-drenched brow was quite comical.

“Now then. Dressed like that, I bet his wallet’s overflowing.”

After a good chuckle, the boy reached into his pocket to examine his prize. It was round and heavy in his hand. Grinning at the weight, he held it up before his eyes.

He felt a sense of accomplishment. Look at this—this round, brown, heavy, enormous potato—

“…Huh?”

A dumbfounded sound escaped his lips. The confident smile he had worn moments before vanished, replaced by wide-eyed confusion as he stared at the object in his hand.

Thinking he might be mistaken, he rubbed his eyes and checked again.

It was, without a doubt, a potato. A potato that, if properly steamed and with the sprouts removed, would become a hot, fluffy, and delicious meal.

“Huh? What? Why?”

Confused and bewildered, the boy heard a voice from behind him,

“—If it’s the wallet you’re looking for, it’s already back with its owner.”

Startled by the sudden voice, he jumped. He turned around cautiously to see who had spoken.

There stood a black-haired man, holding shopping bags in his arms.

He looked familiar.

It was the man he had bumped into while running from the rich man.