A week has passed. A duty begins.
I prepare myself. Over the new shirt Ashlynn bought, I wear the tight-seam matte black suit from our City Heart visit. I sling a shoulder holster over it. A hat would complete the look, but Ashlynn can fetch that later.
Badge in my pocket. Registry in my pants. Cartridge pouch on my belt. Twelve rounds.
The mirror reflects a man from an action movie. Movie. Hollow word.
The morning air presses sharp against my face. Gary is waiting, standing still, hands behind his back.
Then he raises his right hand—gloved, the one that was bitten off.
"Good Monday," I say.
"Good Monday," he replies.
"Gary… your hand?"
He removes the glove. A mechanical hand clicks softly—brass joints, lacquered bone-white plating. No ornament. No pride.
"Mechanical," he says. "Common grade alchemy. Powered by kuor."
He slips the glove back on.
I nod. Words fail. The street hums quietly, distant wheels on cobblestone. I feel the city hold its breath with us.
"Come," he says, signaling a carriage.
Large, four wheels, reinforced panels, thick windows. We climb inside. The door shuts with a sealed thud. The air smells faintly of oil, leather, antiseptic. No cushions. Just firm benches, knees nearly touching.
"Northern Outskirt. Long route." Gary's instruction comes through the glass. The jarvy nods and cracks the reins.
We move. Streets knot and unknot. Cobblestone gives way to ash-packed lanes and back again. Buildings crowd, then retreat. Familiar corners appear—then mislead.
A woman counts rocks. A child scrapes soot off a window with a fingernail. A man watches us pass without moving.
I try to track the route. I fail. Windows distort distance like water. Every turn feels deliberate, even when it isn't. We move, and yet, it feels like we're going nowhere.
Eventually Gary taps twice on the glass. The carriage slows. Stops. He points at a direction outside.
"You see that man?"
Across the street, a man in a long gray coat stands perfectly still. Head bowed, hat brim low. He isn't begging, he isn't waiting. He pretends to be smaller than he is.
About my height. Maybe taller.
A bouquet of roses sticks awkwardly between his fingers. Bright against the gray morning.
He starts walking toward a line of carriages parking on his side of the street near the sidewalk.
"Watch," Gary murmurs.
The man climbs into a carriage. The jarvy cracks the reins. We follow.
Through the Northern Outskirt, streets twist, narrow, cracked. Rust climbs gates. Vines scrape peeling paint. Children peek, fear muted.
Then the carriage stops. He steps down in front of a small house. Gary and I step out at the same time. We hide behind a wall. Same row of the house.
Its walls are streaked and flaking. A girl appears—teenage, blonde, blue eyes. Her dress simple, revealing her youth and beauty.
The man removes his hat. Young face, almost her age. Brunette, blue eyes, delicate against the harsh street.
He extends the bouquet. But the girl throws it at his face. Screams. Petals scatter across cracked stones.
SLAP.
The bouquet lies at his feet.
SLAM.
The girl slams the door hard, leaving the man frozen in shock.
He stumbles back, hand to his cheek, eyes wet. Breath shudders. A moment stretches. I notice the tension in his shoulders, the way he swallows, trying to keep upright.
We follow at a safe distance, watching him walk defeated through alleys. Steps heavy,
unnoticing. The city feels silent around him. Garbage rattles in the wind, shutters bang, faint barking of a dog. Life continues, but his world has stopped.
Eventually, the streets empty. Houses thin. The world narrows. He stops. Sobs quietly, shoulders shaking.
Gary approaches slowly, deliberate. I follow, watching every twitch, every tremble of his body.
"Willan Miller," Gary says.
His head snaps up. Tears streak his face. "Yes?"
"What is your connection to… Aram?"
The words hit him like stones. Hands clench.
"Captain Aram? I… I just thought… Nadine would like me more if I learned…" he chokes.
"Professor Silva promised better grades… and I thought… maybe… maybe she'd see me differently." Voice breaks. Snot glistens.
"You know about alchemy?" Gary asks.
Willan blinks, voice trembling. "It's… it's… those things, right? To… to make yourself… to… be beautiful?"
The words hang. Gary doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
I feel a weight in my chest, the city pressing around us. The hum of the streets, the distant clatter of carts, the sharp cold in my lungs—it all amplifies what's coming.
Gary's hand twitches near his holster under the uniform. I watch. The pause stretches. Then—
The boy stumbles. "I just… I just—"
BANG.
Head jerks back. Silence, clean and absolute.
Gary exhales. Gun wavers. Bites lip. Straightens. Sharp, almost apologetic.
"We're trying to protect the city, Len," he murmurs then taps my shoulder as he turns and walks away.
My heart is pounding.
The young man's body sags. Still.
"The girl next."