Good Tuesday.
Another workday ends.
Ashlynn comes in later than usual.
"Sorry," she says, dropping her bag. "I walked more than I meant to."
I nod. "Tired?"
"A little." She rolls her shoulders. "My feet hurt."
She sits on the edge of the bed, kicking her shoes off. One lands crooked.
"I took a longer route," she says. "Passed an old warehouse near the rail line. Empty. There's a sign on it."
"For sale?"
She nods. "Or rent. Hard to tell. The paint was peeling."
"The water pressure's been weird again?" she says.
I nod. "Too weak?"
"Too strong at first. Then nothing. Then suddenly hot." She exhales. "I think the pipes hate me."
I glance up. "They hate everyone."
She smiles faintly. "The soap too. It smells sharper than yesterday. Did they change it?"
"Smells the same to me."
She shrugs. "Maybe I'm imagining it."
"You want me to complain to the desk?"
"No," she says quickly. "It's fine. I'll get used to it."
She stands and head to the bathroom. "I'll take a bath. No peeking~"
The door closes.
I remain in the chair and write in my diary.
After she finishes, Ashlynn settles into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. She hums softly for a moment. Her breathing evens out.
I stay still.
I wait until the hallway quiets. Until her breathing becomes slow and steady. Until I'm sure she's asleep.
Then I stand.
I slip into the bathroom and kneel, checking beneath the wooden vanity.
The gold.
The IAM is still there.
I leave the bathroom and step into the corridor.
From the corridor, I take the elevator down to the lobby.
In the middle of the lobby stands a man wearing an elegant, gilded purple suit.
He turns, smiles, and waves.
"Monsieur Mynar," I greet him.
"Monsieur Len," he replies. "Going for a night walk?"
"Yes. I need some clarity," I say.
"Daily fog can dull one's mind," he chuckles. "Enjoy your night, Monsieur."
"Thanks."
I leave the hotel perimeter.
I walk through the streets of the Northern Outskirt. Mostly empty. A few drunken passersby wander without direction. Laughter and arguments echo faintly from the manholes, distant and contained.
The night is less hazy than the day. Visibility is still low, but steadier.
I reach the plaza.
At its center: Red brick bastion, rigid and symmetrical. A clock tower rises above it. Windows line the facade in disciplined rows. Above the grand doors is the emblem: a white raven inside a lantern framed in laurel. Hearthlight Building.
No light in the windows. No signs of activity.
I stop and scan the perimeter.
No carriages. No clerks. No visitors. A few drunk men sleep near the steps, harmless, unmoving.
No eyes on me.
I walk toward the building. Slowly. Each steps are methodical.
I don't approach the grand doors like I do during the day. I move to the left wing instead. Reach its wall and press my back against it then move along its wall.
I move toward the nearest window, one step at a time.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
Footsteps—from inside.
My heart is pounding.
I stop. Hold my breath. Then slowly glance inside.
A faceless figure walks down the hallway. A Lessie.
My breath becomes uneven. Then immediately I let out small breath—one at a time, slowing it down.
A beat.
I look again. More Lessies further down the corridor.
They are patrolling the interior.
Tonight is dangerous.
I pull back.
I retreat the way I came—slow, controlled, silent.
No sound. No attention.
I return to my room. Back to Ashlynn. Back to my bed.
Then calm my mind and force myself to sleep.
Good Wednesday.
After half day of work.
"Len, you helped so many people today," Margaret says, lifting two thumbs up. "I'm proud of you."
"Thanks."
"Our job isn't just helping people who come here," she continues. "We help the community around us. The neighborhood."
A beat.
"And the sewers."
"Sewers?" I say, my voice rising before I can stop it.
"All Hearthlight members help everyone across the Republic," she says, smiling. "Come. Let's help those not seen by society."
She takes my hand and pulls me along.
We walk through crowded streets beneath the murky sky, smog hanging low. Footsteps overlap. Voices blur.
A manhole waits ahead of us.
"Remember to smile," she says, releasing my hand.
Margaret opens the cover and climbs down.
I follow.
The sewer is narrow, brick-lined, reinforced with stone at intervals. Iron grates sit where channels intersect—some intact, others pried open. Like the Eastern Outskirt, it was built with permanence in mind.
The air is thick with rot, waste, and urine.
Bodies line the channels. Some move. Some don't.
Some wear tattered clothes. Others wear nothing.
We stop beside the nearest body that moves.
Margaret crouches and taps him lightly. A bald man in torn clothing.
He turns his head. "Yeah? What is it?"
"We're here to help you," Margaret says brightly. "What's your problem?"
"I'm hiding from the Gilded Ledger Order," he says. "Their taxmen."
"Aww," she says gently. "Those scammers only want your money. It's okay not to pay taxes."
"You're right," the man says, smiling. "It's okay not to pay taxes."
"You're doing fine now," Margaret says, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm doing fine now," he repeats. "I don't have to pay taxes."
She withdraws her hand.
The man reaches into his pocket and presses a rock into her palm.
"Thanks for helping me, Madam."
We move on.
Margaret stops at another body that moves.
She crouches and taps lightly.
A young girl in torn clothes turns her head.
"Yeah?" the girl says.
"We're here to help you," Margaret says warmly. "What kind of problem do you have?"
"I ran away from home," the girl says. Her voice trembles. "From Duenchester. My mother wanted me to marry her friend's son."
"And?" Margaret asks.
"I can't afford things here," the girl says. "I want to go home."
She swallows. "Most days I can't buy food."
A pause.
"People hit me," she continues quietly. "After they pay."
Her eyes shine, close to tears.
Margaret nods, understanding.
"Ah. I see."
She smiles, confident. "That isn't so bad. People here love you. Sometimes love is rough."
The girl blinks. "Really?"
"This is your home now," Margaret says. "You love it here."
The girl's breathing steadies.
"You're right," she says. "This is my home. I love it here."
Her face flushes. She smiles—wide, fixed.
She places a rock into Margaret's hand.
My chest tightens.
For a moment, she reminds me of Ashlynn.
I look away.
Margaret is already moving on.
We continue through the sewer, stopping only where something still stirs. She kneels. She listens. She smiles. She reassures.
One by one, they hand over their rocks.
Their phens.
Their money.
When nothing else is left, they give her their hope.