"Oh, are you coming with me?" They settle more firmly. "Alright then. But we need to be quiet. He needs to sleep."
I pat them gently. They seem to warm further.
The warehouse looks even worse in daylight. Every beam of sun shows new horrors. That's not just mold in the corner—it's an entire ecosystem. Those mushrooms have probably learned to communicate. The puddle by the far wall has colors that shouldn't exist in nature. And the smell—like wet dog mixed with old cheese mixed with despair.
Has anyone made breakfast? Probably not. When did Finn last eat something that wasn't burnt bread? Is Gray Streak's stomach growling under all that professional menace?
My mental list grows with each step: industrial-strength cleaner, mold killer, something for the rust, soap (so much soap), proper mops not just the stick-with-rags situation we have now, buckets that don't have holes, maybe some lime for the really suspicious stains...
"We need coin for supplies." The shadows tug gently toward the medical corner. A nudge, not a pull. I follow because apparently this is my life now, taking financial advice fromsentient darkness while my sort-of-maybe-something sleeps off several days of violence.
They guide me to a box tucked behind the medical supplies. Locked, but the shadows flow into the mechanism and click it open.
"That's very useful, thank you." Inside are coins. Lots of coins. More money than I've ever seen in one place. "Oh. Oh my. That's... we don't need all this. Just enough for cleaning supplies. The basics."
I take exactly what we need for soap and mops. The shadows wrap warmer around my shoulders.
"See? We're being careful with money. That matters, even for—especially for—people in the stabbing business."
Gray Streak is by the main doors, looking professionally menacing at nothing in particular. He does a double-take when he sees me.
"Are those...?"
"Shadows, yes. They wanted to come along." I adjust them around my shoulders. "We need cleaning supplies. This place is actively trying to kill us with spores."
He stares at the shadows, then at me, then back at the shadows. "Boss's shadows."
"Well, yes. He's sleeping. First real sleep in days, so we're being very quiet about this." I show him my small handful of coins. "Just enough for basics. Soap, mops, something for the mushroom situation."
"The boss is sleeping and his shadows are..." He gestures helplessly.
"Helping with errands, apparently." The shadows nuzzle against my cheek. "Are you coming? I need someone who knows where to buy industrial cleaning supplies."
He follows because what else is he going to do? Outside, the morning sun makes me squint. The shadows adjust, creating a little hood of shade. Very considerate.
"This is not normal," Gray Streak mutters.
"Nothing about our situation is normal. We're living in a disease factory. Focus on what we can fix." I look around the district. Gray morning light, everything smelling like rust and old rain. "Where's the nearest shop that sells proper cleaning supplies? Not the gentle stuff. The kind that kills things."
We end up in a merchant district because apparently assassins don't know where to buy mops. The general store is bright and clean and everything our warehouse isn't. I breathe in the smell of soap and possibility. When was the last time this place was mopped? The floors actually shine. Our floors have textures. Multiple concerning textures.
"Good morning!" The shopkeeper's smile freezes when she sees Gray Streak looming behind me. Then she notices the shadows draped around my shoulders and goes very pale. "I... how can I help you?"
"We need cleaning supplies. Industrial strength. We have a mold situation that might be achieving consciousness." I start examining bottles. "What's your strongest mold killer?"
She wordlessly points to a shelf. I begin reading labels while Gray Streak stands there radiating menace just by existing.
"Ooh, this one says it kills bacteria too. We definitely need that. And look, this soap comes in lavender!" I hold it up. "What do you think?"
The shadows warm slightly, flowing toward the bottle, then retreat.
"You like lavender? Good to know." I turn to Gray Streak. "What about you? What's your soap preference?"
He stares at me. "My what?"
"Soap preference. We're buying twenty bottles, minimum. You'll be smelling it for months." I hold up the lavender. "Try this one."
"I don't—"
