The stone beneath my feet is slick with moisture, the damp of the mausoleum settled into my bones like a second skin. The air is thick, stale, weighed down with the scent of burning wax. Themeeting had stretched through the night, the Chairman’s voice cutting through the dark like a blade, measured and pointed.
Archibald didn't show, so the work is mine alone.
I push open the heavy iron doors and step into the weak dawn light, the sky painted in washed-out shades of gray and blue. The chill clings to my skin, but I don’t acknowledge it. I can still hear the last words spoken to me before I left the chamber, weighty and unmistakable:
“There is information out there. We need it.”
They wouldn’t have called me here just for scraps, not for whispers or rumors. No, this was something real, a tangible secret buried where only the desperate or the reckless would dare to look. And now that I know it involves Martine, my interest is no longer just an obligation; it’s personal.
I exhale sharply, shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat. I have no patience for another errand, but I don’t have a choice. The Society wants this information, and I want to know why Martine is tangled in it.
There’s someone in a nearby town who might be able to help. A name slipped to me before I left—no guarantees, no promises, just another lead to chase down.
I grit my teeth and start walking toward my car, my mind already pulling apart the possibilities.
Another dead end, another piece of the puzzle, or something worse?
I intend to find out.
The drive is quiet. The low hum of the engine, the occasional flicker of headlights against empty road signs. The town is unremarkable, the kind of place people pass through without a second thought. Small brick buildings, a single gas station still flickering with neon light. It’s early enough that the streets are empty, the world still caught in the lull between night and morning.
I park outside a rundown apartment building, the kind where the paint peels from the walls and the stairwell smells like old cigarettes. The name I was given matches the unit number scrawled on the rusted mailbox: third floor, second door on the left.
I take the stairs two at a time; my patience is already running thin.
When I reach the door, I knock. Hard. The sound echoes through the hall.
Nothing.
I knock again. Louder this time.
Still nothing.
I press my ear to the door. No movement, no shifting weight on the other side. Either they aren’t home, or they’re pretending not to be.
I don’t have time for games.
I step back and drive my boot into the door just below the handle. The wood splinters with a sharp crack as the frame gives way, swinging open violently. Dust swirls in the stale air inside.
The place is disgusting. The carpet is stained, with dark blotches soaked into the fabric that I don’t want to think about. The walls are yellowed, peeling from years of neglect, and the smell of rotting food, sweat, and chemicals clings to every surface. Bottles litter the coffee table, crushed cigarette butts spilling from an overflowing ashtray.
In the far corner of the room, the couch is buried under clothes, newspapers, and a pile of used needles.
I step further inside, my foot knocking into an empty beer can. It rolls, bumping against the frame of a doorway leading to what I assume is the bedroom.
A lump is sprawled across the bed, half-covered by a threadbare sheet. Even from where I stand, I can see the trackmarks running up his arms, the bruised skin, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He’s alive, but barely.
I walk to the side of the bed and stare down at him. He’s a mess, slick with sweat, face gaunt, jaw slack. This is the man I was sent to find?
I grab the edge of the blanket and rip it off him. "Wake up."
No response.
I press my fingers against his neck. The pulse is there, weak but steady. He’s too far gone to wake up on his own.
I grit my teeth. Useless.
A voice behind me makes my fingers twitch toward my gun, the one I slipped in my waistband in place of my knife. I knew this place would be disgusting, and I wasn't taking the risk.
