“Terrified of my own death, I reached for the divine. How utterly foolish that was."

  – An unnamed arcanist

  I awoke radiant, as one does when dawn aligns with purpose. Early, of course—Alexander’s internal clock, perhaps, or the simple human joy of anticipation. The thrill of my inaugural mission coursed through me like fine wine.

  Though I might have lingered in that glow, duty beckoned. I rose, performed the morning ablutions with brisk efficiency—brushing, bathing, attending to necessities—and dressed. My wardrobe remained limited; these same clothes had served since Rennes. Fortunately, Alexander’s subtle enchantments kept them pristine and self-cleaning when set aside.

  Black gloves donned, vulture-skull cane in hand, I stepped out. One could only hope the day might allow testing the rifle form.

  Jules had just clocked in at reception. I offered him a pleasant smile as I entered the elevator for the surface level.

  The first floor bustled quietly: cleaners polishing surfaces, receptionists arranging desks. The Bureau had not yet opened for the day.

  I greeted each person I passed with courteous nods and continued toward the exit. Before I reached it, a figure entered carrying a modest bag of pastries, devouring them with ravenous focus. Mary Hellen.

  She failed to notice me at first. When she did, she froze mid-bite, then resumed her stride as though I were furniture, pastries disappearing at alarming speed.

  I had intended to proceed alone, yet practicality intervened. A guide through the city would prove prudent; not every human wielded arcane skill, and success on this first endeavour mattered.

  I approached swiftly and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jolted—barely—then turned, face as impassive as ever. Fascinating creature.

  Her eyes enquired silently. I smiled and murmured, "Mission".

  I began drawing her toward the door. She resisted briefly, then yielded and followed, continuing to eat.

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  Outside, I summoned one of the bureau's horse-drawn carriages and provided the divined address. The driver nodded, assured us he could accommodate, and invited us aboard.

  Mary wiped her mouth with a handkerchief as we settled in. Somehow, the entire bag of pastries had vanished during our brief walk to the lot. Her appetite impressed me; I chose not to comment.

  The carriage rolled forward. My thoughts turned to the task ahead.

  An hour later, we arrived: a thirty-storey apartment block, unremarkable from without. Mary and I entered, and the carriage waited.

  The elevator carried us to the twenty-second floor. The doors opened to two women locked in furious combat—fists and curses. I stepped delicately around them and proceeded to 22E, Mary trailing in silence.

  At the door, I halted her with a raised hand. “Be prepared.”

  She nodded once.

  Anticipating a lock, I cast a quiet unlocking spell. The mechanism clicked satisfyingly.

  I eased the door open. A foul miasma assaulted us—rotting meat, unwashed decay, something metallic, and worse. I tasted it on my tongue. Mary pressed a handkerchief to her nose; tears welled despite her efforts. I had no such reprieve.

  The living room lay dim, the curtains admitting thin slivers of light. Musty air clung; mould bloomed across the couch. Unknown residues and empty bottles littered the low table.

  Muffled voices drifted from deeper within, accompanied by grating, discordant music. The stench intensified—it was far worse ahead.

  I advanced slowly, Mary close behind me. The kitchen passed in a blur: dishes piled high and mould claiming the trash heap.

  The noises resolved into a conversation from the next room. I paused at the door, cast the unlocking spell again, and pushed it open.

  Three men. One drank sloppily from a bottle. The second violated a young woman on the floor. The third slept naked, sprawled.

  They noticed us only when the girl turned her head. I transformed the cane to a rifle in a fluid motion—“Caw”—and fired once, silenced, into the assailant’s head.

  The drinker fumbled for a weapon; I shot him before he cleared it.

  The sleeper never stirred—one final shot.

  I turned to Mary and paused at the far end of the room.

  Gruesome tableau: the floor slick with pulped flesh. Severed heads—children to elders—scattered like discarded fruit. A man’s torso hung from the wall, sockets crammed with staring eyeballs. Symbols scrawled on the walls in blood and filth. At the centre stood a crude table of human bone and stretched skin, skeletal hands clutching rotting hearts. Atop it rested a tablet bearing a familiar insignia.

  I studied the scene with detached fascination—human creativity in depravity never ceased to astonish.

  A weak voice drew my attention. The girl, barely conscious, smiled up at me.

  The most merciful course was clear.

  I returned her smile gently. “Sleep well.”

  I fired once at her forehead.

  Mary whispered something indistinctly. I turned to find her staring at me—the first genuine emotion cracking her stone facade: raw emotion, horror, and fear.

  I offered a serene smile and mimed wiping imaginary sweat from my brow.

  “A job well done."