“...In summary, only one of the houses—house Dagrun—had direct contact to key aggressors in the riot. However, two other houses had close contact with them during this time. Going by the scent profiles on page eleven, we have good reason to believe that house Fysh and house Feynix sent funds to them, portions of which were later confiscated during the arrests of key aggressors, the full list being on page twelve and thirteen.”

Mole eyed through the lists Jarne had mentioned, his expression tight and tentative, though still smiling. After a few seconds, he put down the report and looked up at them. “I see. And you’re absolutely certain that this is the case?”

Jarne glanced at Kitty, who quickly answered, saying, “Yes, this is absolutely the case. And, furthermore, if you look at page…”

“Sixteen,” Jarne said, “assuming this is about the…?”

“The guards, yeah,” Kitty said. “Right, so, page sixteen, there’s a list of guards we believe were bribed to either ignore the ruckus, or skip their shift, or, you know… yeah.” He was sweating bullets. Absently, Jarne remembered that Kitty was actually only, like, twenty years old. Basically a kid. Had he even finished high school? That explained why he wasn’t used to giving reports.

Not that Mole seemed to mind. Nodding, he thumbed over to that page, and once again, Jarne couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the sight of him actually using his right arm. Only to prop up the papers, sure, but it still looked wrong. Reaching the designated page, Mole read through it quickly, only to stop at a certain name. “This… isn’t this…?”

Both Jarne and Kitty knew exactly which name it was. “Yes,” Jarne said, “we have good reason to believe the captain of the guards was in on it. As for motive…” Jarne hesitated to say it. Would Mole take it the wrong way? Would he blame himself for all of this? Shaking his head, he swallowed down such fears. “All evidence points to the motive being his ire towards losing his position as captain of the guards.”

He let his gaze fall to the floor. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have to watch Mole break down.

“Right,” Mole said. “That makes sense.”

Jarne slowly lifted his head. “It—it does?”

“Yeah, it does. It tracks with the other motives, as well.” He turned back to the page listing the related noble houses and their members, a bemused smile marring his face. “House Dagrun… Judge Wrytt of Dagrun Lerrent used to be a close friend of the late mayor. Both professionally and personally. And house Fysh… Yes, I brushed them off many times. They are a very small house, you know. They only gained noble status recently. I hear the late mayor had a hand in helping the judge Tyr Fysh receive his apprenticeship with house Dagrun. And as for the judgess Feynix…” He chuckled. “Well, she never liked me much. I’ve always left her parties early.” He smiled up at Jarne and Kitty. “It makes sense. I can see why they would hate me enough to do this.”

“No—no, that isn’t…” Jarne clenched his jaw. “It’s not your fault the mayor died.”

“I could have saved him, and I didn’t,” Mole said. “I could have announced his death earlier, and I didn’t.” His smile turned bitter. “To the late mayor’s closest friends, those kinds of lackings matter—a lot.”

With nothing more to say, Jarne stepped back. However, he couldn’t fall silent just yet. There was one more thing to say. One more question he had to know the answer to.

“So, um…” He said, eyes on his feet. Slowly, he lifted his gaze back to Mole. The look on his friend’s face—the eyes that didn’t quite feel like his—almost burned a hole through his conviction. Nevertheless, steeling his heart, he resolved himself to ask. “What will you do with them?”

Mole cocked his head. “What do you mean?” The room felt so cold. “Obviously, I’ll have the heads of the families executed.” The desk that spanned between him and his friend was so large. An unapproachable abyss. Endless, all-swallowing. “Alongside the former captain of the guards and the other key organizers.” With the window behind him, the cruel light of day casting his face in darkness, Mole looked so much like a mountain. A cold, barren, jagged mountain, with a face of stone. Cracked horizontally. A cruel smile. “As for the rest… The prisons are full, so it’ll probably be house arrest. Though, considering that they all have a few sick people in them, I suppose we might as well execute them. They’ll die eventually, but if we have them executed, there’s a chance they could agree to donate.”

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“That sounds lovely,” came a voice from Jarne’s side—Kitty, that eternal sycophant. “I think that would be a great idea. It’ll ensure no one tries to do something like this again, so we can all go back to the mayor’s mansion!”

Mole chuckled warmly, back in the light, though his face remained strangely stiff. Stuck in amicable hollow pleasantness. “That would be fun, but I’m afraid that with the estate in the state it is, what with how you left things, we won’t be able to return there. But, at the very least, we should be able to stay somewhere nicer than my office. Right, Rat?”

Breathe in, breathe out. Not huffy. Proper, controlled breaths. He had to breathe. If he didn’t breathe, he died. In, out. In, out. In, out…

“Rat?”

Jarne twitched. He turned to Mole. “Y—yeah?”

Mole’s smile widened on one end. Worried amusement. “Is everything alright, Rat? You look a bit pale.”

“Please stop smiling,” Jarne said. “Could you please stop smiling?”

“What?” The smile widened on both ends. Furrowed brow. Spread out like an infectious rash. Confusion. Concern. Care. “What do you mean?”

“Just for a second,” Jarne said, though he didn’t even know what he was asking for. “Stop smiling. Please.”

But he wouldn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. Even as the smile fell slightly, just slightly, it remained. Persistent as a wart. “Rat, I can’t understand what you’re asking for. Could you—”

Spinning on his heel, Jarne stormed out of the door, out into the hallway, down the stairs, and then he kept running, all the way down the boulevard. The streets were empty. It was the middle of the day, but no one was around. No one was allowed to be out and about. Down the road, a cart of rations creaked by, pulled by a diseased drake and tended by exhausted guards. Jarne stood rooted to the ground, staring at the cart—at the rations. How many points had been used to buy all of that? How many points would be needed to feed the city until the plague passed? That is, until all of the infected houses had died, and the healthy ones were the only survivors? How many points would Mole need?

Would Sully's points be enough? Would Plus’ points be enough?

Would his points be enough?

Turning his back on the cart, Jarne ran the other way. Houses upon houses upon houses. Shutters open to show diseased faces and dying eyes. The streets were thick with the smell of rotting flesh. Doorposts marked for death. He passed by a door and felt his feet stop wheeling beneath him. His breath tore through his throat, hot like fire. Slowly, his own mental machinations beyond his grasp, he turned to look at it. A large cross was painted on the door. He’d painted it, only two days ago. This… this was one of the dead houses. And, unlike most, he’d checked inside this one. Five dead. Two parents, three kids. Another tragic sight. But…

Hadn’t it smelled worse the last time he’d passed by it?

And wasn’t the door slightly ajar?

‘Looters,’ he thought. ‘Scavengers trying to get by, stealing from the dead. Lowest of the low.’

But something nagged at him. Somewhere deep inside, he could tell that something was off. The windows weren’t broken. The shutters were drawn. Stiffly, he moved up to the door and pulled it open. As he did, a little metal rod fell out of the door. Part of the lock. Picking it up, he found that half of it was sliced off as perfectly as though it had been cut with a laser. Not with a saw, not with a wire.

Something slick and cold settled in the pit of his stomach. Putting the rod in his pocket, he opened the door fully.

The familiar pungent smell of rotten cadavers and excrement wasn’t there. There was a twinge, a note, but the full body was gone. As though someone had aired out the house. But that might just have been due to the door being open. The bodies weren’t in the dining room, anyways. However…

The chairs were. And the food in the pantry was still there. Cups, plates, cutlery, ornaments, shutters, curtains, pots and pans… Everything was still there. Nothing had been stolen to use as firewood or to sell. The thing that slithered and squirmed in his stomach shifted. There was a sound, and after a brief moment of panic, he realized that it was only the chattering of his own teeth. He clenched his jaw to make it go away. The thing in his stomach whispered, saying, ‘Why break in to steal nothing? What else is there to take? What else, other than…’

He pushed it down. Steeling himself, he moved out of the kitchen.

It’s not like looters went for the kitchenware and furniture first. Maybe they only broke in to scout it out. That was possible. Valuables were usually kept in the bedroom, or maybe the living room. Both of these rooms were connected, beginning with the living room. Where the bodies were.

Jarne froze in his step. Images of bloated, blackened, intertwined bodies, parents and children, passed through his mind unbidden, lingering in the deepest corners. As before, as always, he allowed himself to fully process the memory. He’d seen this before. He would see it again. This would change nothing. He’d be okay, he’d be alright, and he’d come out of this the same as before.

Taking a deep breath, Jarne forced his feet to leave the floor, and went into the living room, where he instantly froze in place.

His entire body started trembling violently.

They were gone.

The bodies had vanished.