"Mrs. Lane," I address her calmly while Thomas has already excused himself to empty his stomach.

"Hm?" I hear her voice, deprived of any guilt. I doubt she can even grasp the situation. Meanwhile, my eyes are fixed on the chandelier. Blood is dripping down onto the marble floor which at some point used to be white.

"How exactly did this happen?" It's usually none of my business. But it's a rare sight and I still try to figure out how I'll go about this whole scene. At this point, I wouldn't even call it a crime scene anymore; it's a goddamn masterpiece of a scene, fitting right onto the big stages of the theater.

"He exploded." She couldn't have said that any more nonchalantly.

"Yeah, I can tell. But why?" I still can't take my eyes off the chandelier. It's hanging three meters above my head, bits and pieces of Mrs. Lane's affaire cover the ceiling, the walls, the floor, everything. He must have exploded right on the spot with a lot of force. Getting rid of a body is one thing; piecing it back together while cleaning up is a whole other thing.

I seem more calmly collected and curious than anything else, but in reality, I don't really feel anything about it. Unlike poor Thomas. He wasn't prepared to be met with such a scene. Neither was I, but I guess now I really have seen everything.

Finally, I avert my eyes, as she slaps her smooth hands together, the sound echoing through the oh-so-empty hallway. I look at her, and she seems like a child who just got asked if it wants some candy. She is not overly excited, but she seems absolutely content with herself and her surroundings.

"Well, we do harbor some of the arch's artifacts. You know how they can be."

"That's why you wanted an arch-trained cleaner, I assume?" now I have to do the talking; I sure hope I don't mess this up.

"Of course, wouldn't let anyone else near this door. One of the artifacts called out to him, I assume. I got him up the stairs, then he turned and bolted right back down like a mad dog. I tried to stop him, and the moment he reached the vault door he just… poof."

"He just… poof," I repeat after her, solely to my own, inner amusement. She really doesn't care, not a single bit. But it makes sense. It explains the signs of a fight on the way down here, and it may even explain her weird behavior. She may not notice it, but she is affected too.

"Mrs. Lane, my lady. I have to ask for my own safety. Are the artifacts properly stored?"

"They should be, but I'm not sure. That's why you're here. You've been trained to handle artifacts; it shouldn't be a bother."

Yeah, it shouldn't. Doesn't mean it won't. But I hold my tongue and nod. I have a job to do, and it will take way longer than I thought.

"Alright, I better get to work. My lady, I need to ask you to step away until the work is done."

"Oh," she pouts. What did I expect?

"Here I was hoping," she continues, "I could watch a pretty, handsome man doing all the work. Tell me," oh no.

"There are only three possibilities for a man like you, Mr. Cleaner." Here we go again. Why do I have to endure this?

"First option: You are filthy rich. Which you aren't. I would know if you were," she's got a point.

"Second option: You have a lot of ladies fighting over you," …It's not like I would know, but sure. Why not.

"Third option: You are a man's possession," it hurts that she's so right about this one. But I will never let her know. Instead, I tilt my head a little, keeping eye contact. I don't need to tell her to go on, she gets right to it without hesitation.

"I would hate for the third option to be the case. We don't meddle with the possession of men. But for the second option, you may want to consider my humble self. Poor Constantin just exploded on me. I do have a big heart – and wallet. I certainly wouldn't mind spending my money on such a pretty face," I know exactly what she tries to offer me. But the thing is, I don't roll that way.

Well, to be fair, Thayer already had to work his ass off and come up with the right offer at the right time for me to take the bait. It's enough to sleep with one filthy rich person, I don't need another. Besides, all she can offer me is money in exchange for some intimacy and empty small talk.

"My lady, I need to get to work," I feel like I'm repeating myself, just clearer this time. I will not answer her, I don't have to answer her. There is nothing she needs to know about me.

"Alright, I'll let you do your job. But promise you'll think about it," with a little bow she winks at me, then she turns around to ascend the stairs. I wait till I can't hear her heels hitting the marble floor anymore, then I sigh deeply.

I hate socializing.

I glance up.

…And I hate this particular job already.

But there is no use crying about it. So, first things first. I ascend the stairs, following the trail of Mrs. Lane and Constantin's fight, until I find the spot where it probably started. The good thing about working in such surroundings is that these mansions and manors are always unbelievably clean, sterile, and in order. It is easy to find the smallest thing out of place. This becomes a whole other story once I enter a middle- or lower-class home. And the worst are public spaces. Sometimes, there is no telling what belongs and doesn't. Half of my jobs are supported by hunches and intuitions. Luckily, I haven't messed up yet.

For a moment, I let my eyes wander, wondering how Thomas is doing. But then I remind myself, that even if he's doing fine by now, he won't come back to join me. First of all, this is not his place to be but mine. Second, there is probably nothing that could get him back to such a sight. I'll go find him once I'm done.

Finding a good spot, I place down my heavy briefcase. It's more shaped like a toolbox in a briefcase skin, but they don't particularly like it when I refer to it with anything else than, well, a briefcase. I stopped wondering why they are so sensitive about it. But it's not my place to judge. I enter the code into the small combination lock, undo the latches, and open it up.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

It's hard to prepare properly if I don't know what I'll find, but since Mrs. Lane has been so adamant about getting an arch-trained cleaner, I did go over the top a little bit, or at least I thought I did. Always expect the worst, that's my philosophy when it comes down to this business. And for once, I didn't over-prepare. While I put on the black gloves, I let my eyes go through my preparations. The trail of the fight is the smallest issue, but I need to plan my next steps efficiently.

Yes, yes, this might be the best way to go about it. For the moment, I focus on setting up things straight again. Smooth out the red carpet, reposition the pedestals, polish every surface, right every single petal of the artificial flowers. It's not hard work, but it takes time. I need to make absolutely sure that everything doesn't just look right but feels right. Not a single fingerprint should remain, not even a thought. Which is the hardest part.

People have emotions, and these emotions can remain. Cleaning things I can see with my bare eyes is easy. Finding every detail out of place, every fingerprint, every little wrinkled petal, every hair – it becomes harder. But getting rid of the unseen is always the hardest part. I need to distinguish between the emotions that have been here before and the ones that originated in relation to the crime scene.

I head back to my suitcase to get my little helper. It is unbelievably heavy; I couldn't wait to place this damn toolbox – sorry, suitcase – down, but I'm glad I took it with me. If it wasn't for its weight, I sure would make use of it more often. With a tap on the smooth, golden cavity on the top of the sphere, I activate it. A soothing hum fills the room. I hear it as clearly as always, but I know untrained people wouldn't be able to hear anything at all. It's the same training that enables me to sense the influence of most artifacts, though it is different from artifact to artifact. Some I can hear, some I can feel, and some slip into my mind causing visions or making their presence known in another way.

It takes a moment for the sphere to fully start up. Its hum eases me a little bit. It is hard to describe; it's not really a sound or music, it's more like a vibration I can hear and feel, and it is steady, unchanging. Finally, it starts to hover; a dim, purple glow emits from deep within the sphere and it starts to spin slowly. The glow grows stronger, focuses, and suddenly, the whole area is covered in purple light. It is scanning the room, hitting every particle of emotion in the air. It lets me see the weave. Like the wavering air close to an overly hot surface, I can see the trails of the past in the air. Older emotions are more faded, darker, but the newer ones are clearer, sharper, and brighter.

There's a spike close to the vault door, something I note to myself for when I move on to this section. Another spike occurs right atop the stairs. Was it Constantin or Mrs. Lane that caused it? I can't tell. I see that it's there, but I'm not specialized in this branch. A proper medium would be able to pull the strings of the weave apart and connect them to different people. They could read so much more than I can. But I don't have to. The only thing I need to do is get rid of the newer strings while leaving the older ones untouched.

While the sphere hovers slowly around to cover the whole area, I concentrate on the strings I have to cut. Well… 'cut'… that's a stupid metaphor, but also the most fitting one. I'm not an emotional person, which probably makes me one of the best cleaners – at least in this district. I focus, and I let these emotions enter; I give them a place to stay, to reside in. I feel them pouring in. I feel a sudden compulsion, nausea, a certain dizziness if only for a brief second. These are unfamiliar emotions, not as strong as they are felt by the person causing them, but I still feel them. Sudden anger, distrust, disgust, sadness – there, the spike, a sudden outburst of overwhelming guilt. Guilt?

I close my eyes for a second, suppressing everything I just collected. Why guilt? I assumed it was anger or some other form of aggression. Anger spikes a lot in the weave; it's one of the compulsive emotions that can come out of the blue, closely followed by arousal. But guilt is usually underlying. It's timid, silent, a follower that barely becomes apparent at crime scenes. It grows and surfaces later if it does at all.

But either Mrs. Lane or Constantin felt guilt. Apparently, it hit out of nowhere like a bullet. It's peculiar. Not only is this a crime scene I have never seen before, but the lingering emotions paint it even more bizarre. What happened? No, no. Why did it happen? I'm usually not intrigued by the stories such scenes tell, but this one… It may put me in danger. Maybe I already am in danger.

"I absolutely have to go!"

"Mrs. Lane, I cannot let you interfere with the crime scene or the cleaner's job!"

My eyes snap open the moment I hear voices echoing down the wide staircase. It seems like Mrs. Lane has a hard time staying idle, and Thomas tries to keep her upstairs to not interfere with my work. He fails. I can hear her heels rushing down the marble stairs, followed by rushed but much calmer footsteps. Thomas is not a particularly fit man; there is no way he can keep up with her, but he tries.

I rush to the sphere and tap the cavity once more to shut it off. God, why is this thing so heavy? With a silent groan, I catch it before it hits the floor and shove it back into my briefcase, closing the lid to hide my gear. And right on time, Mrs. Lane arrives, out of breath. I eye her up and down; her indifferent, peculiar demeanor has changed. She seems stressed. Has the shock finally settled?

"Is it alright?" panic. She's panicked. I look like she caught me in the middle of assessing my gear, kneeling on one knee in front of my briefcase, so I get up, slowly to not agitate her. What does she mean by 'it'?

"My lady, I fear I cannot let you pass further downstairs. It is not a pretty sight, and you could compromise my work." I try to sound as calm as possible, with a hint of empathy. But the thing is, I don't really feel empathy. I feel a whole lot of things thanks to the emotions I granted entry to my own consciousness, but I'm far away from feeling calm, or sensible for her situation.

She shifts to the side, I shift along, trying to stay in her line of sight, covering the mess further down the stairs. But it's not just a body, it's a slaughterhouse crime scene. There is no chance that my rather slim and not-too-tall build could hide it from her searching eyes. And suddenly, she collapses with a heart-wrenching sob. Just in this instant, I'm not sure which sounds are more present: her uncontrollable sobs or Thomas' huffing and puffing while he finally catches up. He's doing the right thing by coming to a halt before he could possibly see the scene.

Well, there's another flight of stairs between me and the crime scene and a few steps between me and Mrs. Lane who collapsed right in the entry hall. Thomas, on the other hand, has just reached the end of the staircase leading down to the entry hall. I can't really see him from my angle, but I know he's there.

"No, nonononono… no… My Constantin. My poor, poor Constantin. No, no. Why didn't you listen? Oh why, my baby, my treasure, no…" It's hard to hear her words; she's mumbling under her breath, crying tears of loss. I narrow my eyes in suspicion. I know shock, I already figured she might be out of it, trapped in denial, or even influenced by one of the artifacts she's storing for the arch. But I didn't expect her to falter much in her demeanor. Even if the shock passed, I expected her to keep her composure, be it just because she absolutely has to in her position.

But here she is, crying and sobbing. There's nothing left of the all-so-mighty lady who offered to basically buy me without a second thought. What caused this? With a sigh, I ascend the few steps, just enough to face Thomas. He's still breathing heavily. He looks in shape, but his lungs aren't. Something a lot of people have to deal with due to the black fog. Get caught outside once, and it burns away on your lungs. And if you're really unlucky, you'll not survive it.

Thomas and I never talked about it, but we were given insight into each other's files. He knows about my cactus; I know about his defective lungs. Not a fair trade in my opinion, but it is what it is. Imagine the boring person I have to be for the arch to note down my 'odd possession of a cactus'. It's not that odd. It's pretty, it's low-maintenance, and about the only living thing in my life I can be proud of.

"Could you call the doc in?" I ask and he gives me a nod.

"Give me a second," he pants, "there's a communicator on the second floor. I just have to collect myself for a moment." I nod, understanding. Wouldn't want him to have a heart attack. Meanwhile, Mrs. Lane seems like she isn't about to move from her slumped-over position. But I stay close, just in case. I may have just enough strength to carry this stupid briefcase around without batting an eye, but stopping another person in motion is a whole other thing. If she bolts, I won't be able to stop her. So I have to make sure to catch her before she has the chance to make a run for it.