"I'm not having this conversation, Eon. It's a matter of minutes now till we get the signal, and as soon as we do, you leave and get back to the station."

"I can still finish my job, Thomas."

"I know you can, and I know you would, but did you see yourself? The doctor is right; you need cleansing as soon as possible and a good rest. I called the station to send another cleaner over as soon as the fog has passed."

I sigh. It's useless, I can't argue with him. Not like this anyway. Getting back up here felt like a journey to the Ashen mountains, I'm not really in a state for clear thoughts and rational reasoning. So…

"Fine."

"Thank you." I hear him sigh in relief. He cares too much about my well-being, but I guess someone has to in this city. It's not like Thayer cares, or anyone else around me.

Well… Maybe some do. But I have a hard time believing it has anything to do with me as an individual. The Shadow cares because I'm someone who doesn't attract any problems to his missions, but I'm sure there are others like me. It's just easier to have me around than to go through the whole process of meeting someone again. And Doc cares because it's his job. He had left with Mrs. Lane in the blink of an eye despite the approaching fog. He had just weaseled his way through the sewer systems.

Not that the fog can't reach them, but the deeper the tunnels, the safer they are. There's a reason the easily accessible sewer tunnels are filled with homeless people. It's the only place that keeps them relatively safe. They still suffer, they still have health issues due to the fog, but at least they live.

I close my eyes, listening to the ticking of the oversized clock, till it vanishes into the background of my head in its ever-so-steady rhythm. I refused to sit down, so I'm standing here, with my back leaning against one of the marble pillars, waiting for the sound of the horn.

I lose track of time, I can't really hear anything, my ears are filled with the hissing sound of the sea. There's no sea around here, but my head feels like it's trapped in a vacuum, canceling out any other noise, or maybe it gets mixed into the pile. Who knows.

Finally, a sound arises. It takes a moment for me to catch it, to actively understand what it means, but then my head catches up. The fog horn. Signaling that the streets are safe once more.

"Doc, Mrs. Blair?" I open my eyes and push myself away from the pillar, to nod toward the two of them. "Thank you for your time. I'll be on my way back to the station."

"Don't mention it, Mr. Cleaner." Mrs. Blair's voice is soft, accompanied by a warm smile. "Get well soon." She adds, then her focus goes right back to Mrs. Lane who hasn't moved once. Is she going to be alright?

"If you don't mind, could you have someone call us once you get to the station?" I have to strain my ears to hear the ever-so-calm and quiet voice of the doctor.

"I guess I can't really say no, can I?"

"No."

"Tz," I would chuckle in self-irony if I had the energy to do so, "I will."

I would want to know if people in need of medical attendance get to their destination safely. So I can't blame him for his request. They probably will be stuck here for a little longer. Thomas had called the station for a cleaner to take over what is left of Constantin and the crime scene, as well as the clinic, requesting help for Mrs. Lane's transportation.

The doc still wants to move her as fast as possible, but what little strength she had left to walk up here has long since gone. While her eyes are open, her body is limp and therefore hard to move. And I would know; I move bodies for a living. There's no chance Mrs. Blair and the doc would get her to the clinic any time soon.

Even if they have to wait another two hours for transportation to arrive, they'll be at the clinic faster than trying to carry her through half of the city. But I hope it won't take hours for help to arrive. As well as I hope that my relief will arrive soon and work fast so Thomas can get back home soon. Of all people, he probably deserves it the most.

Thinking of it; I turn to him as he walks up to me, "I'll file the report for today."

Now I can't help but chuckle slightly, he hasn't written a report in ages. "You still remember how to write a report?"

"Ah, there are things that stick to your brain till death. And you did fill out the form of your process, I just have to add everything else."

I look at him with gratitude in my eyes, even though I feel my eyes squint due to the headache. It got better, a little, but it is still very much present.

"Thank you. I'll be on my way then. Get home safe, Thomas. I mean it."

"Same to you." He sends his warm smile my way. It is reassuring, and it helps to know that he has a wife and a little girl waiting at home, waiting for him.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Here's the thing with people who have nothing to lose but their lives; They are reckless. I am reckless. The doctor is reckless, kind of. But people like Thomas have a reason to get home safely, to make sure they get back to their family. They have someone waiting for them, they have a little future growing in their midst, a future that depends on them.

I turn and head downstairs. I was a little future once, cherished by two people, trying their hardest to raise me right. Well… As right as possible in a world like this.

I kneel next to my toolbox, stuffing the black gloves into the little bag holding all the other used gloves so far. One day my dad left and never came back. I don't remember him, I was still so very young.

I grab the bag and the spare set of clothes and make my way to the first-floor bathroom to get changed. My mom tried her best, took a second job to keep us afloat. We were lucky. It took years until they finally processed my dad's death properly. It's not like someone cares for the lower classes, if they die they die. That's that. But my dad wasn't a nobody to the city, he was an archist.

I stuff my clothes into the bag as well, even the shoes I was wearing up till now, and slip into a new pair. By the amount of people dying yearly, filing all the important deaths takes ages. Inheritance, funds, investments – everything is on hold until the city has worked through the deceased's file. Of course, the wealthy don't have to bother. They just pay and have their death reports within days. But we weren't wealthy. We were okay. We had enough to not worry.

For the last time today, I return to my toolbox-suitcase and store the bag inside, then I close the top compartment and lock it. My replacement hopefully has the code, if not they're not preparing well enough for their assignments. I look at Constantin, then my eyes wander to the vault door. I contemplate saying something, but instead, I get up and finally head out.

The air reeks awful like it always does after the fog. The awful smell of rotten eggs with a sour undertone. It's not toxic in this state, but it sure knows to worsen my headache. I get moving.

I applied to the arch, I thought it was my best chance with my dad being a former archist. A name can bring you far in this city. They rejected me. Two days later, my mother received all the money my father had left for us before he died. It came 10 years too late, but still, it was right on time. It lifted us right back into the middle class, if such a thing even exists, and my second application went through.

I started my education as a mortuary assistant. Then my mom died. I'll never forget the day they told me to swap my shift with someone else. No one wanted to tell me why, so I didn't. It's not like the arch tried to shelter me, not at all. They'll assign the worst-looking bodies to new students at the very start of their education and only if they can stomach them and push through the arch deems them worth their time and resources.

But there are rules in place; the same rules that ask lawyers to not work for their families, or officers not to deal with the crimes of relatives. But no one will really stop anyone from breaking these rules. So when they asked me to swap my shift and I refused, they shrugged it off and let me walk in on my mother's dead body.

She looked so… troubled. I may not remember my father, but I remember her. I took care of her as my job and as her son. After that, it was just me. No one to return home to, no one waiting for me. No family, not even a friend, let alone a partner. So I drowned in work. With her death, I lost the apartment. I knew it would take more than another 10 years for her death to be properly processed and filed by the city.

I slept in the small break room at work, and barely left my workspace when I was awake. Another year later the arch invited me to join the training program. And I did. I knew I had to get out of there, get a change of scenery. I was drained, numb. Every person on my table was just another body, another job, I fell out of touch with humanity. I needed to leave.

Not that my job now is that much better; most of the time I work alone, hidden in the shadows, unseen. But on the other side, it puts me in contact with people. There is no workspace I can lock myself up in, there are people at the station I need to talk to. And then there is Thomas who'll invite me for lunch whenever our schedules align. And there are nights like today, filled with encounters I can't avoid.

I hate it, but at the same time, I know it is important. I need it. No matter how much I struggle with socializing, no matter how much I sometimes wish everyone would just leave me alone – deep down I know that my survival depends on other people.

I stop in my tracks and turn my head, looking into this small, dark alley Thomas and I had passed on our way to the Lane mansion. In the flickering light of one of the street lamps, I see her. Curled up in a fetal position. Her clothes are tinted black by the fog. It looks like she tried to cover as much of her body with her clothes. But there was too little fabric for too much body.

"Come morning she may be dead," I mumble under my breath. How painfully right I was, although for a whole other reason. Black, oozy blisters cover her exposed skin, her hair has curled up as if it was exposed to searing heat. If she was lucky she suffocated before the pain ate her alive.

I lower my gaze; I feel overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness and guilt. And this time I know where it stems from. It's my guilt. Maybe accelerated by the guilt I cut from the weave, but it's still mine.

This is the reason why I had to get out of my previous job. This is why I had to stop isolating myself. Had she been brought in 4 years ago, I would have felt nothing. Numbed by the decay and despair, devoid of any emotion, I had just cut her open. She'd been just another body on my table.

"Fucking rats littering this district now." I hear a voice just down the street and raise my eyes to look at the body collectors. They're out and about whenever the fog passes, at least in the rich districts. Someone has to keep the streets clean. Though nothing in this city is really clean; not the people, not the buildings, not the streets. Figure of speech.

"Ay, wonder how they even got here."

"Not enough people breaking their legs! Fucking watchers should just shoot them if they get too close, no questions asked."

I get going and pass them silently. I'm too well dressed for them to address me, to even look at me. They may clean this district and talk like they are above those they collect, but any of these bodies could be them given another time on another day.

The carriage they pull along counts numerous bodies, thrown on top of each other without any respect for the dead. They are collecting the dead like they are collecting trash bags on a Monday morning.

"The way you smell they would shoot you next!"

"Little fucker!"

They both break out in laughter as I turn a corner. Soon, they are just background noise, and even further down the street, their voices are swallowed completely by the distance between us. Such a sad morning for so many people, yet our lives continue as if nothing has happened.