"You look awful, Mr. Moor!"

I squint my eyes the moment I hear Miss Amber's squeaky voice. It's the last thing I need right now.

"Tell me about it." How can a single human being be so energetically awake at…? My eyes twitch up to the small clock above her counter – Half past three in the morning? Or is this still considered night? I have a hard time telling, working during the night most of my days.

She smiles at me widely as I walk up to her reception booth, throwing a glance behind her just to see if anyone else is awake, working their lives away in the secretariat. There's Dorothy, but she seems to have nodded off at her desk. Not even Miss Amber's energy could wake her up at this ungodly hour.

"Mr. Ashworth reported you in, would you like to make a call?"

"Yes please." She tries to keep quiet, but at this point, I just believe it's not possible with a voice like hers. It's not so bad on most days, I got used to it, but at the moment I experience some kind of sensory overload.

I watch her dial the number she had noted down, then she hands me the headset and the speaker. Usually, it's fiddly, but this communicator has been designed to be easily accessible from my side of the booth, while only the desk clerk can handle the rotary dial.

I press one of the earmuffs at my ear, holding the speaker close to my mouth, just waiting for someone at the Lane mansion to pick up. It takes a moment, but after a while, Thomas answers.

"Ashworth at Lanes?"

"Thomas, it's me. I made it to the station."

"Good, thank you for the call. Miss Morell arrived five minutes ago and attended to the crime scene. Or what's left of it."

"And the transporters?"

"They'll be here soon."

"Okay, I'll leave you to it."

"Get some rest, Eon. I'll see you around next week."

"You too." With that, the call ends, and all that remains is static noise. I hand Miss Amber the speaker and headset back.

"Mr. Ashworth has already instructed us to get the cleansing prepared for you. It's in room two."

I only nod and turn away from her, just to remember the report. I turn my head, merely enough to look back at her.

"Mr. Ashworth will file the report."

"Alright." She smiles again, and I turn for good. This place, it somehow feels like home. The dark wood, the low ceiling, the overall layout – it feels comforting, today more than ever. Gone are the big, empty hallways, the high ceilings, the opulent furniture, and the overly ornate decorations. Here I feel safe, at ease. The moment I entered through the heavy door I could feel how my displacement anxiety faded. It's not gone, it will take time till I feel normal again, but it's a good start. It goes to show that sometimes a change in environment is all it needs to get better.

I walk past the reception booth and head downstairs. One could think I had enough basements for the rest of the month, but it doesn't really feel like one. Sure, there are no windows, but it's not like there's enough room for windows anyway.

Coming down the stairs, to the right is the door leading to the archives. Straight ahead are the toilets, the door to its left leads to the showers. Turning to the left is a corridor with 3 doors on each side and at the very end stands an old grandfather clock. Nothing special, but accurate, with a potted plant right next to it. Pictures are hanging on the dark wooden wall panels depicting landscapes and sceneries.

Most of them are faded but well taken care of. They are old, very old. They are probably the most valuable thing someone could steal at the station and it's still not worth it. The light is warm, giving me a sense of security. Nothing here is arbitrary. Everything is handpicked and designed to ease the mind; Warm colors, order, and small things meticulously placed to convey a sense for nature and time. And probably a hint of magic, unseen but comforting.

I turn into the corridor and enter the first door on the left. The interior is consistent in all of these rooms. Warm colors, wooden walls, pictures here and there. A worn-down carpet leads me into the room and I walk over to one of the lockboxes to lock up all my personal belongings, then I grab one of the old but warm bathrobes.

The fabric is thin and a few holes have been stitched up carefully. We're well-equipped but the station doesn't have the funds to buy new things over and over again. Most things have to be well cared for to ensure they last as long as possible. Our tools are provided to the station directly by the arch, as are clothes for our work. But everything else isn't as important.

Money is everything, and the arch can't provide every station with the newest, softest clothes, or the fuzziest carpets. And second me, it's better like that. I've seen enough sterile environments for a day, I crave normalcy and practicality. Everything looks used and that's how it should be, it gives these everyday items a soul, character even.

I strip out of my clothes and slip into the bathrobe, then I enter the sauna. Well, we refer to it as a sauna, which makes it easier, but technically it's a cleansing chamber. The air is heavy with the scent of different herbs. The steam, although warm, isn't warm enough to make me sweat.

I pull on the small chain that hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the room to turn on the light. It takes a moment, then this small room fills up with orange dancing lights and I slump down onto the bench. I don't really know what the station uses, it's a bunch of medical herbs, light therapy, and some magical hocus-pocus. But it helps immensely.

With every deep breath I take I feel it. It enters my lungs, then spreads to my head which feels lighter and lighter. It's one of the only processes where I perceive light-headiness as pleasant. It's different from the effect alcohol or tiredness has, it feels more controlled. Exhaustion, alcohol, and other substances make it hard to think, hard to focus, but with cleansing, it's the opposite.

What felt so hard just a few minutes ago is easier now. I can feel it push and pull on the emotions that don't belong to me, slowly casting and luring them out. The light gets dimmer by the minute as the crystal emanating it starts to fill up with all the baggage I carried with me so far.

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I had cleansings before, but I don't remember the light ever becoming so dull in the past. But maybe that's just my perception. It is very steamy after all. My headache fades, slowly but surely, leaving behind only the exhaustion. I know once I step out of the chamber a slight headache will return. Simply because my eyes are strained and perceive light as the personification of evil right now, solely based on my exhaustion.

I sit for a good 20 minutes with an empty mind, just to make absolutely sure the crystal has captured all of the residue. Another two deep breaths and I get up. I feel better, way better. Not that it's an instant cure for everything, but it took away the biggest burden. It took the thing away that hindered me in working through the other stuff.

This day… night… It has been a lot. Thoughts have been planted in my head, some feelings got triggered due to my inability to process them fast enough because of the emotional residue. The Shadow and his antics linger in my mind, his smug face, his nonchalance – but overall his words stick. I don't want to think about it, but I can't help it either.

I know he's right. While I believe that he's nothing but talking big, I wonder… What's it like to have control in a relationship? What's it like to not be a plaything, but a person with feelings and emotions? What would my life be like if Thayer would just care enough to give me some autonomy? Why are we trapped in such agreements, and why are we forced to agree in the first place?

Have all the good people gone? It's not like I don't have options. I don't think Mrs. Lane will come around to reestablish her former offer, but there are other wealthy ladies in need of a young man they can spoil. All it takes is to sleep with them. I shudder. I know some men are struggling with the opposite gender, or women who struggle with the same gender, and yet they still sell themselves out to a rich woman.

They lay with a person they don't find attractive, fulfilling a deed they find no pleasure in. Maybe they even feel disgusted, turned down, but yet the gifts and money are worth it. Just as men and women are selling themselves away to powerful men despite their contradicting attractions. They simply have no other choice.

We can't choose who or what we are attracted to, and it's not like we're ever blamed for our attractions. That's a thing of the long-lost past. I guess, when survival becomes a priority, no one has time to discuss gender and gender roles. We don't have time for that, and as long as the childbirth rates are stable no one cares.

So, could I sign myself off to a woman? No. Thayer has a habit of putting me through hell and back, but it's not the act with a man that's the issue – and I have to be real about this; he is too attractive compared to his personality – it's the way he handles me. Maybe a lady would be more gentle, but how would I even perform? Next thing I know she throws me out in a cardboard box with 'free' written all over it, like an unwanted animal.

I have immense respect for people who can be the property of someone not aligning with their sexual attraction. It's rare to find someone who wants simple company and good conversations. Not that these kinds of wealthy or powerful individuals don't exist, but they are very, very rare. Being a property means fulfilling a duty, and mostly that duty includes sex. The way they want, not the way we want.

I shake my head and push open the door. I need a good night's rest or else these thoughts will consume me. I swear under my breath. What did this fucking thief do to me and my head? It's not like Thayer would ever hand me over to someone else. And there is not a single person in this godforsaken city who would still want me once the Bear makes his possession known. They would retract all their offers at once and I would never receive another one.

This whole system is rigged in his favor. He holds control. He reigns. Even those opposing him can't deny it. The day he dies or steps down will be a dark day for this city, darker than the fog. He's a mobster, the king of exploitation, money laundry, weapon and drug dealing, but he also ensures that a lot of people survive. He keeps the gangs busy and the wealthy safe as a result.

Fucking madman. If he goes down, I'll be going down as well. Not just because his protection would cease to exist but because crime would spike in an instant. My job would become significantly more dangerous. And who's going to protect me then? Stupid shadows? I doubt it.

I change back into my clothes, hang the robe back on its hanger, and gather my belongings. Well, at least I'm cursing and cussing again, I kind of missed it. If Thomas' creative outlet for his emotions is writing, then mine is swearing. Silently. To myself. But still, it takes creativity, alright?

Just as I'm about to leave the room I catch Dorothy with her hand raised, knuckles of her fingers out, and a slightly puzzled expression on her round, sleepy face as the door she just was about to knock at went out of reach.

"Good morning, Dorothy." It's adorable, watching her as her head tries to process the situation, then she moves her hand in front of her mouth and yawns.

"Goooo-od morning." Small tears just formed in the corners of her eyes, she must be terribly tired. She isn't usually working night shifts, so that's probably why.

"Just came to collect the cleansing crystal."

"Of course." I step to the side and follow her with my eyes, as she slowly drags her tired body past me. God, looking at her makes me awfully tired. "Good night, Dorothy."

"Good night, Mr. Moooooooooo-ooooor." She yawns again, I have to suppress a yawn myself and slip out of the room.

Nearing the stairs, I can hear Miss Amber talking. I can't really make out what she's saying, or maybe I don't care enough to catch the content of her banter. I brace myself to meet whoever is with her.

To my surprise, it's one of our newer members. A cleaner just like myself. I don't like him much, he is bragging too much about his encounters and the scenes he has cleaned so far.

"Mr. Moor!" I'm greeted by the deep voice of my disliked co-worker, while I dart my eyes at Miss Amer. I don't even question her energy anymore at this hour, she's always here during the night. It's just her time to be up and awake, working and making conversation. My sleep schedule aligns more with hers than anyone else's but I sure lack her energy and need for socializing.

But we can't all be alike, can we now? "Rookie." I avert my eyes from her to look at Andrew, nodding in a greeting manner. I don't intend to be pinned down and locked into a conversation just now, so I beeline it to the door.

"Oi, when will ya'll stop calling me rookie?" He pouts, and I can't tell if it's in a joking or serious way. I'm too exhausted to profile people I barely know.

"Just another month of training, rookie, and people will start to address you as Mr. Morell." Miss Amber chimes in, her voice as piercing as ever. I pinch the bridge of my nose with two fingers, trying to suppress the lingering headache that's about to resurface.

He huffs, then shrugs. "Is my sister already out?"

"Indeed, she had to replace Mr. Moor at today's crime scene." Oh for fuck's sake, Miss Mariah Amber, I was just about to get out of here, but now you just redirected the rookie's focus back to me.

"Replace?" He turns to look at me, his arms lazily folded on top of the counter of Miss Amber's booth. He kept his relaxed posture, just turning enough to face me without breaking loose from his initial position.

"Color me surprised! How come one of the best cleaners needed a replacement?" He's mocking me, I can tell that much. But what did I expect from someone who tries to paint their jobs as the most difficult and adventurous ones in existence? Funny though, for how much he brags about his encounters, none of them are ever mentioned in his reports.

"Being trapped for over an hour with unfamiliar emotions while the black fog was roaming through the streets." My voice is dry, quiet, I don't have the energy to deal with this right now.

"Weak." He snorts.

"Whatever." I don't care. I know the value of my skills, I don't need to compete with him. Miss Morell will do so on my behalf later. Nothing takes away her fun of readjusting her brother's head once in a while. The only downside of my situation is that I won't be around to witness it.

Miss Amber is fast to catch on to the situation, as she places her slender fingers on Andrew's arm. She sends an intrigued smile his way, "so, rookie, sounds like you had another eventful clean-up?" She raises her thin eyebrows, almost in a flirtatious manner, and of course our rookie can't help but jump in action.

"Oh, you can't even imagine, Miss Amber."

"Tell me everything." Yeah, no, I can't just ignore her high-pitched voice no matter how softly she tries to speak. But Mr. Andrew Morell – Rookie of the station and winner of the ladies' hearts – doesn't care.

I notice Miss Amber glancing at me with a smile, signaling me to get out of here while I can, and with a thankful nod I leave the station. Bless her heart. I would feel sorry, but I know she doesn't mind one single bit to listen to Andrew's intricate stories for the next hour or two.