There was an oddly desolate air to High Town as Myra drove through it. The area was pretty, sure, with its gorgeous, brightly-coloured buildings and clean streets, but she did not see a single person out and about. She supposed night shifts and bar hopping were for the working class.

Unfamiliarity with the area had her frequently referencing the map she kept on the dashboard, a task made more comfortable by how empty the streets were. She passed by a well-tended garden, drove beneath a walkway made of reddish-brown wood, and past yet more high-rises. It was all a bit like being a mouse in a forest, except here all the leaves were clearly swept up.

She was angry. With Petyr. With herself for giving in to him. With the Bomber. With the world itself for not making any damn sense. And she wondered how the hell she was going to explain this little jaunt to her colleagues, and to the chief. She supposed it would depend on what that damned journalist thought was so important. Of course, if he really was breaking and entering then that would make her life a bit easier.

Or maybe it wouldn’t. Nothing made sense, after all.

A left turn brought her into Peace Street. It was a residential area made up entirely of houses taller than they were wide, and Myra reflected that a month’s rent here almost certainly cost more than her annual rent, before she reminded herself that these were all surely owned.

She counted down the street numbers as she passed them by until arriving at 42. It was as pretty as any of its neighbours, rising eight stories in the air as a testament to geometric architecture, ending in crown-like struts. She only saw a single open window, up on the eighth floor, and felt safe in assuming that she’d found Apartment 40.

“Yeah, I’m sure the view is nice,” she mumbled as she got out of the auto.

She passed by the phone booth Petyr had called her from and walked to the front entrance. A pull on the handle confirmed that it was locked, which explained why the floor-to-ceiling glass window next to it had been broken into a thousand pieces.

“We’re going to have to talk about that,” Myra said out loud, while quietly wondering why this hadn’t raised any kind of ruckus.

She walked in through the opening, ready to flash her shield if challenged. The lobby did not abandon the sense of aesthetics that so dominated the building’s front, nor its combination of red and white clay. There was an elevator, but pressing the button did no good at all, and so she sighed and opted for the stairs.

“We’re going to have to talk about why you’re at the damn top.”

The second floor was lit by soft, night-time bulbs, shining down on wine-coloured carpet. She meant to continue straight on up, but an open door caught her eye.

“Hello? Petyr?”

There was no response. Curiosity made her walk towards it, and caution made her put a hand on the revolver. ‘8’, read the large brass letter on the door’s front, and Myra took advantage of the carpet’s cushion to step silently into the doorway.

The apartment beyond was as dark as it was soundless. Myra reached inside and felt for a light switch. A few seconds of fumbling made her give up on the left side and so she went for the right.

“Police!” she announced as she finally found it and flipped the switch.

The apartment was completely empty. There was not a single piece of furniture, decoration or utility. Just bare walls, hanging bulbs and a spotless carpet. Myra walked in past the hall and into what she supposed was meant to be the living room.

There truly was not a single scuff or spot of wear on anything. Either this apartment has just finished an extensive renovation or it had simply never been lived in. There was a slightly surreal feeling to standing in a place like this, but Myra had other concerns and so walked back out and continued on up.

She kept her senses on alert, trying to be ready for anything while expecting nothing. But one floor after another was utterly silent, a strange combination of eerie and pretty in their abandonment.

Finally she reached the top floor, and took a few breaths leaning up against a wall until her legs and bruises stopped complaining quite so much.

All five of the apartment doors here were open. And what was more, someone had turned on the light in each one. Myra approached 38, the closest one, and peeked in. It was an exact copy of 8.

“Ah, you’re here,” said Petyr’s voice from the end of the hallway.

Myra peeked back out and saw him in the doorway of Apartment 40, leaning against the doorframe. Even in the soft lighting she could tell his clothes had taken quite a beating since last she saw him, and his flatcap had been replaced by a slouch hat.

“Let’s talk in here,” he added, and vanished out of sight.

Her mood didn’t improve at all as she strode down the hallway and past the elevator. It stood wide open so she could see that the emergency stop had been engaged, explaining why she’d had to make that damned climb.

“I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to begin,” Myra said sternly as she strode into 40. It was as pretty and empty as the rest. With no furniture to make use of, Petyr had chosen to sit down in a windowsill. The east wall was about seventy percent window, and yes, it did give a beautiful view.

“Oh, I know the feeling,” Petyr said.

She didn’t quite know what to make of his demeanour. It was an odd mix of intense and dreamy. It put her in mind of an artist at work. Or at least her idea of what that would look like.

Myra walked further into the apartment, stopping a few steps into the living room.

“Well... let’s start with the most relevant. You say you killed Wolf?”

“If he isn’t dead then I don’t know what it’s going to take,” Petyr replied. Then he waved his hand absent-mindedly. “Oh, and some of his chums too.”

“You seem awfully relaxed about this,” she said.

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“I have plenty of other things on my mind.”

“Well, vicious criminals or not, you do at the very least need to make a statement.”

“I’m doing that right now,” he replied.

“Properly. At the station.

“Mm.”

He simply looked thoughtful, and seemed to be gazing slightly above her shoulder.

“When and where did this happen?” she demanded.

“Halfway across Champion’s Bridge,” he told her. “Maybe... three hours ago?”

“I must have missed it when I drove over.”

“Oh, if anything still made sense you would not have missed that scene,” he replied.

Myra didn’t know whether to be incredulous, angry, confused or, as a last resort, amused.

“Do you have a gun?” she asked. “Or did you just beat them to death with your cane?”

She pointed at the object resting up against his thigh, slightly out of her sight. Petyr held her gaze meaningfully for a few seconds, though what the meaning was supposed to be she did not know.

“This isn’t a cane, Inspector. Open your eyes.”

He lifted it up. And it was...

Myra blinked. It wasn’t a cane. It was a sword. A straight-bladed, double-edged, elegantly made sword that tapered off to a sharp point.

“It was always a sword,” he added.

Then he turned as well as he could in his seat and threw the weapon. It hit the wall on his right point-first, sinking in like a knife into butter.

“Credit where it is due: Wolf very nearly killed me with his last swipe,” Petyr went on. “Would have cut me open if it wasn’t for this.”

He parted his coat, revealing a metal breastplate. It was mostly a dark blue colour, but also sported some golden decorations that formed stylised wings.

Myra shook her head slightly at the mounting absurdity.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“I remembered it,” he answered, then looked at her as if that was a completely normal thing to say. “Right at the last second, too. Would you like a peach?”

Myra stared at him.

“What?”

“A peach,” he repeated, then went into his coat’s front pocket and produced a peach. It was just about the most perfect-looking fruit Myra had ever seen, but she still let it bounce off her chest when he threw it at her. “I really do recommend it,” the man insisted. “It... really helped. But I suggest small bites only.”

Myra stared at him some more.

“Why are you here?!” she finally yelled.

Petyr spread his arms.

“There is no one here, Inspector. Not in this entire building. I walked the hallways, banging on doors, ringing the bells, yelling... no response.”

He stood up and faced the line of windows. Myra walked over to join him to see what he was looking at so intently, but it just seemed to be the city in general. There was Sentinel Tower on their left, the river on their right, and the station just barely visible a stone’s throw from Champion’s Bridge.

“There doesn’t seem to be a single person in all of High Town,” he added intensely.

“What?”

“I’ve checked other buildings,” Petyr said. “Homes and nightclubs. Nothing. Not a peep. I broke an automobile’s window and leaned on the horn for several minutes. Not a word of protest from anyone. I walked around beneath apartment windows and ranted that I was the Green Bomber. Again: Nothing.”

He turned to face her.

“High Town is empty.” He seemed to attempt a smile. “If you’ve ever wanted to just fire your gun out a window, now’s your time.”

“I’m not going to fire my gun out the window,” she replied flatly.

“Suit yourself.”

He walked to the centre of the living room, then did a sharp about-turn and spread his arms out again.

“They’re all like this,” he said, getting fully serious again. “Every business, every apartment, every window I peered through. Not one piece of furniture. It’s all a front.”

“That simply can’t be true,” Myra said, desperately afraid of the picture he was drawing.

“What’s your explanation, then?” he asked, and completely silenced her.

Myra turned back to the view, looking this way and that at the streets and buildings of this beautiful, brightly lit district, hoping for the slightest sign of humanity. But there was nothing. Her mind furiously searched for an explanation, concocting and dismissing one after another. Any mass evacuation of High Town would have made it into public awareness. Had she just completely overlooked the news somehow?

“There is a grand lie at work here,” Petyr said severely. “And the Green Bomber ties into it somehow. Or is aware of it at least, in his madness.”

He stared at her hard for a few seconds, making sure he had her absolute attention.

“Where is the dawn? That’s his phrase, repeated amidst the confused nonsense. And I’ve seen it in graffiti around the city. And indeed... where is the dawn?”

“What?” Myra said softly, as a very uncomfortable feeling started creeping in on her.

“When was the last time you saw the sun?” Petyr asked meaningfully.

“Well... last... last sunset, obviously!”

“But when was that? Just how long has this damn night been??”

“The sun...” Myra whispered to herself as the awful feeling ramped up.

She worked the night shift. Sure. But... how did she just sleep an entire day away? When HAD she last seen the sun? She remembered it, but try as she might she couldn’t count the days since.

“What... what is going on?” she asked desperately.

The look he gave her wasn’t unkind.

“I don’t know. Not quite yet. But it’s all coming back to me. I think it might just be a matter of hours.”

He picked the peach off the floor and brushed it with his hand.

“Look... do what I did. Go inside the Woodforth Building. The lie falls apart on the second floor. That’s why it was evacuated. That’s why everyone who actually witnessed what happened is so shaken. There’s only one uniform guarding it now. Override him and enter. And if he refuses to budge... enter anyway. You need to. Or would you rather live the lie?”

“N... no,” Myra said, and finally found a little bit of purchase in the freefall. “No. I want to understand this.”

“Then it’s the Woodforth Building,” he said, and slipped the peach into her outer coat pocket. “And eat this. When you’re ready. Trust me.”

She glanced down at the new bulge in her pocket.

“And what... are you going to do?” she asked.

Petyr walked back over to the windowsill and sat down.

“I think I’ll just wait here for a little while longer, and work on remembering,” he said. “Then I’ll go out and... well, we’ll see.”

Myra looked away from him. There were things she should be doing; such as participating in the ambush for the Green Bomber, or demanding more details on those supposedly dead gangsters. She should take him to task for trespassing and vandalism. But all that was distant noise at the back of her mind. Tempting though it was to look away from the madness and simply go along with the usual rules, she couldn’t. The questions she was faced with were too enormous to be ignored. Although without rules, without duty, what was she?

She took a halting step towards the door, stopped, then took another one. This all felt like some bizarre dream, right on the cusp of waking. She shuffled down the hallway and to the stairs, and by the time it occurred to her that she could use the elevator it was too late to bother going back up.