Chapter 43: Chapter 43: Broken Fingers

Saber was the only one who went to work the next day. She only stayed at the Institute for the morning, to hand in vacation notices for Hei and herself and me; then she left well before lunch.

In the afternoon, the three of us convened at home, where Atlas was as well. I told him everything that had happened with me recently. Including the note that had been slid under our door last night.

"What do I do?" I questioned him.

His chest heaved with heaviness. "Beats me. Sophia, you know more about the situation than any of us. What do you think?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you!" I blurted out. "Do I go to the Cleaner's Guild or not? Do…do you not have a clue whether this is safe?"

"It's a risk you'll be taking," Atlas admitted. "If you go to the Cleaner's, I'll keep an eye on you from a distance. I'll call in the city guards if things go wrong."

A paralyzing lightheadedness, born of anxiety, gnawed at me. I tried to focus, but to no avail.

"I'll go," I murmured.

And with that, I went to my room and closed the door and crawled into bed. I didn't know what I was doing anymore. If I really were to die…I mean, was I really going to die? I wanted to throw something against the wall. Dread frayed my nerves. I had a headache now. Part of me just wanted to forget everything and go to sleep.

And I did.

I spent the rest of the day phasing in and out of sleep, pathetically useless. At this point, I scarcely knew what to try. I heard the others conversing downstairs. Maybe they'd be able to come up with something.

Soon, night came. Mr. Atlas and I set out together at 7PM for the Cleaner's Guild. I wore a new coat I hadn't worn in public before. And I hid my Magus Battlehat under the coat, so no one would recognize me. On the way, I activated my level 3 ability, Cold Grenade. I conjured a bead of solidified ice magic and stored it in my pouch. If I had to flee or fight, I'd need it.

"The Cleaner's Guild is visible from the Ring One wall," he assured. "I will watch you from there. Keep an eye on your team notebook."

When I arrived at the Cleaner's Guild, there was no one standing outside. The mysterious note only said to meet there at night, but hadn't specified a time. I wondered if that had been on purpose.

Half an hour passed as I stood waiting. My heart beated hard. I periodically looked up at the walls around Ring One, to scout for Mr. Atlas. I might have seen him once, but the darkness made it hard to tell the guards apart at this distance.

A while later, a man approached me. He wore a nondescript white tee with jeans. A surgeon's mask covered his face.

"Your name?" he asked.

I studied the top half of his face, but couldn't recognize him. "Who are you?"

"Seven days," he replied in a low voice.

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I swallowed. "Sophia."

He gave a curt nod. "Follow me."

After a moment's hesitation, I did. I looked for Atlas one last time, scanning across the top of the walls, but did not find him.

The stranger led me through the nighttime streets, away from the bustling and lights near Ring One. We took a turn into an empty alley in Ring Two, where the dark wind chilled me. The moon shone bright and lit the streets with its cold cascade. When I glanced behind me, I caught sight of Mr. Atlas tailing us. I checked my team notebook; no one had written anything down.

"Where are we going?" I asked the stranger coldly.

He did not reply.

After a few more twists and turns, he stopped at a rusted iron door. Here, cobblestone walls fenced off the street on both sides. There were no windows, nor doors beside this one. The door was an unremarkable flat slab with a peephole. The stranger opened the door and motioned me in. I entered, into what was a dimly lit room packed with barrels and casks. A cellar? The barrels stacked densely one upon another, blocking my field of view. The stranger closed the door behind me; he did not enter.

"Name?" came a smooth, baritone voice from behind a wall of barrels. It had a light accent I couldn't recognize.

I ventured around the corner, knees half-bent in a battle stance.

Before me was a man with bandaged hands. He gave a stern, polite smile.

The man was middle-aged and bespectacled. He wore a white, collared Polo shirt, with a pair of creaseless cargo pants. Behind his rimless glasses were the deepest, darkest eyes I had ever seen. He approached me, with steps methodical and calculated like the movement of a surgeon.

"It is good to meet you, Sophia."

The creases of his face were sharp, like razor blades. I reached for the Cold Grenade in my pouch.

"Put your hand down," he said. His voice rang, cold as iron. The smile on his face remained all the same.

My hand fell back down to my side, shaking.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I am Khan of the Bloody Fingers. Headmaster of the Logistics Division." He looked at his injured fingers and gave a half-hearted, businesslike chuckle.

"Sophia," he repeated my name. "What do you say, the two of us put an end to these pointless games?"

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