16. exterminators must be RESILIENT!

The soft undertones of metal and iron filled the air as hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. Doctors moved in and out of rooms, clipboards in hand, gloves stained with blood.

Ansel sat hunched over, elbows on his knees, his good hand gripping his cast-bound arm. His clothes were stiff with dried mud and blood—some his, some not. His foot tapped relentlessly against the metal floor, the uneven rhythm reverberating against the walls.

Three days had passed since Raval. Three days since the myutant's death. The medics had arrived, carrying bodies away one by one, some covered, some still twitching as they were dragged onto stretchers.

The smell of antiseptic burned Ansel's nose, but beneath it, he could still catch traces of blood. Three days, and the stench hadn't left him.

Ansel had barely moved since then.

Gran and Massiah lay in the room across from him, hooked up to machines that beeped in slow, steady intervals. He hadn't gone home, hadn't changed. Some irrational part of him believed that if he left, he'd return to the worst kind of news.

So he stayed.

Across the hall, Dahlia sat in the same position she had been for hours, knees drawn up, face buried in them.

She hadn't taken Quem's death well.

None of them had.

But it had shattered her in a way he couldn't quite reach.

Ansel wanted to say something—to pull her out of the pit, to tell her Quem had made that choice without regret. That it wasn't her fault.

But now wasn't the time.

"You two."

The voice cut through the air, and both Ansel and Dahlia snapped upright.

But it wasn't a doctor.

A man stood before them, clad in the company's overcoat—though not properly. He had it tied around his waist, wearing a faded grey gaming polo underneath. A pair of glasses rested on his nose, the glow of the hallway reflecting off the lenses.

"What is it?" Ansel asked, leaning back into his seat.

"They're not waking up for at least a week," the exterminator said, eyeing them both. "Go home. Take a shower. Sleep. You're just kids, for Pete's sake."

"Are you done?" Dahlia muttered, already back in her seat, fingers fidgeting on her lap.

The exterminator sighed, shaking his head as he turned down the hall. "Sabrina wants you in her office," he called over his shoulder. "Now!"

Neither of them wanted to leave—not for anything. But they stood anyway, boots clanking against the floor as they made their way to Sabrina's office.

They knocked. A soft voice answered from within.

They stepped inside.

"Sit."

Sabrina's gaze was steady as they took their seats.

"If this is about going home—" Dahlia started, but Sabrina cut her off.

"You know," she said, leaning back slightly, "for three years, I made Massiah's final rank-up assignment nothing more than following a group of recruits through their own rank-up. That was it. He'd already done everything else."

She pushed her chair back, its wheels creaking against the floor.

"I also made every recruit since then have the rank-up assignment of getting Massiah to follow them. And after a few months of him not budging, I'd change it to something easier—completing a mission, something trivial."

"Why are you telling us this?" Dahlia asked.

Sabrina exhaled. "Because I'm happy."

Dahlia and Ansel exchanged a glance.

"I'm happy that Massiah has friends. Partners who care enough to wait three days in a hallway for him to wake up."

She stood, turning to the window, hands clasped behind her back.

"Before Massiah became an exterminator, he lived in the depths. Maybe worse than that—a place they called the Slums. Every scar on him? That's where they came from." Her voice was quiet, somber. "I wanted him to build a life. To forget that cruel past. And for the first time, it finally seemed like he had. Yet I put him in danger again."

"It wasn't your fault," Ansel said.

"Maybe not," Sabrina muttered. "I do what's necessary when it's necessary. That's my job." She turned, her eyes meeting theirs. "Still, I'm grateful to you both for looking out for him."

"If you're grateful, then let us stay. Let us be here when he wakes."

"You're exhausted," Sabrina said, looking at Dahlia now. "Not just physically. You need time—to rest, to heal. This isn't healthy."

Dahlia opened her mouth to argue, but Ansel's grip tightened around her wrist.

Sabrina was right. They were sleep-deprived, starving, running on nothing but grief and guilt.

"The second he so much as blinks, I'll call you both," Sabrina promised. "You have my word. Is that enough?"

Dahlia hesitated. Then nodded. Ansel did the same.

"Good," Sabrina muttered. "In better circumstances, I'd be pinning medals to your coats and celebrating your promotions. But now..." She shook her head.

"We'll do it when Massiah wakes up," Ansel said, standing. Dahlia rose beside him. "Just don't forget to call us."

"I won't."

They left, their footsteps fading down the hall.

Sabrina sat in silence for a long moment.

Three dead.

On paper, it was a victory. A loss lower than anyone had expected.

But to her, it was too much.

With a sharp breath, she slammed her fist against the desk, then swept her arm across it. Glass and ceramic shattered against the floor.

Once again.

She had put her exterminators at risk,

On her commands.

They lost their lives.

"You heading home?" Ansel asked, the thin, scraggly air of New Haven barely stirring around them. "If you don't want to be alone—"

"I'll be fine, Ansel," Dahlia muttered, walking away. "I want to be alone."

"Oh. No problem," he said, watching her go.

A few steps away, she hesitated, raising a hand. "Thanks for looking after me. I'll definitely treat you to that burger..." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Just not now."

"It's okay." Ansel gave a small nod. "Just know I'm here if you need me."

She waved once before disappearing into the streets.

Ansel turned in the opposite direction.

His rented apartment sat at the edge of the haven, tucked into one of the many shady alleyways where people got robbed on a daily basis. The air was thick with the stench of cheap tobacco and nicotine, the walls stained with time and neglect.

It wasn't much. But it was cheap.

Cheap enough on an exterminator's salary, at least.

On his way, he stopped by an open vendor. Unlike the few remaining supermarkets, everything here was either fake, stolen, or both—but at least the prices were manageable.

"That'll be two thousand credits," the storekeeper muttered.

"For two packs of ramen?" Ansel scowled but tapped his credit card against the scanner. The machine beeped, and he walked off without another word.

After the Collapse, paper money became worthless overnight, flooding the streets until it lost all meaning. Within days, the old economy crumbled.

Years later, in an effort to regain control, the major havens introduced a credit system—specialized cards tied to a person's identity.

The chips embedded inside handled all the transactions, making them the only viable currency. While a handful of banks still operated, their primary role had shifted to issuing and maintaining these cards.

Registering as a citizen in any major haven meant providing one. If you didn't have one, you were given one. If you lost it... you were in trouble.

Ansel climbed the metallic stairs leading to his room, each step echoing in the quiet alleyway.

It was barely an apartment—more of a cramped box with a door.

His hand wrapped around the doorknob, the rusted iron creaking as he pushed it open.

The room was dark—electricity didn't come with the package.

Ansel stepped inside, tossing the ramen onto the floor as he shrugged off his overcoat. By the time he reached the middle of the room, he had already stripped down to his underwear. His fingers flicked against a lighter, sparking a candle to life. A crimson glow bathed the walls.

He turned toward the broken mirror resting against the wall, its cracked surface distorting his reflection. His rough, mud-streaked skin. His white hair, now dirtied with brown and streaked with red. Dried blood flaked over his neck, a reminder of what he had done.

He had done the right thing.

Killing Diamantis had weakened the myutant. It had saved lives.

Diamantis had murdered people. He deserved it.

Ansel slammed his good hand against the wall, his head falling forward as he stared at his battered body. His arm throbbed in its cast, injuries scattered across his torso and legs. He had gotten off easy. The others hadn't been as lucky.

His mind shot back to Quem—the weight of her lifeless body in his arms. The warmth slipping away.

He clamped a hand over his mouth, staggering toward the sink.

He barely made it before vomiting.

His stomach clenched, his body rejecting the memory. He gripped the edges of the sink, gasping for breath, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had to be strong. For Dahlia.

She needed him to be strong, to hold her together.

But in reality, he was already shattered—held together by a weak adhesive that was beginning to peel away.

Ansel lifted his head, staring into the mirror above the sink. Smaller than the one in his room, but still big enough to reflect his face. His exhaustion. His guilt.

"We shouldn't have gone," he whispered. "If we hadn't gone to the haven, she wouldn't have died. It's my fault. I failed to stop Dahlia."

"That's true, you killed Quem."

The voice didn't belong to him, it echoed from the mirror.

Ansel's breath caught in his throat. His own reflection stared back, lips moving on their own.

"No—that's not right. If we hadn't helped, they wouldn't have survived."

"But maybe you were the interference," the reflection sneered. "She told you not to come, and you still went. You killed her."

"No—"

"YES!" The voice roared. "YOU KILLED HER. IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU COULDN'T EVEN STOP THE MYUTANT!"

"No! No one could have stopped it—it's not fair to blame me!"

"Of course it is." The reflection's voice twisted, low and mocking. "You thought killing a mutated beetle was enough to prove something? You're weak, just like you were that day."

Ansel's breath hitched.

"No."

"You're the same little boy who got Mom killed."

"No."

"Just like that night—your presence got her killed, it got Quem killed as well. If only you weren't there, if only you didn't exist... maybe they would have survived."

"No..."

"You're a disease, Ansel." The voice uttered, low, brutal. "A walking curse that destroys everything around you."

"That's not true!" Ansel roared, his fist slamming into the mirror.

Glass shattered, shards clattering into the sink. Blood dripped from his knuckles, splattering against the floor.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he staggered back to his room. His arm throbbed in its cast, aching with every movement, but he barely noticed. He collapsed onto his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He knew blaming himself wouldn't change anything.

Yet.

He had nothing else to blame.

He closed his eyes.

Crying.