The bank was a tall, narrow stone building tucked between a bakery and a newspaper shop. Its soot-darkened windows let in just enough of the morning light to cast long, sleepy shadows across the tiled floor.
Inside, the air was cold and stale, smelling faintly of ink, brass, and damp wool. A single coal heater in the corner gave out warmth too feeble to matter.
Reginald sat stiffly on a wooden bench, his hat low over his eyes, his uniform was all neat and proper as it always was.
The marble floor bore the muddy footprints of early clients—men in wrinkled suits, women in thick shawls; who cast Reginald a few jealous gazes, a postman clutching a pouch, and two young boys whispering over coins. The clerks behind the glass moved slowly, mechanically in their motions.
Despite the early hour, the atmosphere buzzed with quiet tension, like everyone had somewhere else they'd rather be.
"Mr. Reginald Fletcher," a lazy female voice called out to him over the counter.
Reginald walked over with a frown over his face. She didn't bother to call him by his appropriate title even after seeing his uniform.
"How may I help you today?"
Reginald didn't reply and slid his passbook over the counter. The woman checked through it verifying the stamps and all.
"Your total comes to one thousand, two hundred and thirty pounds."
"Withdraw everything"
"Please have your seat, I'll get back to you shortly"
The Superintendent's office was austere yet commanding, much like its occupant. Tall bookshelves lined the back wall, filled with thick ledgers and dusty case files. A large wooden desk, dark and polished to a dull gleam, dominated the center of the room. A single lamp cast a warm but stern light across the paperwork strewn before her.
The Superintendent sat straight-backed, her expression hard and focused as she scribbled with a metal-nib pen, the scratching of ink against parchment the only sound in the room. So busy she did not look up when the door opened.
Veronica, her tall frame framed by the light spilling in from the corridor, stepped in and quietly shut the door behind her. The purple-haired inspector stood silently across the desk, her left fist behind her back, and her right fist over her heart, waiting without a word.
It wasn't until the Superintendent finished her sentence, carefully dotted the page, and laid the pen aside, that she finally raised her scarred eyes to meet her assistant's.
"All the inspectors are ready, milady. Including Inspector Fletcher"
"Good, gather them into the hall"
"As you wish milady"
Veronica turns and walks slowly to the door. With her hands on the door knob she stopped and asked.
"Do we really have to do this?" her ever composed voice shaky.
"This is the only way to keep our nation safe. Sacrifices have already been made we can't stop here." The Superintendent's voice slowly gets sterner. "You know that."
"As you wish" Veronica turns the door knob and walks away, leaving The Superintendent alone in her office.
"I hope you can surprise me, Fletcher. For both our sakes"
"Hey Regi, come join us" a voice called out to Reginald across the hall.
The briefing hall was a cramped, plain room with scuffed wooden floors and benches pushed close together.
About a dozen inspectors filled the space, trading quiet jabs and half-laughed stories. The walls were bare except for a chalkboard at the front, already marked with names and numbers.
The air was warm with body heat and stale pipe smoke, as some inspectors like to indulge themselves.
"Come on Dave, don't call him here" a voice whispered to David.
"Have a heart, the man just lost his daughter"
Reginald walked towards David. Most inspectors in the precinct know each other and before all the incidents and the death of Marigold, both of them were quite friends.
"Hi David"
"You never called me David," David said slowly "look man, I'm sorry about your daughter"
"No problem, it's okay now"
"Yeah, yeah I'm sure" David said looking everywhere but at Reginald.
"So why do you think the superintendent called us all here" another inspector in the group cleared the air.
"I think we are about to find out" Reginald could hear the footsteps, and he was quite sure it was the inspector.
The moment the Superintendent stepped through the door, the room shifted. The once rowdy inspectors straightened like snapped wire, scattering into formation at their seats.
In unison, they raised their right fists over their hearts—a sign of respect—and crossed their left fists behind their backs, a symbol of loyalty and readiness. Silence fell sharply, heavy with discipline and the weight of her presence.
"At ease, take your seats gentlemen"
"I know some of you are wondering why I called you here."
The room quieted.
"And yes, I am sure those with fairly decent brains amongst you would have noticed that the number of officers in the Attack Department has visibly reduced."
She paused, her eyes scanning their faces.
"They've all been recruited and deployed on mission by the Office for National Integrity and Scorched Affairs—ONISA. The nature of the mission is extremely confidential.
That leaves us understaffed. Critically so."
She placed both hands on the desk and leaned slightly forward.
"And wouldn't you know it, just in time for the Nation's grandest headache. The Great Exhibition."
A few muttered reactions broke out.
"Yes. The Great Exhibition. This year, it's being held right here in Earnest's Fog."
She straightened, voice clipped and resolute.
"Which means public security falls on us. Other departments will be pulling officers to serve across various posts. Markets, pavilions, entrances, and high-value relic zones. Nothing you're not trained for."
She let that settle, then added coldly:
"Any questions?"
"I'm sure you don't. Dismissed"
The horse drawn cab gently rocked, swaying Reginald gently. Something about this great exhibition doesn't sit well with him but he can't place a finger on it.
"We are here" the cab driver grinned to Reginald as he said.
"Thank you" Reginald said as he handed him 2 shillings.
Reginald watched as the cab departed before walking towards his apartment.
"Are you Mr. Fletcher?"
A man in a three piece suit walked up to Reginald and asked.
"And who are you?" Reginald said, his hands resting on the holster.
"My condolences, Mr. Yierch Mann is dead. And in the event of his death, he commissioned us to deliver this letter" the man said holding a letter towards him.
"What are you implying, I saw him a few days ago?"
"My condolences" the man said Still holding out the letter.
Reginald took it, mouth still agape.
"My condolences" he said once again, making one wonder how many condolences he had ever offered.