The alley was too quiet.
Inspector Laughton Grieves adjusted his brass collar as he stepped beneath the flickering gaslight of Bellhaven Row, its pale glow smeared with soot. Even the rats had gone silent. The rain, ever polite in Nocturnia, pattered lightly on the cobblestones like nervous applause.
He'd been following the disappearances for weeks now—city clerks, councilmen, quiet bribe-takers—men like himself, but lower on the food chain. They had one thing in common: they were all found later, except they weren't found whole. Organs missing. Gears embedded in their jaws. Ribbons sewn through their lungs.
The press had dubbed the killer The Clock Surgeon. Grieves hated the name.
He preferred facts over drama. Which was why, when he found the toy shop's door unlocked at 2:14 in the morning, he didn't call for backup.
He stepped inside, lantern drawn.
The scent struck him first—not blood, not rot. Sugar. Ink. Burned leather. The scent of an old childhood memory, twisted wrong.
"Shop's closed," he called into the dark.
The toys stared back.
Rows of porcelain children stood in a silent queue, their painted eyes wide, mouths open in tiny Os. One had a music box where her stomach should've been. Another had a ribbon tied around his neck that whispered, "Forgive me, Papa, I didn't mean to breathe."
Grieves stepped further in. His boot crunched on something. He looked down. Teeth. Baby teeth. Arranged like piano keys.
Then the giggle.
It wasn't close. It was everywhere—under the floorboards, in the walls, behind his eyes. High-pitched, musical, rising and falling like a nursery rhyme stuck in reverse.
A voice followed, lilting and bright:
"Oh, you must be Mister Grieves! But my toys call you Mister Lies."
He spun. Nothing behind him.
"Inspector," he snapped. "Inspector Grieves. And you're under arrest for multiple—"
"—Murders, mayhem, moral mischief!" the voice sang. "Yes, yes. I've been very naughty, haven't I?"
Grieves caught a flicker in the corner of the room.
A child. Barefoot. Pale as powdered sugar. Dressed in a mismatched coat stitched from carnival scraps, gears spinning slowly across the sleeves. A brass monocle rotated over one eye, ticking. A stuffed rabbit dangled from his hand—its head missing, replaced with a tiny cuckoo clock.
Grieves raised his lantern. "Cricket Mourn."
The boy bowed, deeply and absurdly, hat fluttering from his head and vanishing before it hit the floor. "At your disservice, Inspector. Do you like the shop? I fixed it! It was very boring before—just old men selling dreams for coin. Now it sells consequences."
"You're sick."
Cricket shrugged. "Better sick than corrupt. You know, I found your file under a floorboard—how clever! That secret pension fund for your fake veterans' program. Very tragic. Did you think they wouldn't notice their fathers were still alive?"
Grieves' mouth opened. No words came.
"Shhh," Cricket said sweetly. "No lies in the toy box. It's playtime."
Grieves drew his pistol.
Time stuttered.
The shot rang out—or didn't. The bullet hovered in the air like it had second thoughts. Grieves stumbled, disoriented, as the room bent sideways.
Clockwork laughter spilled from the walls.
Cricket stepped forward, now directly in front of him. "I only take apart the broken ones, you know. Tick-tick-tock, Mister Grieves. You've been winding down for years."
The pistol twisted in Grieves' hand, turned to soft rubber. Melted.
Cricket pressed a cold hand to his chest. "I'll make you into something better. Something true."
The next morning
The shop was gone.
In its place stood a pile of gears arranged like a throne. On the seat sat a porcelain doll with a mustache and badge, its chest cavity open, ticking faintly.
A note pinned to its lapel read:
"Corruption is just a lie in a fancier suit."
— The Clocksick Child