The Hall of Veins is exactly as horrible as it sounds.
It towers over the district like a cathedral made of bone and pulsing veins, its spires writhing like they're alive. Every few seconds, a deep hum shakes the air, like the whole building is breathing.
"This place is awful," I mutter.
Scribe floats ahead. "Yes. And yet, you'll be coming here often. Consider it… City Hall, if City Hall also digested people."
"Comforting."
---
Inside, it's worse.
The "floor" is a transparent membrane stretched over a pool of black ichor. Every step makes the surface ripple. Above, thousands of glowing threads dangle from the ceiling like spiderwebs, each connected to a suspended glowing shard.
Souls.
I'm standing in a warehouse of the dead.
In the center of the chamber stands a massive humanoid figure, draped in chains. Its head is encased in a glass dome filled with swirling liquid, and glowing veins crawl up its body like living tattoos.
It turns as I approach.
"Glitch."
The voice isn't just sound. It's pressure. It pushes into my skull.
I swallow hard. "I… brought what you wanted."
I hold up the fragment.
---
The figure extends a chained hand.
"Place it."
A pedestal rises from the floor — fleshy, veined, glowing.
I set the fragment down. It sinks into the pedestal like a drop of water into skin.
The Hall hums, threads above vibrating.
"Debt acknowledged," the chained figure says. "But citizenship is not without cost."
"Cost?" I repeat.
"The City feeds. You are no exception."
I take a step back. "Meaning…?"
Scribe chimes in, far too casually: "Meaning you owe the City. Your soul is collateral. You work, you live. You stop? Well—"
It gestures at the ichor pool under us.
My stomach drops. "Recycling."
"Precisely," Scribe says.
---
Before I can reply, I feel it.
A prickle on the back of my neck.
Someone is watching me.
I turn — and see them.
A group of figures standing near the entrance. Not Reclaimers. Not Unbound. Something else.
Their bodies are covered in stitched-together masks, a patchwork of faces. Their eyes glow faint green, and every one of them is staring at me.
"Uh… Scribe?" I whisper.
"Ah. Stitchmen," it says. "Scavengers. They like fragments. And Glitches."
"Great."
One of them steps forward, voice like dry leaves. "New blood. Hand over the fragment."
I glance at the pedestal. "I already did."
It tilts its head. "Then we'll take you instead."
---
The chained figure doesn't move.
Scribe floats back. "Well. This just got interesting."
"Helpful as always," I snap.
The Stitchmen take another step closer, their masks grinning horribly.
And I realize:
This place doesn't just want to use me.
It wants to own me.