Cyrilla Vein hated walking through Fogtongue District.
The gas vents coughed steam in intervals, always just enough to obscure faces but never to hide the smell—burned paper, boiled rat, and the ever-present perfume of wet rust. She kept one hand on her satchel, the other on the folded knife in her coat pocket, and her head low. She wore her best badge-polished smile for the guards, even if none of them looked up.
Two years ago, this block belonged to thieves.
Now, it belonged to council clerks.
She wasn't sure which was worse.
"Councilman Braddock's missing," someone whispered as she passed the checkpoint. "Found what was left of him in a dollhouse. All teeth and gears."
"Just like the others," said another. "You ask me? It's that laughing freak. The one with the clock-babies."
Cyrilla rolled her eyes and quickened her pace.
"The Clocksick Child."
She hated the name. She hated all the names the city whispered lately. They gave chaos a brand. A myth. And myths were dangerous. Myths got remembered.
She reached the gated council hall just before the storm broke. The building leaned slightly to the left, thanks to the Hollow Street Collapse, and the rain bled down the old stain-glass windows like mascara on a corpse. Inside, the hall was cold, dimly lit, and buzzing with tension.
Twelve officials were present. Eleven chairs were filled.
The twelfth—the late Councilman Braddock's—sat empty, save for a single wind-up key lodged in the velvet cushion. No one touched it.
"Let the record reflect," droned Councilor Pruce, "that as of this evening, we are officially down another vote on Project Reformation."
Cyrilla sat in the back, taking notes and trying not to stare at the key.
"This isn't coincidence anymore," said one of the older councilors, a former judge with a half-melted wig. "This is deliberate, strategic targeting. We are being hunted."
"He only kills the corrupt," snapped Councilor Bell. "Which means Braddock had it coming. He wasn't exactly subtle."
That earned her a dozen glares.
"No one deserves to be turned into furniture," someone muttered.
They continued bickering—some calling for military intervention, others for covert deals. A few even danced around the idea of reaching out to the Parade. That made Cyrilla's stomach turn. She'd heard what they did with their "deals." She still had family in Sector 12.
Then came the paper.
Slid across the table like a death notice. A manifesto.
Cricket's manifesto.
Printed on rose-pink parchment, splattered with tea and blood. The header read:
"To the Lovely Liars of the Grand Council — Let's Rewrite This Little Story, Shall We?"
Cyrilla only glimpsed the first few lines before the councilor nearest her turned it over.
But she caught enough:
"…and so, I took the rotten apple and made it sing. What fun we'll have when you all learn to scream in tune!"
No one said a word for a long time.
That night, Cyrilla stayed late at the archive office, tucked beneath Council Hall like a forgotten organ.
She was tasked with reviewing confiscated surveillance footage—specifically from a half-burned puppet shop in Hollow Row. The footage was poor, warped by heat and soot, but she clicked through each feed with methodical boredom.
For forty-three minutes, nothing.
And then, just before midnight, he appeared.
One frame, empty.
Next frame: a boy.
He didn't enter. He simply was.
Pale. Barefoot. Coat flaring like a storybook villain. One eye gleamed with a rotating monocle lens. He twirled once in the center of the room, arms spread like he was greeting an invisible audience. Then he turned toward the camera.
And looked straight into it.
Cyrilla froze.
Cricket grinned.
Then he reached up… and snapped his fingers.
The footage stuttered.
The video bled static. A mechanical laugh pierced the speakers—slow, warbling, too high-pitched to be human.
Cyrilla reached for the eject switch.
Too late.
The screen flickered once more and displayed a message—handwritten in a childish scrawl, the letters jittering as though unsure if they wanted to stay in place:
"Hello, tickling. You're fun. Let's play soon."
Her monitor shorted out with a pop.
The lights above her desk flickered.
And somewhere, just outside the archive door, something began to tick.