The cleanup crew dispatched by the Association swiftly retrieved the "subject" from the explosion site.
Aside from dust and sewage-soaked flesh fragments, the recovered remains were so damaged they were barely recognizable.
The torso, halved vertically, was placed on a cold stainless steel tray. Burnt and torn clothing and belongings were all transferred into clear Petri dishes.
Researchers in white coats and cleanup workers clad in blue vinyl protective suits bustled back and forth inside the lab.
Two people stood on the other side of the glass wall, which gave a clear view inside.
After a researcher set the Petri dishes down at regular intervals and left, a neatly tied white-haired man removed his black gloves and put on thin latex gloves.
"It's fortunate there's something salvageable for a person who was at the blast site."
"That's good to hear. Mr. Friedrich, have you found anything?"
"Would you wait five minutes?"
What lay on the Petri dishes was trash.
Singed fabric scraps, labels, the plastic tip of a shoelace, charred metal pieces
But the man called Friedrich began calmly and swiftly examining each piece with tweezers.
He not only looked but sniffed, held them up to the light, and even tasted traces caught on his gloves.
Ugh, disgusting.
The woman watching secretly shuddered as she waited.
After a while, Friedrich finished and spoke.
"It's ammonium nitrate. The shelter government recently tightened policies, making nitroglycerin trade strict. Probably because of that.
It may have been smuggled in disguised as industrial coolant or chip-making materials. In other words, it's easy to obtain.
Though some expertise is required, it's a simple explosive to make if the conditions are met. Cheap and concealable. Nothing suits homemade bombs better."
"And this person? A collaborator with the witches?"
"Probably not. Seems like he lived in Sector 4 or farther, maybe Sector 5. Possibly an orphan."
"How do you know all this?"
"Cosette, are you really asking now after all this time? Look at the inside of the clothes—they're yellowed and seams worn; anyone can tell he couldn't afford new clothes often.
Or even washing is no help if he sweats a lot. Look at the label—the print ink is worn off, meaning old clothes. Same for the shoelaces."
"How do you know about family? Maybe he ran away? Domestic violence or something?"
"It's possible, but judging by the corpse's build and estimated age, unlikely. Attacking a man that size is risky. Even I wouldn't want to."
Friedrich pointed beyond the glass window as he explained.
The woman murmured in amazement, "Oh, really?" and asked,
"How can you guess that without investigation?"
"It's all visible through the glass. Your observation skills seem lacking."
"I'm a field agent, not a detective."
"I met that corpse alive once. The stretched or torn clothes, the shape of the hat pulled low, the dirty shoes and worn heel, all that tells me immediately. And this."
He spoke quickly, almost breathless, and casually pulled out a white stick and waved it before Cosette's wide eyes.
"What's that?"
The corpse's credit stick. I swiped it when I bumped against the corpse alive."
"Friedrich Payne! Are you some kind of pickpocket?"
"You have to have insurance in case you lose the target, right? This worked out well. By tracking the stick's issue date and serial number, we can trace the movements on the day of the explosion.
I trust the Association can handle that."
Friedrich politely nodded, locking eyes with Cosette.
She snatched the credit stick from his hand in disbelief.
He shrugged as if nothing happened and began changing back into his original gloves.
"That's a disposable item. The identity of the corpse matters less than where and how they met the Red Witch.
I'd say it's more likely they met in Sector 4 rather than Sector 5, where gangs cluster by the block. It's easier to meet discreetly in Sector 4."
"Let's check. We should review surveillance footage."
"Hope it goes well. Would be nice if this could bring the witches to the stake."
Though he spoke casually, Cosette shot him a dark look.
Cosette had been working in the UK branch of the Human Conservation Federation (H.C.F), specifically in the anomaly management division, for three years.
When she first joined, Friedrich had already been contracted by the Association for several years as an external agent.
When her predecessor was promoted, she inherited Friedrich as her assigned operative.
Three years, long enough, yet too short.
Cosette prided herself on the work done with Friedrich but still knew little about him.
Is this how business relationships always are? She silently asked her late predecessor but got no answer.
Well, work is work. Nothing more, nothing less.
Since Friedrich stole the credit stick, an attempt to trace is worth trying.
If that corpse really is a disposable tool of the Red Witch, tracking should be easy.
Cosette, apparently losing interest, turned and followed Friedrich toward the exit.
But before they took more than a few steps, a loud alarm blared through the lab.
—Attention all anomaly management and research staff at the UK shelter branch: An anomaly has been detected in research building A-56.
Per safety protocols, isolation measures and cooperation from field teams are requested. Please evacuate calmly.
—Again, attention all anomaly management and research staff at the UK shelter branch…
Building A-56.
Cosette and Friedrich reflexively looked back when their building was called.
Beyond the large glass window, the lab once filled with silence and white light descended into chaos—confused researchers, deafening sirens, and flashing red alarms.
Beneath lay the white half-corpse, eyes closed, lying peacefully.
When Raimund opened his eyes, he was alone in the orphanage dining hall.
Why am I here? What was I trying to do?
No one was around. He looked down at his small hands and clenched and unclenched them several times.
Memories felt just out of reach, like he'd forgotten something important, leaving a lingering unease.
His short legs dangled as he jumped down from a chair too high for a child and headed outside.
The day was unusually bright. Despite England's notorious fog, that day the sky beyond the dome was clearly visible.
Leaving the dining hall, Raimund basked in the artificial sunlight as if seeing the sun for the first time.
The outdoor walkway connected to the dining hall offered cool shade beneath the sunlight.
Between columns reaching the ceiling, long light-and-shadow patterns stretched rhythmically.
Black and white alternated in aesthetic order.
Suddenly Raimund felt as if someone was watching him.
He turned to see a large black cabinet at the corridor's far end.
—Creeeeak.
Raimund knew that cabinet.
The cabinet outside on the orphanage's first floor was leftover trash from the previous owner before the orphanage was built.
Since the orphanage's construction, it had been used to store cleaning tools.
But sometimes mischievous children put things other than cleaning tools inside.
Dead mice, cockroaches, praying mantises, or worms… or—
—Creeak, creeak, creeak.
He knew that cabinet well.
Instinctively, Raimund stepped back, but the chilling noise from inside the cabinet didn't stop.
—Creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak, creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeak creeaak!
A sound like nails scraping on a metal sheet. Screws rattled on rusty red hinges.
Nerves sharpened, breathing grew heavy. Raimund, covering his mouth, watched his green eyes dilate.
His back was damp. His mind, forgetting something, was nearly paralyzed by fear.
He barely managed to drag his trembling legs and sneakers.
The noise from inside the cabinet stopped abruptly.
Frozen, Raimund paused, his gaze fixed on the worn black cabinet door.
A tense moment passed.
When Raimund's hand dropped from his mouth and he let out a feather-light sigh—
—Bang!
The cabinet swung open, pouring out pitch-black darkness.
A sharp, childlike scream echoed as all around dissolved into shadows.
The flooding black wave swept reality away. Everything vanished like a sewer drain, a world with no light at all.
Only the black door hung tightly shut with a dangling sign.
[∐⸮⸮■⧞⸮⸮! ■∲‽]