He gave himself exactly one second to rearrange his face, one second that felt like he was betting his entire life on how quickly the muscles around his eyes could stop trembling and go flat.
He knew from experience: the slightest hesitation, a pause that lasted too long before answering, could be the only evidence someone like this needed to draw his gun first and ask questions later.
“There’s a fine crack in the upper wood, sir.” His voice came out on time, in exactly the right flat, mildly bored tone, like someone who had inspected thousands of similar cabinets and never found anything special about them.
“If it’s left alone, it could spread to the sigil carving.” He pointed casually toward the cabinet, his finger moving without the slightest hesitation—the lie was something he had practiced thousands of times in all its different forms, even while his heart hammered inside his chest as if he were running.
“I’ll log it for repairs next week.”
The capo did not answer right away. He took one step closer, his eyes sweeping from Karel’s face to the cabinet, then back to Karel’s face, searching for something out of sync, something he could use as a reason not to believe him. Karel stopped himself from holding his breath, because he knew that holding your breath was one of the first things taught to anyone trained to read lies.
“You’re sure that’s all?” The capo’s voice was lower now, closer to Karel’s ear than was comfortable.
“I saw you staring at that corner like you were watching something move.”
For a fraction of a second, Karel let himself look slightly confused—not afraid, confused, an expression far more convincing because it was more human. “Move, sir? Probably just the light casting shadows.
“It’s a little dim in here.” He glanced briefly toward the corner in question, as if checking again, then looked back at the capo with an expression that was half questioning, half indifferent.
“If you want, I can check the light fixtures while I’m at it.”
The next few seconds felt like waiting for a verdict.
Then, at last, the capo snorted, a sound that would have seemed like ordinary annoyance to anyone else, but to Karel felt like air finally being allowed back into his lungs.
“Finish quickly. I don’t like people hanging around in my house.”
Karel bowed politely and left, walking with a stride that once again looked perfectly ordinary to anyone watching. Every step toward the front door felt twice as long as usual, his back fully aware of the gaze that might—or might not—still be following him from behind.
But the moment the house door closed behind him, once he had gone far enough down the narrow street toward the nearest bus stop, something in his shoulders finally loosened. He stopped for a moment beneath a flickering streetlamp, allowing himself to breathe more deeply than he had permitted himself all day. The hand that had pointed so confidently toward the cabinet now felt cold, and not because of the weather.
He was used to lying. But being used to it was not the same as being immune. Every time he made it through a moment like that, a small part of him wondered how much longer this kind of luck would last, and what would be left of him if one day he failed to get away.
The trip back to his rented room took nearly an hour, most of it on foot instead of by faster public transportation—an old habit he had never really explained to himself or why he kept it.
Maybe walking gave him time to shed the Cleaner mask little by little, layer by layer, until what remained when he opened his room door was only himself: tired, alone, and younger than he had ever admitted to anyone.
He did not turn on the main light when he entered.
Only the small desk lamp, enough to see by, not enough to feel truly seen. He brewed tea that had been cold since morning, not bothering to heat it again, and sat on the edge of the bed, letting his thoughts drift freely for the first time that day—not toward plans, not toward the shadow map, just toward the small things he usually forced far away while working. What it had once felt like to eat dinner as three: him, his father, and the silence of the workshop, which had always felt warm, never cold like the silence in this room.
That night, in his rented room, Karel finally reorganized the entire shadow map he had gathered over the past several days—names, strengths, weaknesses, dosage patterns, sigil styles—and marked each piece in his mind, searching for the ideal candidate for his first move.
He had known the answer from the beginning, ever since that symbol appeared on Don’s desk.
Wisnu, a mid-level capo who managed a Tirakat Opium warehouse, close enough to the clues he was looking for, with security weak enough to make him a safe starting point.
His plan was ready. All that remained was to wait for the right night.