The Woman from Headquarters

Marta returned to the office in the dim gray hours before dawn.

All through the night, agents from the ARC Central Branch Security Division had been combing through the city’s private clinics like men hunting lice. They went door to door demanding to know if anyone had treated a middle-aged man with wire-rimmed spectacles, or if any physician had seen a patient suffering from a penetrating gunshot wound to the right side of the chest.

“What did you tell them, Doc?” I asked.

Marta dumped her medical bag onto the table with a heavy thud and snorted. “I played dumb, of course. Told them I hadn’t seen a single suspicious bastard fitting that description. Then I scattered rock salt on the doorstep and told them to piss off if they didn’t want to be thrown out on their asses.”

“You lied for our sake, then.”

“Lying through my teeth gives me far less heartburn than handing over a patient and dealing with the fallout later.”

Marta carefully unwound Beltz’s bandages. Stripping away the oilcloth tarp that had been soaked in blood the night before, she exposed a wound crusted with congealed scabs and stained yellow with disinfectant. Pressing her fingertips firmly against the lower edge of his ribs, she ordered him to take a deep breath. She pressed a wooden stethoscope to his chest and back, listening intently to the subtle rasp of his lungs for a long while.

“I don't hear any signs of blood pooling in the pleural cavity,” she said at last. “His fever’s dropped a bit since last night, too.”

“Will I… be able to walk?” Beltz pushed his cracked spectacles up the bridge of his nose and tried to shift toward the edge of the mattress. A sudden spasm seized him, and he froze, clutching his chest. “Khh…!”

“Where do you think you’re going in that state? You stay flat on your back today.”

“…Understood,” Beltz murmured, breaking into a cold sweat as he obediently nodded. Marta laid down a fresh patch of oiled cloth, bound his torso tight with clean compression bandages, and packed her instruments away.

Before heading down the stairs, she glanced back at me with a nod toward the bed. “Sonya. If this man’s breathing turns shallow or his lips start turning blue, head straight for the old herbalist in the back alley. The Security Division has eyes on my clinic right now. Just tell the old man that Orban’s office needs me urgently, and he’ll send an errand runner to fetch me.”

“Got it. I’ll go to the herbalist.”

Once Marta left, Orban stood before the mirror and began shaving. Ordinarily, he was the sort to give his rough stubble a careless rub with his palm and call it a day. But this morning, he scraped the straight razor with meticulous care until his throat was smooth as marble. He donned a stiffly pressed white shirt beneath a charcoal-gray vest, finishing the ensemble with a neatly knotted necktie. He looked almost respectable.

“What’s the occasion, Boss? Going on a blind date?”

“Too flashy for a man walking to his own hanging?”

“You look like the chief mourner at a funeral. Loosen the tie a little.”

Orban tugged the knot down a fraction in the glass, letting out a dry chuckle. “Natural enough now?”

He intended to comply with the summons the Security Division had left behind yesterday. If he dug his heels in and refused to show, they would only storm the building alongside the city watch with a signed warrant. Better to saunter in on his own two feet playing the innocent private broker and buy us some breathing room.

“What do you plan to tell them when they start grilling you in the interrogation room?” Beltz asked from the bed.

“The truth,” Orban replied smoothly. “That I was hunting for contracts down by the South Gate Canal as usual, and that I went to meet an anonymous client.”

“And my identity?”

“A broker’s livelihood hinges on client confidentiality. If I keep things vague enough, they won’t have anything solid to trip me up on later.”

Orban shrugged into his dark overcoat, reached into his pocket, and tossed two silver coins into my open palm. “One is the balance from yesterday. The other is today’s retainer.”

“Same deal as before, right?”

“The patient is still stuck in that bed, and the streets are crawling with armed bastards.”

Slipping the silver into my pocket, I ran the numbers in my head. My prior savings of eleven silver coins, plus the three from yesterday and today, brought the total to fourteen. Just one solitary silver short of the fifteen required for the citizenship application fee. If I could survive today’s shitshow, the light at the end of the tunnel was finally in sight.

“If I’m not back by two this afternoon,” Orban said, checking his pocket watch, “head over to Bram’s shop. Just tell him Orban couldn't get out of the Central Branch, and he’ll handle the rest.”

“I’ll visit you in lockup if you get tossed in a cell.”

“Appreciate the thought, you little brat.”

Orban opened the front door and strode down the stairs with easy confidence. His voice drifted up from the ground floor as he exchanged cheerful morning pleasantries with the dry-cleaner next door, sounding no different from any other day.

Once he was gone, I spread the internal wanted poster for Martin Hess ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠onto the desk. A tangle of brown hair, a sharp jawline, and a distinct little mole beside his nose.

“Department Head Beltz, tell me more about what Martin looks like,” I said, poising a pencil over the blank margin of the flyer. Beltz adjusted his glasses, dredging up his memory.

“He only wears spectacles while working. Round lenses with thin wire frames. The right arm snapped a while back, so he lashed it together with copper wire.”

“Age and build?”

“Twenty-eight years old. He stands a full head shorter than Orban, very lean. And he is left-handed.”

“Does he know how to shoot?”

“He has never received an ounce of combat training. When the site guards handed him a self-defense pistol during an incident last month, he missed the target with every single shot.”

The more Beltz talked, the clearer the picture became. Martin Hess was your quintessential nerd engineer—a man who neither drank nor gambled, shuttling like clockwork between the construction site outside the North Gate and his boarding house in the Old Quarter. His landlady despised having mud-caked boots dragged onto her floorboards, so he kept his work overalls, spare socks, and wire for fixing his glasses in locker number seventeen at the North Gate Public Bathhouse.

“He cannot fight at all,” Beltz continued. “He is not particularly brave, he is terrified of heights, and he stammers horribly in front of strangers.”

“If he’s that timid, how did he ever work up the nerve to blow the whistle on the ledger fraud?”

“…He told me the sheer scale of the corruption was simply too monstrous for his conscience to overlook, no matter how frightened he was.”

Well, being a coward and selling your soul are two very different things. In my past life as Kim Yujin, I had been pathetic enough to turn off my phone whenever the loan sharks came knocking, but I never had the stomach to swindle people out of their hard-earned money. I felt an odd, begrudging kinship with this Martin fellow.

“Did you send a request for backup to headquarters?” I asked.

“Eight days before I was shot, I dispatched a formal request for an audit directly to the Headquarters Security Bureau. I sealed it in a priority pouch intended ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠solely for the head office, which the Central Branch has no authority to open.”

“Any reply?”

“None so far. It is entirely possible it was intercepted along the line, or perhaps headquarters simply dismissed it as petty regional infighting and swept it under the rug.”

We couldn't just sit on our hands waiting for corporate suits to answer a letter.

A little past midday, footsteps echoed on the staircase, and Orban walked in. His necktie was crooked, and his fingertips were smudged with black ink.

“The mood in that interrogation room was damn near murderous,” Orban grunted. “They made me sign my name on the affidavit five separate times.”

“So they let you walk?”

“My alibi was airtight.” Orban gulped down a cup of cold water before breaking down the situation inside the Central Branch. The Security Division had raided Martin’s lodgings near the North Gate this morning, and every laborer on the surveying crew had been rounded up for questioning.

“I need to check the boarding house and that bathhouse right away,” I said, reaching for my coat.

Orban shook his head. “I can’t move right now. Those bastards definitely slapped a tail on me.”

“Then I’ll go alone.”

Beltz started, propping himself up on the bed. “Miss Sonya, that is far too dangerous!”

“Danger is why I’m hauling in two silver coins a day, Department Head. Gotta earn my keep.”

Beltz snapped his mouth shut, finding no counterargument. Orban stuffed three blank manila envelopes and a receipt ledger into my leather satchel—a simple disguise so I could pass myself off as a courier running errands if the city watch stopped me on the street.

“Six copper coins,” Orban said, handing them over. “Use them as bribes if you need people to talk.”

“And if I pry their mouths open without spending a dime?”

“Then keep the change.”

“Deal.”

I tucked the heavy Sermaize Revolver deep into the shoulder holster beneath my coat and slipped out into the street.

I didn't head straight for the North Gate. Instead, I looped wide through the market stalls around an apple cart, swung south toward the canal, and checked the reflections in the storefronts of a glassware shop three times to ensure I wasn't being followed. Only after confirming the street behind me was clear did I cut back toward the north.

No shadows. I ducked around one last corner just to be certain.

Just inside the North Gate lay a squalid alleyway where stables and fodder merchants huddled shoulder to shoulder. The entrance to Martin’s boarding house was still marked with a crisp line of white chalk left by the Security Division.

When I knocked, an elderly woman in her sixties wearing a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠faded brown kerchief cracked the latch open. The instant Martin’s name left my mouth, she slammed the door toward my face.

“I’m here to deliver some urgent errand paperwork to him,” I said quickly, flashing the legal envelopes and extending a shiny copper coin through the crack. The old woman cast a wary look down the alley, then snatched the coin into her apron pocket.

“Two questions. That’s all you get. Men in uniform tore his room apart this morning and hauled away every scrap of paper and map in the place.”

“Did Martin Hess come by?”

“Hasn't shown his face. He owes ten days of back rent, and the little rat hasn't even peeked around the corner.”

“Did he keep personal belongings anywhere else?”

“The public bathhouse outside the North Gate. I kicked him out of the stairwell for tracking mud everywhere with his filthy boots, so he rented a locker there. That’s two! Now beat it!”

The door slammed shut. Getting the essential lead in two questions was well worth a single copper.

I headed beyond the outer curtain wall toward the public bathhouse nestled among the ramshackle laborer tenements. Plumes of acrid coal steam billowed from the tall chimney. Pushing the door open, the stinging reek of cheap lye soap and sour sweat washed over me.

Behind the front counter, a burly, bearded man was wiping down damp brass tokens. At the mention of Martin Hess, he shook his head without looking up.

“Never heard of him.”

“He rents locker seventeen,” I said evenly. “Round spectacles lashed together with copper wire. Skinny build. Left-handed.”

The man’s hands froze. He threw a cautious glance toward the inner baths, lowering his voice to a rumble. “Who sent you?”

“His department head.”

“Proof?”

I reached into my bag, pulled out the internal wanted flyer, and slid it beneath the counter ledge. At the sight of the Central Branch Security Division's red-ink seal stamped boldly across the parchment, the blood drained from the man’s face.

“Uniformed bastards will be here any minute,” I warned him. “If I were working for them, do you think I’d come alone? I’d have brought a squad with rifles.”

The man swallowed hard, reached under the counter, and drew out a heavy ring of brass keys. “He came in through the back door at dawn… bleeding like a stuck pig.”

He guided me through the steam to a secluded dressing alcove beside the boiler room. When he unlocked iron locker seventeen, the sharp metallic stench of fresh blood hit my nostrils instantly.

Inside lay a blood-drenched shirt, a pair of round iron spectacles with one cracked lens, and three broken stubs of surveying chalk. The left sleeve of the shirt had been shredded to the shoulder, and a wad of discarded gauze on the metal floor was stiff with blackened, dried gore.

“A bullet caught him deep in the left upper arm,” the bathhouse keeper whispered. “I couldn't dig the lead out, so I just plugged the leak the best I could.”

“Where did he go?”

“He pulled on a dry set of work overalls he kept here, grabbed an oilskin notebook and his emergency cash, and asked how to reach the downstream freight docks.”

“He walked all the way to the docks in that condition?”

“He wouldn't have made it through the city gates on foot looking like that. I smuggled him into the false bottom of a coal ash wagon heading down to the industrial quarter by the South Gate.”

Right then—

Screeech—slam!

The violent skid of iron carriage wheels echoed beyond the front glass, instantly followed by the thunder of heavy combat boots hitting the wooden floorboards.

“ARC Central Branch Security Division! Manager, get out here!”

The man went pale as ash. The dogs had tracked him down already.

“Over there!” he hissed frantically. “The iron ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chute behind the boiler for loading coal! Squeeze through and run right!”

I didn't hesitate. Throwing my weight forward, I shoved myself into the narrow iron coal chute. Coal dust and freezing air lashed my face, but compared to the ventilation shafts of an Imperial research facility, this was practically a paved highway.

Tumbling out into the rear alley, I sprinted south without looking back. Martin was heading for the lower docks. Battered and bleeding, he had crossed the entire length of the city, seeking refuge at the far edge of the South Gate Canal.

As the canal cut through the industrial district, its channel broadened into a sprawling freight harbor. Murky, indigo wastewater discharged from the dye factories churned against the stone embankments, where rows of heavy barges laden with timber and raw coal sat moored tight together.

I made straight for the ash depot the bathhouse keeper had described. A laborer shoveling slag pointed toward the rear of the warehouse, muttering that he’d seen a man with a bandaged arm stumble past. Sure enough, dark crimson droplets stained the gray ash scattered across the cobblestones.

Following the blood trail to the end of the alley, a faint groan drifted from the pier.

Flattening my back against the brick wall, I peeked carefully around the corner.

The loading dock was a cramped clearing wedged between the warehouse wall and the black river water. A horse-drawn carriage stood parked with its rear to the wall, and slumped beneath its back wheel was a man in brown overalls, clutching his bleeding side.

A small mole beside his nose. A bloody dressing wrapped around his left arm. It was Martin Hess.

And beside him, down on one knee tending to his wound, was a woman.

An elf. Floor-length, ink-black hair spilled around her shoulders, barely parting to reveal the sharp, slender tips of her ears. She was tall and gracefully lean, clad in a tailored black overcoat that reached all the way to her ankles. Through the parted lapels of the coat, I could see a wine-colored vest, a crisp necktie, and a gleaming silver insignia pinned over her breast.

The winged wheel embraced by three hands. The crest of the Astral Railway Company.

Slung across her back was a massive, double-edged greatsword nearly as tall as a grown man. Yet despite her languid, almost sleepy expression, the hands bandaging Martin’s arm were extraordinarily gentle. It was hard to believe those same hands had just dismantled the three men sprawled nearby.

Scattered across the paving stones were three Central Branch Security agents in navy uniforms, groaning in their own blood. One had been knocked cold by a devastating blow to the face; another was writhing on the ground, clutching a shattered wrist while holding a service revolver whose barrel had been sheared clean in two. All three were breathing, but thoroughly neutralized.

She took down three armed agents all by herself?

Just because she had dropped the branch enforcers didn't make her an ally. I slipped the satchel from my shoulder, letting it fall silently to the dirt, then stepped out into the open while clearing the Sermaize Revolver from my coat.

Clack!

The crisp, heavy metallic snap of the hammer being cocked echoed sharply over the water. The elf’s cool gray eyes lifted slowly, locking onto my muzzle. There wasn't a flicker of panic in her gaze.

She finished knotting the bandage with deliberate precision, rose smoothly to her feet, and stepped directly between Martin and my gun. The hem of her long coat settled gently against her boots.

“Step away from him,” I warned, voice cold.

Her reply came in a low, refined, and entirely emotionless tone. “Lower your weapon first, please.”

“I told you to back off from Martin.”

Reaching inside her coat, she produced a heavy silver medallion and held it out for me to see. Below the winged wheel was an official title stamped crisply into the metal.

A section chief from Headquarters Security?! That’s senior management from the main corporate office!

That explained why she had laid out the Central Branch hounds. But a piece of engraved silver wasn't nearly enough to earn my trust.

I shook my head. “Men wearing that exact badge shot Department Head Beltz.”

Irina’s languid eyes narrowed slightly. “Then words will hardly convince you, I suppose. Martin Hess is currently under my protection. I have no intention of surrendering him to the Central Branch.”

“Leave him. I’m taking him with me.”

“I am afraid I cannot allow that.”

Irina didn't budge an inch from Martin’s side. Every time I shifted my line of fire, her shoulder tracked the movement, blocking him entirely.

From beyond the warehouse, the shrill screech of security whistles cut through the damp air. Reinforcements were closing in. We were out of time.

I shifted my aim to Irina’s right shoulder. If I could put a slug through her flesh and force her back, I could grab Martin and run. The approaching whistles made my trigger finger tighten.

“Last warning. Move.”

“Do not fire.”

“I said get out of the way!”

Instead of answering, Irina drew her right foot back half a pace. The moment the sole of her leather boot lightly scraped the wooden dock planks beneath her coat, I pulled the trigger without hesitation.

BANG—!

Scarlet flame and a thick billow of white smoke erupted from the Sermaize’s muzzle. At a distance of barely eight paces, the heavy lead slug hurtled toward her right shoulder at near supersonic speed.

In that microsecond, Irina’s right hand whipped up to snatch the leather-wrapped hilt behind her neck.

Schiiing—!

The eye couldn't even track the blade clearing its scabbard. The instant her left hand clamped onto the pommel to lock her two-handed grip, the colossal greatsword sliced diagonally through the air from high right to low left like a streak of lightning.

CLANGGG—!

A piercing, crystalline screech of shattered metal tore through the harbor, drowning out the gunshot itself. An explosion of brilliant orange sparks burst like fireworks from the dead center of the steel blade.

The sword froze, hovering an inch before Irina’s left knee, the massive blade humming with fine, high-frequency vibration.

One sheared half of the lead bullet thudded deep into the carriage door behind her. The other half skipped across the dark water with a soft plop.

“…….”

Through the drifting haze of gunsmoke, Irina Weiss stood completely unruffled, her gray eyes as cool and sleepy as before.

Holy fucking shit…

Did she just… cut a magnum bullet in half with a sword?!