Sign the Contract First

As the low, resonant tolls of the cathedral bells signaled the arrival of evening, Lieutenant Havel's heavy boots mounted the stairs to the office once more.

Tucked under his arm was a fresh sheaf of stiff interrogation transcripts, straight from the guardhouse. Havel swung the front door shut, dropped the heavy iron bar across it, and gestured toward the corridor for the station guards to keep a sharp watch on the street below.

"I threw them into separate isolation cells and worked them over in turns," Havel said, pulling out four sheets of testimony as Orban swept the ink bottles and ashtrays off the desk. "They sang like canaries."

Baren's page was littered with variants of 'I don't recall.' The match-striker, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. The moment he heard that the others had supposedly started talking, he had filled every margin down to the reverse side.

"I trimmed away the fabricated nonsense each of them tried to spin and boiled it down to the core points where at least three accounts aligned." Havel pressed a calloused index finger against the paper. "Their rendezvous point was an abandoned southern leather warehouse. The client wore a dark green trench coat and had a wide-brimmed fedora pulled down to conceal his face completely. Wore a black leather glove on his left hand."

The advance payment of two silver coins per man had been delivered in coarse manila envelopes stamped with two red lines across the upper margin.

Lying on the bed, Gerhard Beltz adjusted his spectacles, peered at the description of the envelope, and his face hardened. "That is an ARC field payroll envelope. The standard issue used to disburse cash to day laborers on track construction sites."

"Is that something a civilian could easily acquire, Department Head?"

"If it were merely an empty envelope, you could fish one out of the trash bins at Central Station," Beltz admitted with a grim sigh. "That detail alone won't reveal who used it."

It lacked definitive investigative value. Havel tapped his fingernail against the following line.

"Then there is the client's scent. All four stated that the man reeked violently of heavy machine lubricant. Two of them specifically identified the stench of creosote—the tar oil used to treat railway cross-ties."

The foul, pungent reek of black grease that stung the nostrils whenever one passed the Central Station platforms or the locomotive maintenance yards.

"Thousands of people work on the railway," I interjected. "A smell alone doesn't prove who it was."

Havel smirked, lifting a single transcript. "True enough. But consider this."

He pointed to the bottom of the match-striker's statement. According to the thug, the client had provided infiltration instructions, claiming an inside collaborator would unlatch the rear door of the office beforehand. All they had to do was push their way in, snatch the notebook, torch the place, and vanish.

"Yet as we confirmed at dawn," Havel said, "the back door was bolted fast from the inside."

"Meaning their inside man flaked," I muttered, "or never existed in the first place."

Havel stuck an unlit cigarette between his lips, his tone flat. "We'll have to dig deeper to see if an accomplice actually exists. But the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠client gave them zero contingency orders for what to do if the door stayed locked. He couldn't have cared less whether those four made it out alive."

Just like the shady subcontractor black companies ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back in my old life, I thought sourly. The moment an accident happens, they pin all the blame on the disposable temp workers. Exploitative bosses pull the exact same crap in every universe.

The four arsonists had been duped into taking the fall. Still, that didn't change the fact that they had slung kerosene and fired live rounds into our living quarters.

Irina Weiss rested her chin on her hand, her cool grey eyes narrowing. "Who owns the abandoned leather warehouse where they met?"

"On paper, the registered owner passed away two years ago," Orban answered smoothly. "These days, his scoundrel of a nephew runs the place, quietly renting the empty floor space out under the table for illegal dice dens and smuggler stashes."

Havel cut a sidelong glance at Orban. "Another one of your acquaintances?"

"I had occasion to collect some delinquent gambling debts from the boy last year."

"Did he pay up willingly?"

"He dragged his heels at first. But after I gently petted his jawline with my knuckles, he deposited the full sum, interest included."

Boss... were you a loan shark before this?

Orban agreed to pay the nephew a visit at the dive bar he frequented every morning. For tonight, Havel promised to post plainclothes watchers on the warehouse to ensure the man didn't catch wind and skip town.

Barely an hour had passed after Havel departed when the front-door sentry came pounding up the stairs in a breathless hurry. Tailing right behind him was a familiar face—the headquarters carriage driver who had been dispatched to transmit the encoded dispatch through Central Station's direct line.

From the inside of his heavy overcoat, the courier produced an oilskin-wrapped telegraph envelope. Instead of sealing wax, it bore the precise, red-punched perforation seal and timecode stamp unique to the headquarters central exchange.

Irina pressed her silver identification token against the wax margin and sliced the envelope open. Two thin sheets of dispatch parchment slipped out.

The first was an emergency order issued directly from the Director of the Security Bureau. The second was an encrypted verification roster, complete with the day's active security clearance cypher and the chief operator's personal cryptographic stamp.

Reaching into her coat, Irina retrieved a palm-sized iron cipher plate. She aligned the cutouts against the numerical sequences line by line, methodically cross-referencing the codes. Only after verifying the final digit did she lower the dispatch onto the desk, her expression icy and resolute.

"They expedited the emergency authorization the moment the report on the arson raid arrived," Irina said. "The formal decree from headquarters has landed."

Martin Hess tossed his blanket aside and sat upright, while Gerhard Beltz shifted his weight on the cot, awaiting her words with bated breath.

Irina read the official decree aloud.

"The directive explicitly states that these powers take effect the instant the clearance codes are authenticated," Irina said, her calm voice laced with undeniable steel. "The original parchment bearing the Director's hand-signed seal is en route aboard the fastest express engine out of Rodern. An additional stricture strictly forbids providing any advance notification whatsoever to the Central Branch."

Finally, I thought. Headquarters pulled out the corporate audit blade.

Even with an executive order in hand, however, we couldn't simply barge in tomorrow morning and conduct a raid all on our own. A corporation held the internal power to suspend its employees, but it lacked the municipal authority to drag people into holding cells. The power of arrest and criminal seizure within city limits belonged solely to the Belok City Guard.

Orban threw a quick nod down the stairwell, and within twenty minutes, Lieutenant Havel was summoned back up. The detective read through the telegraph directive from top to bottom, the corners of his mouth curling into a sharp, feral grin.

"At long last, we have a lawful justification to batter down the Central Branch's front gates," Havel murmured.

"I will handle breaching the premises, serving the suspensions on the Security Chief and Accounting Clerk, and sealing the archives," Irina outlined briskly. "I ask that the City Guard handle the physical custody and apprehension of anyone who offers armed resistance."

"Agreed. We will execute the warrants on charges of attempted murder and solicitation of arson. Your bureau can secure the embezzlement ledgers." Havel promptly jotted down the dispatch serial numbers in his notebook. He intended to wake the court's on-duty magistrate tonight to secure two formal arrest warrants, while posting plainclothes details around the perimeter of the regional headquarters.

"Will the magistrate sign off without fuss?" Orban asked.

Havel scoffed. "We have sworn depositions supporting the conspiracy, recovered architectural blueprints, and full cooperation from ARC headquarters. When bundled together, it's airtight. Judges only care about paper trails."

Uncle Havel, you really are a model public servant, aren't you?

The broad strokes of the plan snapped into place.

Ten minutes prior to breach, the Central Station telegraph exchange would sever the external landlines feeding the Central Branch. The City Guard would barricade the main entrance and eastern freight gates, while Irina advanced up the central staircase straight toward the third-floor security offices and records room.

The sole problem remained manpower.

It would take at least three days for a direct strike unit from headquarters to arrive by rail from Rodern. If the branch conspirators caught so much as a whiff of an audit, they could shove every incriminating ledger into a cast-iron stove and vanish within ten minutes.

Irina unfolded the final supplementary clause appended to the dispatch.

"The directive includes an emergency field requisition clause," she said. "The on-site commander is authorized to commission up to three civilian specialists under temporary contract at their discretion."

Her cool gaze shifted between Orban and me, lingering on my right leg.

The analgesic effects of the Cheonghoecho had begun to wear off, leaving a dull ache deep in my thigh, but standing and walking presented no real hindrance.

"Will you be fit to participate tomorrow, Sonya?"

I pushed myself off the chair and took a few experimental steps across the floorboards. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠At an ordinary walking pace, everything held steady. It was only when I attempted to pivot or push off into an explosive sprint that the severed tissue twitched with sharp, protesting needle-pricks.

"As long as I don't have to sprint full-tilt, I can move without trouble."

"Under no circumstances are you to sprint," Irina cautioned. "Your assignment will be holding the staff emergency staircase on the western side of the third floor. Your sole job is intercepting anyone attempting to flee down those steps with armfuls of paperwork."

"And if they refuse to listen and put up a fight?"

"You are cleared to neutralize them with physical force."

Well, that's practically my specialty.

From the bed, Gerhard Beltz turned his head toward Orban. "Mister Orban."

"I'm listening, Department Head."

"We require a veteran operative intimately familiar with the intricate interior layout of the branch headquarters and its unlisted escape routes. Will you lend us your aid?"

Orban didn't nod right away. His gaze drifted from the charred, blackened plaster along the stairwell to the cluttered surface of his desk, his fingers slowly rubbing his jawline.

"Are you planning to hire Sonya and me as separate day-labor mercenaries, Department Head?"

"Do you have an alternative proposal?"

"Draft a formal retainer between our agency and the Headquarters Security Bureau," Orban countered smoothly. "Contract our firm to provide regional intelligence and tactical field support as an integrated package. I will serve as primary contractor and supervisor, with Sonya designated as our agency's combat auxiliary."

Irina nodded in understanding, pulling a standard parchment agreement from her leather folio. "A reasonable structure. We shall execute it as an emergency commission. The term shall be one month, covering the investigation and witness protection, subject to extension by mutual accord."

"And I assume the basic retainer will include compensation for the damages nearly inflicted upon our premises, along with a special investigation surcharge?"

Beltz offered a wry, rueful smile from behind his spectacles. "Naturally."

Dipper pen in hand, Irina began filling in the blank fields of the document.

Seeing our humble, battered office name inscribed across an official contract bearing the insignia of a continental railway conglomerate felt remarkably surreal.

I leaned over the desk, scanning every clause with an eagle eye. Years of scrutinizing convenience store employment contracts in my past life had honed my bureaucratic radar to perfection.

Thirty whole silvers...!

My heart thudded against my ribs. If I survived a month under this contract, I could pay the fifteen silver coins for my imperial citizenship registration fee and still have fifteen silvers left over!

Still, as a veteran part-time laborer, there was one question that mattered above all else.

"Section Chief, if this job takes me out of Belok on official business, what happens to my one-year residency requirement?"

"It will be formally logged as an ARC Headquarters dispatch assignment," Irina clarified without missing a beat. "Your municipal registration and local tax standing within Belok will remain active and uninterrupted throughout any deployment."

Passed!

"Will I receive official proof of employment and tax clearance certificates under the corporate headquarters' seal?"

"Though your status is contractual, we will issue fully verified corporate documentation. When combined with Mister Orban's personal sponsorship, an ARC corporate employment record will make proving your stable livelihood at the registry office a trivial formality. The final disposition remains up to the registrar, of course."

"What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about equipment?"

"You may retain your personal sidearms, but any specialized firearms or ammunition required for the breach may be requisitioned tomorrow morning from Mister Bram's shop and billed directly to the corporate account. I will approve top-tier hardware within our authorized allowance."

Corporate benefits really are something else.

Orban signed his sweeping signature in the representative box, and I took the pen, pressing down firmly to write two neat characters in the personnel ledger: Sonya.

With ink drying on the parchment, Irina unfurled a blueprint across the cleared tabletop—the detailed architectural layout of the Central Branch.

The regional headquarters was a four-story fortress of cut granite. Its front facade opened directly onto the southern thoroughfare, while its eastern freight exit connected to rail warehouses and shunting spurs. Our destination was the third floor: the Security Division occupying the western wing, and the Finance Division archives holding the eastern sector.

The ground floor would be choked with commuters and ticket purchasers, while the second floor housed general administrative desks. From the third floor upward, entry was strictly restricted, sealed behind checkpoints requiring authorization badges.

"The Security Chief arrives at precisely eight-thirty every morning, like clockwork," Irina said, tapping the crystal of her pocket watch. "The head of the Finance Division rarely strolls in before nine."

She leveled a steady finger against the parchment. "We strike the moment both are seated at their desks with the daily paperwork spread before them. Breach commences tomorrow at precisely nine-thirty in the morning."

Havel's constabulary would secure the street gates and freight doors, while Irina spearheaded the assault up the grand central staircase directly into the security wing. Meanwhile, I would slip through a cramped, unlisted staff staircase concealed behind the second-floor document storage room, emerging onto the third floor to cut off their escape.

I brushed my fingertips along the faint red line tracing the third-floor fire exit.

Tomorrow at nine-thirty.

All I had to do was stand at the top of those stairs and grab every fleeing executive by the throat.

My eyes drifted back to the contract, lingering on the figure of thirty silver coins. Come morning, I would just have to prove I was worth every single cent.