The scent of burning tobacco thickened the air in the mayor's office like a malignant fog, curling along the walnut-paneled walls and settling into the velvet folds of the gold-rimmed curtains. Mayor Ronald leaned back heavily in his high-backed, oxblood leather chair, one hand wrapped around a half-lit cigar, the other flipping through the last few sheets of formal papers sprawled across his gleaming mahogany desk.
The clock on the far wall ticked away methodically, a cold reminder that midnight had passed. But Ronald was far from concerned about the hour. Sleep wasn't something he allowed himself lately—not when whispers of instability, corpses in alleys, and the flaring eyes of the press haunted his every waking thought.
Across from him sat a man with sweat lining his collar, fidgeting in silence under the soft amber glow of the office chandelier. He had been summoned many times before, but this time, it was he who had come—uninvited.
Mayor Ronald took a long drag from the cigar, eyes half-lidded. He exhaled smoke in a slow, deliberate stream and broke the silence with a heavy, unimpressed tone.
"Why the hell did you come to my office at this hour?" His voice rumbled with the quiet rage of a man who didn't like surprises. "You better have a damn good reason for disturbing my quiet."
The man cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. "Mr. Mayor, it's about the witnesses… a few of them—two, to be precise—are starting to regain lucidity. The meds don't seem to be working anymore. They're talking."
Ronald's eyes didn't waver, but his jaw clenched slightly as he dropped the final paper onto the pile.
"So that's it?" he asked, voice calm but razor-edged. "That's the mighty emergency? You came here—into my office—because some mental rejects started spouting nonsense?"
The man sat up straighter, hands clasped tightly in front of him. "It's might not nonsense if they're coherent, sir. One of them mentioned seeing something... mechanical. Described it in detail. A robot—again. Same as the last two. But this time—"
"I don't care what they said," Ronald interrupted coldly, standing up and walking over to the tall bar shelf by the wall. He poured himself a glass of scotch, his back turned. "That's your job—to make sure they don't talk."
He swirled the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. "Tell me... are you failing at your job?"
"No, sir," the man said quickly. "But the dosage we've been using isn't as effective as it used to be. The patients have started developing resistance. We might need stronger inhibitors."
Mayor Ronald turned around and leaned against the shelf, drink in one hand, cigar in the other.
"Then get them," he said. "Get more. Get stronger ones. I don't care if you have to smuggle it from the North District under their noses. I want every last witness comatose or delusional before sunrise."
The man swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
For years now, Heldale's most sinister truth remained buried beneath its well-manicured lawns, charming town sceneries, and smiling news anchors. Whenever someone stumbled upon a scene too ghastly to be ignored—bloodied limbs, torn-up walls, malfunctioned streetlights flickering over a headless corpse—they were quickly taken into custody under the guise of 'trauma management.'
Trauma management, of course, meant sedation.
Ronald had authorized the importation of a very particular class of neurological suppressants—illegally synthesized compounds that could induce schizophrenic or psychotic symptoms within hours of ingestion. They were discreetly mixed into coffee cups, fruit juice, sometimes a small, sweet candy placed kindly in a hospital waiting room. Patients would spiral into manic laughter, panic attacks, or catatonia—and then, the town had all the justification it needed to haul them off to Heldale Psychiatric care without suspicion.
With the media strictly censored and surveillance thoroughly managed, the narrative remained intact: Heldale was the most peaceful, most admired town in the entire state.
Mayor Ronald intended to keep it that way.
He paced slowly across the room, the soles of his leather shoes making soft thuds against the plush carpet.
"It's two months away from the governorship primaries," he said, more to himself than the man. "Do you think I'm going to let a bunch of hallucinating lunatics ruin that for me?"
"No, sir."
Ronald turned to face the man, eyes piercing. "Then do what needs to be done."
The man nodded quickly.
"What about the others?" Ronald continued. "Any new bodies? Any... incidents?"
"One, sir. Just outside the west tunnel, two nights ago. But the cleaners got there first. It was... messy. Multiple limbs. Couldn't identify gender."
Ronald's hand twitched slightly. "What about the cleaners?"
The man hesitated. "They've been taken care of, sir. At least, no one's spoken up. But it happened not far from the migrant quarters. The kids, the street ones... they seem curious."
Ronald exhaled sharply. "Keep an eye on them. Especially the ones asking questions."
The man gave a quick nod.
Ronald returned to his desk and sank into his chair, fingers drumming the polished surface. "This thing they speak of... do we have anything concrete on it yet?"
"Not yet," the man admitted. "No prints. No leads. But the wounds—"
"Are mechanical," Ronald finished with rolled eyes."Precise. Non-human. I know all that."
There was silence between them now, except for the low crackle of Ronald's half-burned cigar. Then, he leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous.
"I've spent decades shaping this town," he said. "People come here from all over for our partnerships. Our architecture. Our vicinity. No one asks about the murders because there are no murders. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Everything we do, we do to preserve that illusion. Because if even one word leaks through that polished surface, the whole damn wall collapses."
The man looked down at his shoes. "I understand, sir."
"Then go," Ronald said, waving a hand. "Find whoever's still lucid. Fix them. And if they can't be fixed, make them disappear."
The man stood slowly, bowed slightly, and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Ronald called out again.
"And one more thing," he said, the shadow of the cigar smoke clinging to his words. "If there are people snooping around—especially anyone new in town—make sure they stay out of this. However you have to."
The man nodded without turning back, and left.
Ronald sat there in silence, the glow of the lamp casting deep hollows under his eyes. He reached for the glass of scotch again and drained the rest in one go. He felt the burn settle into his gut like fire.
He looked over to the framed photo on the corner of his desk—him, his late wife and little Kant and Marin. Smiling. A perfect family portrait.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
How long could he keep this up?
How many more years could he feed the town lies, silence the victims, and bury the evidence?
He didn't know.
But he knew one thing for certain—he wasn't going to stop.
Not until he got to where he strongly desired and Heldale was exactly what the world believed it to be: perfect.