The Cog Master tipped his hat slightly and melted into the crowd. Amir hailed a steam wagon taxi rumbling past, climbed in, and gave the driver the address.
"Iron Rest hotel. The back side."
Thirty minutes later, the wagon hissed to a stop in the familiar narrow street. Amir paid, stepped out into the coal-dust air, and watched the taxi putter away with a final puff of vapor.
The Iron Rest hotel looked exactly the same as it had months ago—faded brick, sagging gutters, the faint smell of damp and cheap soap drifting from the lobby. The plumbing problems that had plagued the whole building back then were fixed now, or at least patched enough that guests weren't complaining anymore. Life had moved on.
But right behind it, separated only by a narrow alley and a low wall, stood the VIC Plumber Company.
It hadn't moved on.
The squat building crouched in the shadows of the hotel like it had been waiting the whole time. Three stories of dark brick, rust streaks running down the walls like no one had ever tried to clean them. Windows boarded with the same planks from months ago. The sign above the main door—once visible from the hotel's back windows—hung crooked: VIC PLUMBER CO. – RESONANCE PIPES & HARMONIC FITTINGS. The missing "O" in COMPANY was still just a pale oval scar.
Yellow-and-black Cog-Watch cordoning tape looped loosely around the entire building, the letters COG-WATCH CORDONING – DO NOT CROSS faded from weather and time. No officers today. No steam-truck. The alley was quiet except for the distant clatter of steam-cars on the main road.
But it still felt wrong.
The air around it was too heavy, too still. Every few seconds, a faint metallic creak drifted from inside, like pipes remembering something they shouldn't.The lock yielded to the Inquisition skeleton key with a soft *click*. Amir crouched low and eased the door open with one hand, the other hovering near the grip of the Iron Argument under his coat. For a moment, nothing but darkness and the ancient reek of standing water and iron filings spilled out. He waited, listening. The silence in the old office was absolute, unnatural—no ticks of late-shift wall clocks, no groan of pipes. Only the thinnest whisper of wind through a broken pane, and deeper within, the slow drip of something from a height.
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. Amir paused at the threshold, heart hammering as the door swung open on creaking hinges. Inside, the factory's innards lay half-destroyed by the Harmonic Inquisition's hasty cleanup: tools dangled from warped hooks, others lay abandoned in twisted heaps on the floor, which was streaked with crusted blood and dark, unidentifiable stains. The overhead lamps flickered with a jaundiced glow, casting long, jittery shadows that writhed across gouged walls. A faint drip echoed from somewhere unseen, each drop sounding like a whispered taunt.
The air was thick and cloying—metallic tang of dried blood, the sour curl of mildew, old sweat impregnated into rotting wood—and something more elusive, like coins dipped in rust. Amir scrunched his nose. "Just what I needed: haunted cologne and a complimentary tetanus shot," he muttered, slipping an arm into his long coat.
He trod across soggy patches of mud and dust where water had pooled and turned to filth. At the front desk, a brittle crust of dust coated everything: a cracked ceramic mug beside a battered nameplate reading G. Rudd, Receptionist. The last drop of coffee lay petrified at the bottom, sticky and black.
Moving on, he pushed open the break room door and recoiled at the pong of decay. Collapsed Tupperware oozed green-blue mold onto warped counters. A coffee pot sat nailed to its base by a tar-like crust. "Holy shit, someone call a health inspector," he gasped, backing away. Even rats had probably abandoned this corpse of a kitchen months ago.
The admin office offered little else—mildew-stained paperwork piled over every surface, overdue bills stamped with angry red late-fee notices, frantic scribbles: "Bank called again—must stall payroll," "Remind Finch: fees due." Amir rifled through drawers until he found a deep gouge at the edge of the desk. He traced it with his fingernail, feeling the raw edge. "Did someone claw their way out of here?" he whispered, wondering if it tied back to the misfire he'd battled in the sewers with Pyotr and Jonathan. The corner safe hung open, empty except for a lone, desiccated cockroach.
In the manager's office, stale cigar smoke and stale sweat fought for dominance, while an undertone of fear lurked beneath. The leather chair had been ripped apart, stuffing spilling like pale intestines. Amir slid behind the desk, produced a thin blade, and popped the locked drawer—only to find it barren. Frustrated, he shrugged and pocketed the blade.
The hallways were deserted: a solitary wrench, a handful of lost buttons, and a single yellowed flyer advertising The Moonfall Carnival fluttered against the wall. Every shadow seemed to cling to the corners, waiting.
He hesitated at the locker room entrance. Inside, the lockers leaned at odd angles, paint peeling like burned skin. The floor was a patchwork of warped boards and obscene black mold. He methodically opened each locker: fossilized socks, an empty hip flask, a dented lunch pail filled with what looked like hardened stew. "Nope—no thank you," he grunted, slamming one locker. "Last thing I need is a supernatural tapeworm."
In the final row, though, a jammed locker yielded a battered, leather-bound notebook wedged deep in the corner. Dust spiraled in the lamps' weak glow as he pried it free. The cover was cracked; the name F. Kellan scrawled across the front in faded ink. Amir flipped it open.
At first, the entries were mundane: notes on pipe repairs, complaints about the foreman, daydreams of a woman named Marla down the street. But as he read on, the handwriting grew erratic and desperate.
October 12 Still no pay. It's payday, but Finch claims "bank problems" again—bullshit. Tom argued with him in the yard. Haven't seen Tom since.
October 14 Rumor: Harlan and Finch had a fight, and Harlan didn't show for night shift. Finch says he found a stain out back—thick and black. Not oil. Smelled…wrong.
October 15 Marla brought me a roll. God, I miss normal days. At night I hear things in the walls—soft tapping, almost like someone calling my name.
October 17 Still no pay. Finch keeps pushing it off. The guys are pissed but too scared to quit. Harlan is gone. No one speaks his name, but you can feel the fear.
October 18 Finch brought in men in black robes after hours. Faces hidden. They chant in his office—like a prayer but twisted. He looked—scared? Angry? Hard to tell.
October 21 The pipes keep knocking. Last night I saw a tall, thin shadow outside the locker room. It didn't move right. I tried to run, but my legs froze. Felt like if it knew I saw it, I was dead.
October 22 I asked Finch about pay. He said, "Don't worry—you'll get what's coming to you." Creepiest fucking line I've ever heard. Men in robes waited outside. Bankers? Worse? I don't want to know…
The next line was cut off, pages torn jaggedly from the spine. Amir's pulse spiked. "Of course—when it gets interesting, someone erases the evidence." He snapped the notebook shut, sweat beading at his temples. The locker room felt even colder now, as if every scream Kellan had heard still echoed in the air.
He tucked the diary into his pocket and scanned the room one last time—nothing but rot, mold, and an oppressive silence that made him glance over his shoulder. As he stepped back into the corridor, he thought: first, find Marla from the bakery; second, learn what happened to Harlan and the others; and finally, return here wait...since i am already here let me search this place again then maybe check out the sewers for more clues....since thats the place where we fought with that misfire
He stepped out of the locker room and back into the main corridor. The air felt heavy, charged with an unsettling energy that made him want to look over his shoulder. He thought of Kellan, his final words haunting him.
Amir thought he must figure what happened to Harlan and others....hmmm...maybe finding marla would help..but i don't know where she works....hmm maybe cog master can help