The morgue. It didn't smell like flowers. It smelled like frozen copper and cheap, stinging bleach.
Solar stepped into the room. White. Cold. Dead. His leather coat swept the floor—SWISH. THUD.—like a black wing. He didn't like the light here. It flickered. BZZZT. BZZZT. Like a heart that couldn't decide if it wanted to stop or keep struggling. In Aethelgard, death was just a change in the ledger. You weren't a person anymore. You were a liquidated asset.
"Drawer 402, Elias. Move it."
Elias was shaking. His breath came in white, jagged puffs of vapor. The boy hated the cold. He hated the way the steel cabinets looked like a filing system for souls. He fumbled with the master key. CLINK. His fingers were blue. Pathetic.
"Open it. Now."
CLACK.
The steel drawer slid out. It made a screaming sound against the runners. The body was pale. Grey. Covered in a thin, sickly layer of frost. A jagged scar ran across the man's chest—a souvenir from the refinery explosion. Solar didn't flinch. He never flinched. He leaned over the corpse. Close. He could smell the smoke still trapped in the dead man's hair.
"The union leader," Solar whispered. His voice was a dry, hollow rasp. A ghost's laugh. "He thought the explosion was an exit. He thought the fire would burn the debt. He was wrong. Math is more permanent than skin, Elias."
"Sir... his family. They're outside. They want to bury him."
Solar looked at the man's frozen eyelids. "Bury him? With what money? Did you audit the life insurance? Did you check the collateral on the widow's shack in Sector 7?"
Elias swallowed. GULP. Solar heard the fear. It was the only warm thing in the morgue. "The insurance was... canceled, sir. Non-payment. During the strike. The apartment is already in the foreclosure queue. But the people... they're calling him a martyr."
"A martyr?" Solar laughed. A jagged, metallic sound. HA. HA. HA. "A martyr is just a debtor who ran out of time. He didn't die for them. He died owing me. And in this city, the debt doesn't die. It migrates. It flows from the dead hand to the living one. Transfer the principal to the widow. Add a 20% 'Death Surcharge'. For the paperwork. For the bleach."
CLANG.
Solar slammed the drawer shut with his boot. The sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil. BOOM.
"The Shadow Architect is in the cemetery, sir. Waiting. He says the debt dies today. At the graveside."
Solar adjusted his cufflinks—human bone. Cold. Hard. "The debt only dies when I say the balance is zero, Elias. Dead men tell no tales? Fine. But their signatures are still on my parchment. And their children are still breathing my air. That's enough for a collection."
He stepped out into the black rain. It wasn't water. It was soot. It clung to his boots like a desperate hand. SQUELCH. SQUELCH. In the distance, the workers stood around a hole in the dirt. Tiny orange sparks of candles in the drowning gloom. And there he was. The silver mask. The Shadow.
"Solar!" the Shadow roared over the wind. "The man is gone! The contract is void! Let him rot in peace!"
Solar walked to the edge of the pit. He looked down at the wooden coffin. Cheap pine. Already warping in the damp. "Peace is for the solvent, ghost!" Solar shouted back. His voice cut through the storm like a blade. "This man died in the red. His lungs? Mine. His hands? Mine. Even the wood of this box was bought with a loan from the Royal Bank. He's not resting. He's just waiting for the final audit."
He pulled a damp sheet of paper from his coat. He dropped it onto the coffin. FLAP. "The updated balance. It includes the interest accrued during this conversation. You want to save his soul? Pay the bill. Otherwise, get out of the way. I have a cemetery to foreclose on."
The workers growled. A low, animal sound. GRRR. But they didn't move. They were afraid of his math. They knew he was right. They were all entries in his book.
Solar turned his back. He walked to the transport. He didn't feel the rain. He didn't feel the hate. He just felt the cold, hard weight of the gold.
"Elias! Audit the graves. Every single one. I want to know who's buried here and who they owed. If they have gold teeth, I want them. Nothing leaves this city without paying the tax. Not even the dead."
He poured a glass of water. Clear. Cold. GLUG. GLUG. He drank it slowly. The interest never sleeps. And tonight? Even the ghosts were going to pay.
The audit was moving into the tomb. And Solar had the only key.