For the first time since his mother had died, Abel Belcaven decided to answer the phone. Day and night, for months now, he’d put up with the calls, never answering even one, but despite his outdated machine’s lack of caller identification, his gut told him exactly who they were from which was why he ignored them. However, despite that, there was something that compelled him to answer that night.  He couldn’t give an exact reason why other than the fact that he felt he must.

His hand hovered over the white wall-mounted receiver for a moment, dark eyes drifting to the stack of unopened letters on the table barely illuminated by a lone candle in the middle of the room. He took a deep breath and lifted the phone mid-chirp, choking the familiar ringing sound.

“Look,” he muttered in a quiet voice, as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping, “I’ll have the money soon, alright? Just—just stop calling.”

“…Abel?”

He felt his heart skip a beat, although he was not sure if it was in relief or panic. “I—Cyril, is that you?”

“Yeah,” the voice on the other line of the phone said after a short pause. “Yeah, it’s me. Expecting someone else to call at—” There was a pause, as if he was checking a watch. “—eleven at night?”

Abel glanced down at his shoes, shrugging even though he knew Cyril could not see the gesture. He chose not to answer out loud.

“Well, whatever,” Cyril said with a sigh. His voice crackled through the phone’s speaker. “Uh, how’ve you been?”

“How do you think?” Abel mumbled, curling the twisted phone cord in his hands.

“…Right. Well.” Cyril’s voice trailed off, and Abel heard a muffled cough, as if the man on the other end had pulled the phone away from his face.

Nervous bile rising in his throat, Abel curtly said, “Well, if that’s all, I really should—”

“Wait wait, no!” Cyril exclaimed. Bumping noises that Abel couldn’t filtered through the phone’s speaker—fingers tapping against a desk, maybe? “It actually is something important, I swear. You made me promise not to call you otherwise, remember? And this is the first time I’ve actually called; you know that. So believe me.”

Since Abel hadn’t answered the phone in quite some time, he didn’t, but there was an urgency in Cyril’s voice that prevented him from hanging the receiver back up on the wall. “Fine,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. When was the last time he’d spoken so many words in one sitting? “What’s wrong with you, then?”

“Uh, nothing wrong with me, in particular. This is more about… you.”

“I’m hanging up,” Abel said point-blankly.

“Don’t you dare!” Abel winced at Cyril exclamation and held the phone a few inches away from his ear. “…You still there?”

Resisting the urge to end the call then and there, Abel curled his fingers tightly around the cord. “You have thirty seconds. Then I’m hanging up.” His tone was much less threatening than he had intended it to be.

Cyril chuckled softly. “Same old Abel, huh? Alright, here’s the deal. Work’s been getting pretty busy, and the boss told me to hire an assistant. Just, you know, to do simple tasks, organize papers, meetings, that sort of thing. You up for it?”

Abel blinked in surprise. “You’re offering me a… job?”

“Yeah. You’re still looking, right?”

Abel rubbed the back of his neck. Looking wasn’t an entirely accurate verb. It took most of his energy to merely get out of bed in the morning; the idea of finding a job had been a daunting, impossible task. “I… yeah. I guess.”

“So you’ll do it?”

Abel’s voice caught in his throat. “N-no,” he managed to choke out.

“…Are you shitting me?” Cyril asked incredulously.

Abel, grim-faced, did not answer.

“Don’t start this shit with me, Belcaven,” Cyril said crossly. Abel imagined him with that characteristic pouting look on his face, one hand on his hip. “I know you need work, but when I give you a golden opportunity, you up and say no? What the hell?”

“I don’t need any charity from you,” Abel said softly. His voice was thick, and his eyes were beginning to sting. No, no, no, not now.

“Like hell you don’t!” Cyril snapped. “I don’t know exactly what kind of grave you’ve dug yourself, but you better hop out right now before it gets any deeper. I care about you Abel; you think you’re the only one who’s had a hard time dealing with… well. You know. But you can’t let that ruin your life, dumbass. It happened, and it sucks, but she would—”

“Don’t,” Abel said with enough force to stop Cyril in his tracks. “Don’t talk about her like you know what she…” The phone was trembling slightly in his shaky hands, and it took all of his effort to keep emotion from clogging his throat. “And don’t go giving me things I don’t deserve. There are plenty of other people who need work, too, idiot. More deserving people. Ones who’ll tear at each other’s throats just to give you a resume.” Abel stopped, not trusting himself to say much more. He sniffled slightly and turned away from the candlelight. It hurt his eyes.

Cyril sighed. “Look, I’m not going to say that that’s not true, but…” His tone was softer. “This isn’t charity, all right? I’m not just giving you this. Well, I am but... well, what do you want me to say? I’m offering because I know you, but also because I trust you and I can’t image someone else doing the job any better.”

“And your boss—and whoever—would be okay with that? With… with me?”

“Boss told me to hire whoever I wanted. I want you. It’s pretty simple, bud.” Cyril sighed and added, “Please, just… say yes. If not for yourself, than for me. I don’t want to have to screen those deserving people and their shitty resumes.”

Abel scowled half-heartedly. “You’re sure? You better not be lying to me.”

“Why would I?” Cyril retorted. “So you want it or not?”

“I don’t know…” Abel said haplessly. “Maybe.” He inhaled deeply. “What’s the pay?”

“Better than you’re getting right now,” Cyril offered.

Abel crossed his arms and let his head rest against the wall, a chill seeping down his neck. “Can you… just give me some time to decide?”

Cyril sighed, and Abel heard a rustle—probably him shaking his head. “Still so reluctant? I really will never understand you, Belcaven, but sure. I’ll call you back. Tomorrow?”

“No!” Abel said quickly, his voice cracking. “I—no. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Alright,” Cyril said with suspicion seeping into his tone. “Whatever you say. Promise you’ll call? Because if you don’t, I will march down to that apartment of yours.”

Abel paled slightly. “Please don’t.”

“Then you’ll call?”

“Yes,” Abel relented. “I’ll call.”

Cyril let out a sigh of relief. “Great. Call!”

Wiping at one of his eyes, Abel irritably replied, “I will. Now let me sleep.” He put the receiver back on the latch before he heard what Cyril said. He took a long, shaky breath and collapsed backward onto the couch that took up the majority of his small living room. He was suddenly exhausted, though he’d done nothing but wander around his apartment like a ghost the entire day.

He took a minute to sit, staring out the half-closed window. Muffled city noises—cars, sirens, indecipherable speech—floated through occasionally, but they seemed far, far away. Everything always sounded quiet and distant.

Abel let his head sink, cradling his face in open palms while drawing long breaths. His heart was still beating embarrassingly fast, and he desperately wished it would stop. A simple phone conversation shouldn’t have shaken him up so badly, but it had, but because Cyril knew—knew how close to the edge he was, and he hated that.

Deep in the back of his mind, he knew he had to take Cyril’s offer, because no matter how much he hated charity and distrusted Cyril’s optimistic view of how the world worked, he needed the money. He eyed the wall-mounted phone warily… he couldn’t keep ignoring the calls forever. Soon they would stop being calls and turn into personal visits.

He couldn’t help but think that there was a much simpler solution to solving his problems. It was one he tried to keep far away, but it had started to creep closer and closer…

Abel staggered to his feet and blew out the two candles in the kitchen, letting darkness shroud the small apartment. He would deal with it all in the morning, he decided, and at least give himself a few more hours of being a free man.

It took Abel three days to gather the strength to call Cyril back, although he wasn’t quite sure why. His mind had mostly been made up since their first phone call, but every time he had gone to dial the number, he couldn’t make himself do it.

That morning as he watched the sun peek over distant buildings from behind a dirty window pane, he resolved that it was time. Struggling to shuffle his feet, which had suddenly turned into heavy lead weights, he made his way to the kitchen. He rummaged through a few drawers until he found his contact book — which was a laughable name for it. Barely used, the book had been a “housewarming” from Cyril with his number and address already written in it.

A feeble effort on Cyril’s part in an attempt to get Abel to keep in touch. Abel couldn’t remember the last time he had looked in the book, if at all. There were only two other names listed (although one of them was Cyril’s brother, who might as well be clumped in a group with Cyril). Abel’s eyes lingered over the third entry wistfully.

Cynthia Belcaven. 148-C Rensick Street. 120-58-891.

After he found himself staring at the entry, Abel’s mouth twitched in a frown, and he grabbed a pen from the counter and aggresivvely scribbled out the name until it was unreadable.

He wouldn’t be needing the entry anyway. Not anymore.

Bound book in hand, he reluctantly made his way over to the wall-mounted phone. It crossed his mind to check the time to make sure it was late enough in the morning for Cyril to be in his office, but then the phone was already in his hands, his fingers already punching in the 8 digit code.

The dial code rang twice before Abel heard a dull click — the sound of the opposite receiver being picked up.

“Well, well, well, look who it is.” Cyril’s sing-song voice flowed loudly through the phone speaker.

Abel huffed, fighting the urge to hang up and pretend he had never called. Still, he did not offer Cyril a greeting.

Cyril cleared his throat and said, “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever call back, you know. I was going to give you one more day, then boss said I had to start looking else-were. Glad you called when you did, ha. I definitely have some work for you. Got a ton of mail that needs sorting and we keep getting these stupid packages, not to mention—”

“Hang on!” Abel snapped, his heart racing at the alarming speed at which Cyril spoke. Even after so many years, he was still baffled by Cyril’s ability to spew a short novel before taking a breath. “I haven’t said yes yet.”

“Wasn’t that implied?”

“Not necessarily,” Abel grumbled. Although Cyril was right in his assumption, Abel wanted to cling on to the delusion that he had a choice in the matter for just a little longer.

Cyril let out a long sigh and a squeaky noise cluttered the audio, as if he had leaned back in his chair. “Get on with it then. Give me your official answer, or whatever the hell you want to say.”

Abel licked his lips nervously and wrapped his free arm around his chest, suddenly afraid that his insides might leap out of his chest if he didn’t contain them. “I… yeah. I’ll take it.”

“Great,” Cyril hummed. “That was relatively pointless run-around, but whatever. Ah, what day is it, Thursday? Think you could come in tomorrow?”

“Could I—actually, could I come in today, maybe?” Abel asked. Suddenly his dark apartment felt cramped and hard to breath in, and he wanted to get out as soon as possible. A tingling sensation ran down his back, causing the hairs on his neck to stand on end.

Cyril let out a disbelieving scoff. “Really, first you say you ‘have to think about it,’ and now you’re begging to come in immediately?” He made a tut-ing sound with his tongue. “All these years and I still don’t understand you, Belcaven. But yeah, I guess you can. Aaah, what time is it?”

As Cyril started muttering to himself about misplacing his watch, Abel’s eyes immediately went to the dusty analog clock hanging over his couch. “It’s a quarter ‘till ten,” he offered. He watched the second hand tick for a moment before he dropped his gaze.

“Alright, not bad. I can send a car for you and we’ll have you here in no time. I’ll just—”

Abel interrupted forcibly before Cyril’s mouth began running. “No, that’s fine. I can walk.”

“Really?” Cyril chuckled. “Walk from your building to the regent’s office? It’s twenty blocks!”

“More like ten,” Abel corrected. “With traffic it’s probably faster…”

There was a short pause before Cyril answered, as if he was weighing the pros and cons. “Well, whatever, do what you want. Just don’t come complaining to me about sore feet. So I’ll expect you around 11:45? Should give you enough time, and today’ll be good for just going over basic duties and tasks, getting your paperwork all done up. I’ve already filled out most of it and got Goreman to sign, so that shouldn’t take long.”

It took a few seconds for Abel to process the meaning behind his words. “…You already drew up the paperwork? You just assumed I was going to say yes?”

There was a small noise that sounded like a shrug. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

Abel scowled silently, able to hear the smug grin on Cyril’s face. “Don’t be too proud of yourself…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cyril replied with a sigh. “Tell me off later. I actually do have work to take care of, so we’ll talk when you get here… you do know how to get here, don’t you?”

Abel rolled his eyes and simply stated, “Corner of Third and Eincrat. I’m not deaf, you know. You mention the Regent’s office at least five times every time I see you.” Which, if he was going to be fair, was not often. “Besides, everyone knows where that is.”

“True, I guess. Anyway. Second floor, room 223. Just tell the receptionist you’re there for Prattock. See you soon.”

Abel punched the End Call button without another word. Chewing absently at his lip, he gently slipped the receiver back into the dock with a quiet click. For close to a minute, he simply stood there, staring at the white plastic device, before taking a deep breath and turning around.

One glance down at his attire told him he desperately needed to change. Dressed in ratty slacks and a faded t-shirt, Abel wasn’t sure of the last time he properly changed—or even bathed. After taking a cold shower (when was the last time his water had been warm?), he picked some of the only clothes that were hanging up in his wardrobe and not scattered around his cluttered room. They were not professional by any means, but they were the best option he had.

He hadn’t needed to dress nicely before everything had turned south. Working at the family store, organizing inventory, greeting costumers with warm smiles… it seemed like another life.

Memories threatened to send him spiraling as he recalled wearing that same outfit around the store, but when he looked into his dresser mirror, any feeling of warm nostalgia burned away. His appearance reflected the stress and change inflected upon him over the years. The poor lighting made his skin look sallow and sunken. His dark eyes had lost their gleam. His hair hung from his head in clumps, lazily brushed to one side, and due to being wet, it would dry like that. He’d gotten thinner too, he noticed, from the way his clothes clung to his frail body, almost looking too big for him.

Suddenly disgusted by his own appearance, Abel turned sharply away from the mirror, and after pocketing his keys and wallet, headed for the door. He felt naked and unprepared, but at the same time, what was he supposed to bring? He had no bag, no brief case, no supplies, no resume…

Giving himself time to think would merely cause him to psych himself out, so, in a way that Abel found anticlimactic, he stumbled out the doorway, turning only to the lock the deadbolt.

A gust of wind greeted him as he stepped outside, the autumn chill biting into his exposed skin. Wrapping his arms protectively around himself, Abel hurried down the sidewalk.

It was not particularly crowded—just about what Abel expected of a Thursday morning. He passed a few others on foot and flinched whenever a car streamrolled by. It must have rained the night before. The sidewalks were dark and damp, puddles littered the streets, and the sky seemed gloomier than usual.

The crowd grew exponentially as he drew closer and closer to the city’s interior, and the people transformed from quiet and brooding to loud and joyous. People pointed and laughed at the shop fronts and towering buildings. It was to be expected given the city’s high rates of tourism, but it did nothing but make Abel’s skin crawl.

“Sir, Sir, excuse me, Sir!”

Abel heard the call from behind him but thought nothing of it until a hand clasped his shoulder. “Excuse me, Sir!” Abel inhaled sharply and jumped backward, his heart racing at the unexpected contact. Eyes wide, he took in the man standing in front of him.

Wearing a strange smile and ill-fitting suit, a balding man was looking at him expectantly. It took Abel a few seconds to realize that the man was holding out a flier, waiting for him to take it. Abel snatched the flier and began to turn away, hoping that would be enough for the man to let him pass.

Of course, with his luck, it wasn’t.

“Sir, can I have a moment of your time to talk to you about Humanity’s Great Judge, Arbiter? When the world was first formed—”

Abel’s lip curled. “Sorry, I’m not interested,” he said curtly, crumpling the flier in his hands and dropping it at the man’s feet.

The man barely looked phased and simply latched onto another unsuspecting passerby without a second glance at the crumpled flier. “Excuse me, Sir, can I…”

Religious fanatics… it certainly wasn’t a new fad, and it wasn’t something Abel missed when venturing outdoors. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“Remember, Arbiter is always watching, even when no one else is, and He rewards those who make the right choices and punishes those who don’t.”

Abel felt his heart grow unbearably heavy as the familiar phrase floated through his mind. He could still hear his mother’s voice saying it, remembering the times he’d been told that phrase, like when he was caught stealing or leaving a mess.

Arbiter is always watching.

Abel sighed and wondered what he did to deserve the life he led.

It was not long before his feet carried him through the grand doors of the Regent’s office. Inside, it was warm, both in temperature and in atmosphere. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, and plush red couches sat in one of corner of the lobby.

A woman set behind a dark brown desk near the entryway. Upon hearing the door, she looked up and immediately sputtered, “Pardon me, Sir, but you can’t be in here.”

Abel swallowed nervously and said, “Uh, I’m actually here to see Prattock. Cyril Prattock?”

The woman gave him a suspicious glare before flipping through the papers she had neatly stacked on her desk. “Name?”

“Abel Belcaven.”

She flipped through a few more papers before looking up in mild shock. “Oh… it seems Mr. Prattock is expecting you. Well, then. He’s in room 223. Elevator’s down the hall to the right.”

“Uh, thank you,” Abel replied. The woman watched him go, giving him a look that suggested she thought he might steal something when she turned her back. Unnerved by the exchange by too far in to turn back, Abel scurried down the hallway, out of the woman’s line of sight.

“Down the hall to the right,” Abel muttered to himself as he tread down the hallway. He took his first right and was greeted by the sight of a diagonal metal grid. Elevators weren’t a frequent mode of transportation for him, and he wasn’t keen to use it. He pressed the button, and while he was waiting, he entertaining the idea of finding the stairs. But then there was a metallic dinging noise as the elevator car slid down into place.

There was a man in the elevator wearing a red velvet uniform that pushed open the gate. “Up or down?” he asked as his eyes narrowed.

“Up,” Abel replied.

The man blinked, and when Abel didn’t move, he curtly said, “Get in, then.”

“Uh, right,” Abel breathed as he stepped into the elevator.

The man glanced around for any other passengers before sliding and locking the metal gate. He hit a button on the control panel and the elevator box shook to life. Abel inhaled through his teeth as the platform started to rise. He cast a fervid glance that the man working the controls. His face was as neutral as it could possibly be; Abel envied his apathy. His heart was beating fast in his chest between the walk to the Regent’s office, the interaction with the desk lady, and the elevator, his nerve was on the verge of breaking.

The elevator moved so slowly. Abel could hardly stand it. For a good half a minute, they were stuck in almost total darkness, the only thing illuminating the small cart a dusty light bulb.

When the cart came to a shuddering stop, numbing relief pulsed through his limbs. The control man, who hadn’t seemed to notice Abel’s distress, grumbled something Abel couldn’t understand and pushed back the iron door.

Abel muttered a “thank you” and slunk out of the cart. He hurried away from the elevator and started searching for the right room.

“What number was it?” He mumbled under his breath. He walked past a few older men in suits, avoiding their suspicious gazes.

He found room 223 after some searching, and after confirming that it was correct (The tag under the room number read “Cyril Prattock”). Abel knocked twice and then entered.

“Ah, you made it!” Cyril’s voice was different in person, higher-pitched and smooth. He was leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up on his desk. Reading glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and he held some papers like he had been reading them before Abel came in.

“Yeah,” Abel sighed, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Cyril made a beckoning motion as he stood up. “Come in, come in.” He pointed to a small desk in the corner that was piled high with packages. “Here’s your desk. Kinda been using it to put the boxes on, but y’know. Those can be moved.”

Abel stepped over to the desk, investigating the small mountain of brown boxes. “So, what are these, exactly?”

Cyril leaned back on the corner of his desk and shrugged. “Well, you know part of my job’s to go through the Regent’s incoming and outcoming packages, so those are all packages addressed to the office I’ve gotta go through and register. So that’s mainly what I’ll be needing your help with and why Goreman told me to hire an assistant. We’ve recently been getting a lot more, and Goreman revised the registration form so it’s even more intensive now and just…”

Cyril sighed and rubbed the back of the neck, and Abel noticed how tired he looked. His hair suck up in the back and there were dark bags under his eyes. Abel wondered how he managed to stay—or at least act—so chipper.

“So,” Cyril summed up with a heavy sigh. “That’s what you’re looking at here.”

Abel nodded, although he still didn’t quite understand where he fit into the picture. He threw up his hands and said, “Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Most of the package registration will be up to you,” Cyril said with a clap of his hands. He pulled a stack of paper from one corner of the desk and shoved it into Abel’s arms. “Here are the forms.” He gestured toward the stack of boxes on the small desk. “And there are the packages.” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling on his bangs. “Shit, this is so informal. Sorry about that.”

“It’s no problem,” Abel said, only half paying attention to Cyril as he looked over the paper. The print was tiny and there seemed to be a thousand boxes and questions to complete.

Cyril went on for a solid ten minutes explaining the details of the form and the method for proper registration. Abel tried to pay attention, but after a minute, he lost the capability to process Cyril’s words—everything coming out of his mouth just sounded like noise. Abel supposed he could figure everything out later.

Abel jumped with a start when Cyril thrust a box into his hands. “Here, I’ll help you with this one. Have a seat.” He dragged a chair to his desk and looked at Abel expectantly.

After taking a moment to weigh the small box in his hands, Abel slowly sat down and turned the package over in his hands.

Cyril handed him a foot-long ruler. “First, you need to take the dimensions.”

“Really?” Abel’s face screwed as he took the ruler.

Cyril rubbed his temple and grumbled. “Yeah. It’s stupid, I know. But…”

“I get it,” Abel muttered. His hands shook slightly as he measured the box’s height, width, and length—three, four, and six respectively. Cyril was watching him intently, making Abel’s heart race.

“Pen,” Cyril hummed, handing Abel a ballpoint pen.

Abel took it without a word and filled in the measurements on the form. He then wrote down the sender’s address and various other physical aspects of the box. In large bold letters, the words FRAGILE were written at least once on each side of the box; Abel couldn’t help but wonder what was inside. “Do I open it now?” he asked, his hand already feeling cramped from writing. He hadn’t held a writing utensil in quite a long time.

Cyril shrugged. “Go for it.” His attention had already been grabbed by something else on his desk, and he was busy scribbling on a different form, satisfied with sending glances Abel’s way whenever he asked a question.

Abel used the edge of the ruler to pop the clear tape that strangled the little box. It took longer than anticipated due to the meticulous nature of the taping job, but eventually he was able to pop one end open. Abel peered inside and stuck two fingers in, fishing for the box’s contents. His fingers came into contact with something soft, and he delicately pulled.

He was quite surprised by the box’s “fragile” contents: a dirty white cloth and a folded note. “Um…” he muttered, not sure what to do. He cleared his throat, which Cyril took as a message to look up.

“Hm?” Cyril looked at him expectantly.

“Well, what now?” Abel asked, still holding the cloth in his fingers. It was grimy and smelled like mothballs. Abel wondered why anyone would send an old handkerchief to the Regent.

“Is that a note?” Cyril asked, pointing to the folded paper Abel had set on the desk. “If so, you’re going to have to copy the inscription and attach it to the form.”

And with that, Cyril went back to his own work, muttering something about calculations.

“Uh, alright,” Abel said with a sigh. He set the cloth down, discreetly wiping his fingers on his pant leg, and turned his attention toward the folded, somewhat crumpled, note.

He unfolded it quickly, admittedly curious as to what it said. In uniform cursive, the note read:

Regent Filborne—

My husband and I recently purchased a new home in the Ardon District. While going through the contents of the attic, we stumbled upon this relic. After consulting the previous homeowners, I have been led to believe that this cloth is indeed resting place for the worst kind of devil. Being that my husband and I have no experience with religious artifacts, we trust that you have the know-how and expertise to dispose of the cursed relic.

— Jacqueline Holden

“What’s it say, then?” Cyril asked as he looked up, slamming his pen on the table in a victorious kind of way—Abel could only assume he had finished what he was working on.

“Oh, ah, here,” Abel replied, handing the note to Cyril. He figured that was a much easier option than attempting to explain out loud. He was a terrible storyteller, after all.

Cyril’s eyes darted quickly across the paper, and he rolled his eyes when he finished, tossing the note onto the desk. “Ugh, another one of these,” he grumbled.

“Another one of what…?” Abel questioned, eying the musty white cloth.

“We’ve been getting a lot of those lately—too many. Religious freaks who think everyday objects somehow contain demons, or some shit like that. I never really understood. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh,” Abel murmured softly. “I understand.”

Cyril cocked one eyebrow. “Do you? Because I certainly don’t.”

Abel shrugged, suddenly feeling like he was being put on the spot. “Well, as the old tales go, there were once four demons that terrorized people until a man—uh, Arbiter, they call him—he, uh, obtained some kind of power…” Abel scratched his chin, urging his brain to come up with the whole story. His mother had told him, but that had been so long ago. “Well, after that, he sealed the four demons into objects. But no one really knows what those objects were—or are. So I guess they just… make it up. Anything old or slightly suspicious looking, they assume a demon is trapped in.” He glanced at the white cloth, and, he had to say, it looked like just about the most innocuous thing he’d ever seen. It was ripped and torn and pathetic looking.

Cyril was quiet for a moment before announcing, “Well that’s dumb. Even if that were true, which it definitely isn’t, why would people send it to the Regent? Why not the church? At least those nuts would actually care…”

Abel shrugged. “I don’t know,” he responded for lack of a better answer. He felt the slightest bit of irritation at the comment. While he agreed with Cyril for the most part, Abel’s mother had always been a religious woman. Not extreme or pushy, but she had believed and told Abel stories, and, though he knew it was illogical, he felt as if an attack on Arbiter was an attack on his mother.

But the feeling soon passed. It was silly, Abel thought, to feel like that.

“Anyway, just make a pile of those—I’m sure there are more. We usually just keep a pile of stuff until it’s big enough to burn. Figure everyone wins in that situation. We don’t have to deal with the shit, and, y’know, just in case there’s a demon in that crap, I guess it’ll burn too. Or whatever. Who really cares?”

Cyril had lost interest again, furiously going through his desk drawer, so Abel turned to the white cloth. He gingerly picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He wondered what would have made the woman—Jacqueline Holden—believe that there was something strange about it. He tugged at the cloth slightly, feeling it stretch in his hands, and then held it to his ear. He wasn’t sure what he was suspecting, but nothing out of the ordinary happened.

He let out a puttering sigh and began to fill out the grueling form. Once that was done, he moved to the little desk in the corner—his desk—and put the cloth in the bottom drawer before grabbing another box. He stayed at his desk, and a peaceful mood settled over the room. People came in and out to talk to Cyril, but it was easy for Abel to ignore them and focus solely on the task before him. He had to say, he enjoyed the repetitive assignment. It preoccupied his mind and body, but it was no particularly tasking.

It was certainly better than lurking in his apartment, wallowing in his own emotions.

It wasn’t long before Cyril was tapping him on the shoulder, shrugging on his coat and saying, “Hey champ, five o’clock, time to head home. You need a ride?”

Abel was quick to deny the offer.

Cyril shrugged. “Whatever. Come on, I’ll at least walk you out.”

Abel took a few seconds to organize his desk before joining the impatient Cyril. He took one last look over his shoulder as he stood in the doorway. The towering stack of boxes on the desk had vastly diminished (although more had poured in over the day, so it wasn’t quite an accurate visual), and a soft sense of pride flowed through Abel.

It wasn’t that he was doing important work. Most of the packages were either strange religious artifacts or useless every day items, but still, he had accomplished a task. And that had to count for something, right?

For the first time in a long while, a warm feeling settled in Abel’s gut and a thin smile found its way onto his lips.

And for the first time in a long while, Abel felt like he actually had a future.