---
John did not salute. He did not try a speech. "Storage room: half cleared," he said. "Disposal by authorized method." He did not say void. He did not need to. This was the disposal room. "Main floor: Sections One through Four scrubbed, rinsed, dried. Work rests while mana recovers. Ledger notes made. Door kept."
Warden Lutch crossed to a ledge and ran one finger along it. She looked at the finger. She showed nothing. She crossed to the drain, checked the grate, checked the trap. She checked the lamps, the oil fill, the way the cage screws turned. She checked the brush heads and the lye bars. She checked the ledger.
Fizz hovered absolutely still at shoulder height, paws folded in a way that said I am a statue and statues do not ask for cookies.
"Your hand," she said to John without looking up.
He showed her the peeling patch on his knuckle. She gave a small nod to say: you are not a fool; you are not bleeding into the work; good.
