Cleaners, as the name implies, are a type of profession referring to the sanitation workers in the city responsible for cleaning, collecting trash, and taking it to designated collection points.
But in the corners hidden from the light, there is also a group of people who call themselves Cleaners.
And this group of shady Cleaners is responsible for a different kind of cleanup work, even handling the erasing of various traces at crime scenes for assassins, destroying evidence, and clearing obstacles.
They often collect a considerable fee from assassins or bounty hunters.
Recalling the number introduced by that god of death, John, and that Cleaner with an unusually low presence, York took out his phone and dialed a number.
"Hello, this is Old Boy Cleaning Company. How may we help you clean today?"
York instinctively glanced at the filth on the door. He hadn't been part of this world's assassin circle and didn't quite know how to express it—whether to state "corpses" directly or use other words instead.
After thinking seriously for a moment, York said calmly.
"Animals organs and some humanoid flesh, uh, and some rotten tomatoes, yeah, a lot of ketchup..."
"Huh?"
Obviously, York's words made the receptionist at Old Boy Cleaning Company freeze for a moment.
York's brow furrowed slightly, a hint of doubt surfacing in his heart regarding the professional level of this cleaning company.
Fortunately, the other party reacted instantly. "Alright, sir. May I have your address?"
York's brow relaxed as he gave his address along with the specific name.
"...Pluto Church..."
"Pluto Church? Alright, sir. A Cleaner will be there shortly. Please wait a moment, and thank you for calling."
Hearing this, York hung up the phone directly. He felt a bit better, but remembering the furniture inside, he couldn't help but rub his face.
"Sigh, I'll have to close tomorrow and go out to buy some things."
Just then, a sudden flurry of footsteps sounded in his ears, more chaotic than before, both alert and anxious.
York's heart stirred. He didn't pick up the SHAK-12 Heavy Assault Rifle beside him but looked toward the door a dozen meters away.
Seven or eight seconds later, a cry of alarm rang out first.
"My God! What happened here?"
"..."
A group of people with guns appeared at the door—old men, middle-aged men, and young men—each holding their own weapons: hunting rifles, shotguns, and so on. Seeing the blood and filth flowing outside, they rushed through the door with anxious faces.
"Father Yorkes will be okay, won't he?"
"..."
Just as the worried words fell, they suddenly saw the tall priest in his clerical robes sitting on the steps, looking at them with a smile.
"Father Yorkes?" They were all stunned, every face filled with bewilderment.
"Good evening, everyone."
Seeing these people in their pajamas, standing ready for battle with anxious faces, a wave of warmth welled up in York's heart.
These people were basically residents near the church. Even without using his past life's perspective, just looking at the present, being a priest to the point where America residents would bring guns to help—he really hadn't lived this life in vain.
"Uh?"
Everyone froze for a moment and quickly put their guns away, as if guns were an original sin in front of the priest.
"Father Yorkes, are you alright?"
The leader was an old man with the aura of an old cowboy. He didn't even ask about the mangled corpses on the ground; instead, he first asked about York's condition.
York shook his head and smiled. "Mr. Woodlow, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."
Saying that, York scanned the group, meeting everyone's eyes one by one, and said seriously again.
"Thank you very much for coming. Pluto Church will forever remember this night, that a group of brave men were willing to face danger for its sake..."
The words were exaggerated but pleasant to hear. The faithful residents looked at each other, their eyes shining with pride, feeling as if they had truly protected something important.
"Father, you're being too polite."
The leader, old Woodlow, tightened his grip on the shotgun handle, cleared his throat, and gestured toward the filth and corpses at the door, not caring about the cause at all.
"Do... do you need help with these?"
York continued to shake his head and said gently.
"I've already called a cleaning company."
Because of America culture, everyone understood instantly. Old cowboy Woodlow raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise.
"Alright, then should we head back?"
"Yes." York smiled and made the sign of the cross on his chest.
"Goodnight, everyone. May the Lord be with you."
Everyone quickly returned the gesture.
"Goodnight, Father."
"..."
Watching Mr. Woodlow and the group leave, York recalled what had just happened and felt a bit moved.
Overall, he appreciated the gesture and would remember it.
However, it wasn't just Mr. Woodlow's group; the dazzling lights and sirens of police cars appeared one after another right after they left.
York narrowed his eyes, looking at the red and blue lights in the distance without any panic.
This was the norm in America. No matter what happened, America citizens would first call 911 after ensuring their Health safety.
People like Mr. Woodlow rushing over with guns were actually rare and unusual. Of course, this also indirectly showed how competent he was as a priest.
"Lord, please remember my hard work!"
York muttered in his heart and walked toward the door. Just as he reached it, three police cars had already parked on the side of the street opposite, and a group of officers rushed out of the cars with alert faces.
Bulletproof vests, a handgun for each person, and even two officers carrying rifles for backup—this was pretty much the full gear for an ordinary police officer.
However, to York's surprise, the leaders were actually his acquaintances, Baker and Jeffrey... "Stay alert! Watch your safety!"
Leading the way, Officer Jeffrey waved his hand and led the charge toward the church.
Jeffrey's expression was exceptionally solemn, but in his heart, he didn't think the priest would be in trouble. For an ordinary person, someone who could deal with demons would only be a force of overwhelming power.
He was very clear-headed.
Sure enough, just as he thought, the priest in his clerical robes was already standing by the church door waiting for them.
"Stop!"
Jeffrey immediately called a halt.
The officers behind him looked at each other, and with an exchange of glances toward the priest, they all sensibly stopped.
"Baker."
Jeffrey gestured to Baker, leaving him in charge here.
Baker understood and nodded.
Seeing this, Jeffrey put away his Glock 19 and strode toward the priest standing by the church door... "Officer Jeffrey?"
Having watched the whole scene, York smiled calmly as Jeffrey approached.
"What are you doing here?"
Based on Jeffrey's situation, the area he was responsible for should be in downtown New York, not this suburb.
Jeffrey glanced at the blood and chunks of meat by the door, and even the mangled corpses. Without asking for the reason, he brought up another topic.
"Well... Father Yorkes, I've taken over Sergeant Boris's job."