The cold air inside the morgue carried the scent of formaldehyde and antiseptic, mingling with the faint musk of decay. Zughaib stood in the dimly lit hallway, his eyes scanning the flickering shadows around him. The place was quiet—too quiet—and the silence made every creak of the old building more sinister. He'd been waiting here for nearly an hour, keeping himself alert while occasionally glancing out of the small, rain-streaked window.
The rain had picked up again, pattering against the roof like the steady beat of a drum. Zughaib set the ashtray down on the receptionist's desk, his fingers tapping lightly on the wooden surface as he checked the camera one more time, making sure the photos were clear. He'd already sent a memo to the Cleaner, letting him know the job was done, but there was something unsettling about the night that lingered in Zughaib's gut.
Suddenly, a movement caught his eye—a figure outside, barely visible through the decorated, frosted glass door of the morgue's entrance. The silhouette stood motionless for a brief second, then moved as if retreating into the darkness beyond. Zughaib tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for the ashtray, using it like a makeshift weapon as he locked eyes on the door.
His muscles coiled, ready to retaliate any sudden attacks, but the figure disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, fading into the storm. Zughaib exhaled a muted sigh, his grip on the ashtray loosening. He wasn't sure what he'd seen—a shadow, a trick of the rain—but his instincts screamed something wasn't right.
Zughaib quickly sent another memo to the Cleaner, informing him of the mysterious figure, though he knew it wouldn't prompt much concern. The Cleaner was always calculating, always a step ahead, and seldom showed any signs of fear or urgency.
---
Elsewhere, the Cleaner cruised through the city in his hearse, the windshield wipers working overtime to clear the rain. The hum of the engine was a constant undercurrent to the steady patter of raindrops. His gloved hands rested on the wheel as he took a sharp turn down an old road, his thoughts already on the next job, the next move.
As he passed a stretch of grass beside the road, his sharp eyes caught sight of something unusual. A black minivan was parked awkwardly on the uneven ground, its tires half-sunken into the muddy grass. The Cleaner frowned. There was something off about the way it sat there—too still, too deliberate, as if someone inside was waiting. His foot hovered over the brake, but he decided against stopping. He'd seen plenty of vans like that in his time, but he had other things to deal with tonight.
His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, watching the van grow smaller behind him until it was just another blur in the rain. He continued on, his mind already shifting focus back to the morgue.
---
Zughaib's focus sharpened when he heard the familiar rumble of the hearse pulling into the morgue's parking lot. The Cleaner had arrived, though the storm made it hard to hear anything beyond the loud splashes of water under the tires. Zughaib glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the time. It was late—too late for anyone else to be wandering around these parts, yet the faint sensation of being watched still clung to him.
As the Cleaner swung into the lot, he narrowly avoided hitting a beat-up, old two-door SUV parked haphazardly in the corner—Zaid's crappy vehicle. The hearse came to a stop, its headlights cutting through the rain and illuminating the side of the building.
Moments later, the heavy pounding of a fist on the morgue door echoed through the hall.
Zughaib jumped slightly, his hand instinctively tightening around the ashtray. He got up, moving toward the door cautiously, but before he could get there, the pounding came again, louder this time. He opened the door a crack, peering out into the stormy night, and nearly strike with an ashtray until halting when he saw the Cleaner standing there, soaking wet and brandishing a suppressed pistol in his gloved hand.
"Easy there, slugger..." the Cleaner muttered, lowering the gun. His eyes were sharp through the ballistic mask. "You swing me' ashtray like that again, and I'll assume you're with the enemy."
Zughaib frowned but said nothing, stepping aside to let the Cleaner in.
As soon as the door closed behind him, the Cleaner cursed under his breath, shaking the rain off his coat like a wet dog. He looked irritated, and it didn't take long for him to let it out.
"You're always so agitated." the Cleaner said. "You weren't followed, were you?"
Zughaib handed the camera to the Cleaner, avoiding the question. He knew he hadn't been followed, but the presence outside earlier still bugged him.
The Cleaner quickly scrolled through the photos, his expression shifting from mild interest to a scowl. "Oh, great," he muttered, holding the camera closer to inspect one of the images. "Cultists."
Zughaib raised an eyebrow. Cultists weren't something he'd encountered before on these jobs, but the Cleaner's reaction suggested this wasn't good news.
Before either of them could say anything more, a sudden movement outside caught their attention. Zughaib looked over the Cleaner's shoulder and saw the black minivan from earlier, its headlights off, parked at the far edge of the cemetery.
The Cleaner turned sharply, his pistol already in hand. Without hesitation, he raised the weapon and fired a single, suppressed shot. The bullet hit the van's side mirror, shattering the glass with a quiet crack. The driver of the van, startled, immediately revved the engine and peeled out of the lot, disappearing into the night.
"Damn it," the Cleaner muttered, lowering his gun. He turned back to Zughaib, his eyes narrowing. "You sure you weren't followed?"
Zughaib shook his head, giving a silent nod of confirmation. He hadn't seen anyone, but clearly, someone had been watching. Whether it was the same figure from earlier or not, Zughaib couldn't be certain. But the Cleaner's paranoia was infectious, and now Zughaib felt that unsettling itch return.
"Doesn't matter," the Cleaner finally said, slipping his gun back into its holster. "We've got bigger problems. Those cultists... they're not the kind of people you want lurking around. I need you to keep your eyes open."
Zughaib didn't respond, his gaze shifting back toward the empty lot where the minivan had been. Just as the tension in the air seemed to thicken, the distant wail of a police siren broke through the night. The sound was faint but unmistakable, growing louder with each passing second.
The Cleaner cursed again under his breath, his eyes darting around the room. "That's my cue to leave. Cops are bad for business."
Zughaib glanced at the SUV parked in the corner, the familiar vehicle now a liability. Without waiting for more instructions, he grabbed the keys and made for the door. He didn't need to be told twice—getting out of there before the cops arrived was the smartest move he could make.
The Cleaner, already moving with practiced efficiency, flicked the lights off inside the morgue, shrouding the place in darkness. He slipped out through a side door, making his way to his hearse, which he quickly rolled into the bushes to keep it hidden from view.
Zughaib started the SUV, the engine sputtering to life with a cough before roaring into action. He didn't look back as he pulled out of the lot, tires splashing through the rain-soaked streets as he made his way back into the city. The flashing red and blue lights were approaching fast, but he knew the roads well enough to avoid them.
As he drove off into the night, leaving the cemetery and the morgue behind, the events of the evening played over in his mind. The mysterious figure, the cultists, the black minivan—it all felt like pieces of a larger puzzle, one that was quickly unraveling around him. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was coming, and that no matter how far he ran, it would find him.
But for now, all he could do was drive and wait for the next errand, the next step in the Cleaner's dangerous game.