Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The alarm went off at 7:00 am, just as it had every weekday for the past two and half years. His sheets rustled lazily as he dragged himself upright. Izaya sat up in bed for a few minutes, disappointed by just how sluggish his body was. He had stayed up too late the night before, but it didn't matter. Repetition had carved such deep grooves into his morning routine that he could walk them half asleep.

The too-bright bathroom lights stung his eyes as he stepped out of his underwear and into the shower. No time was wasted under the hot water— he only ever took seven, maybe eight minutes. Afterwards, the temperature shock of a cold compress on the tired shadows under his eyes was exactly what his body needed to start waking up for real.

His plain white undershirt went on first. It took him just one summer to learn that they actually kept you cooler if you had the right kind. Then the glasses, round frame. They complimented his features and gave the impression that he was more friendly and approachable than he felt. He didn't bother much with contacts these days.

Black slacks slid over his too-thin, too-pale legs next. He tucked in his white button-up. As he slipped on his blazer he thought the outfit looked more suited for a wake. The only thing that saved it was the red tie. Maybe that was the point. Every day was another little funeral.

Izaya grabbed his messenger bag and checked himself in the mirror one last time. The dark circles had vanished, but the hollowness in his eyes would take a bit longer to fade. If anyone in his cohort saw him right now, they would probably find it off-putting. He still had a few hours before he'd need to put that mask back on.

There was always a faint mildewy smell in the hallway of his apartment complex. The landlord couldn’t do anything about it. The neighbors in the end unit were arguing loudly again. Same as yesterday, same as every day. They must have liked it that way.

Izaya was one of the lucky ones, or at least one of the ones willing to pay a little extra to avoid the train at commuter hours. His apartment was only 1.3 kilometers from the office on the west entrance of Ikebukuro Station. Fifteen minutes on foot. He at least had the option to mix up his route if he felt like it. He often didn’t. But the option was there.

He picked up breakfast and lunch at a convenience store halfway between his apartment and the office because they had better choices at this hour than the others. A woman scolded her son for picking out candy instead of food. Izaya saw him slip the candy into his pocket anyway. Another customer held an overly-friendly conversation with the cashier, who smiled politely but secretly wished they were dead. Izaya imagined the internal scream that must be ringing out in their head. A man smelled two bentos before putting them both back. Izaya wondered what sort of life events could lead to developing a neurosis like that. Everyone else pretended not to notice. Or worse, maybe they really didn't notice.

Izaya noticed. That was his curse, thinly-veiled as entertainment.

There were still plenty of people milling about in the first floor lobby by the time he got there. He slipped into an elevator that was packed tight with people who might have been interesting if he didn’t already have so much on his plate keeping tabs on his coworkers. Quite frankly, he didn’t have the energy to meticulously catalogue every detail of every stranger he passed, no matter how interesting they might end up being. Anything he noticed that wasn’t useful he just threw away. Why waste energy on strings he couldn’t pull?

It was only a short walk from the elevator to his desk. The receptionist was constantly doodling on important documents and didn’t realize that her closed-off energy was unpleasant to guests. A junior salesman who had worn the same cheap cologne every day starting a few months ago leaned over the reception desk making small talk. Izaya could have told him it was a wasted effort— she only liked people who didn’t notice her. But why ruin their fun?

Third desk from the end, right in the middle of his section. Central. A place for reliable workers, because Izaya was nothing if not a good student. All of the awards in his parents’ house said so. When he landed, it was 8:51 am. Less than ten minutes to spare really only meant that he was almost late. But he wasn’t late. Miura was later. That was all that mattered in their little game— second-to-last was just as good as first place. He put on his smile. They all did. The last nine minutes of false freedom were killed logging in and swapping polite greetings.

Compared to his cohort, his home away from home was neat but plain. Even Miura had a saccharine photo of him and his wife on display, but Izaya didn’t see the point of erecting a shrine to his personal life. The way he saw it, the less people pried, the better. What would he even do, frame a picture of the twins? The last thing he needed was their collective face grinning at him every minute of every day, reminding him of yet another stressful obligation in his life.

The morning meeting run by Tejima— his manager’s manager —dragged on as it often did. Tejima had a way with words, if you considered a ‘way with words’ to mean stretching them so thin that they started to warp the edge of time itself. For a man who had been a senior manager for nearly ten years, he wasn’t even an effective speaker. Every logical fallacy and misused word clanged in Izaya’s head like a bell.

False equivalence. ‘Irregardless’ was not a word. He just cited himself.

Izaya sat still, chin propped on one hand and eyes glassy enough to pass for attentive. Did no one else hear how bad this was? Surely they must. But when he glanced around the room, most of his coworkers were either half asleep or nodding along, diligently taking notes as if Tejima was actually saying something. Disappointing, but not surprising.

Tejima’s grin was too fake. He must have practiced it in the mirror every morning. That, and he always laughed too hard at his own weak jokes. He was desperate for validation. He must have been starved for it at home. Izaya wondered if his wife knew or cared how much effort it took to maintain that big, fake smile.

“What about you, Orihara-san?”

His name snapped him back, and his face was the picture of cheerful subservience again.

⠀⠀⠀One hour.

An empty mug stared back at Izaya as he focused on his computer screen. The window between 10:00 am and noon was the only remotely-productive stretch in the office, if anything they did here could be called ‘productive’ in the first place. Still, it was hard to keep on it when he knew exactly how his lovely cohort was about to interrupt his flow.

It was Monday. That meant that Dobashi was going to launch into some dramatic retelling of his weekend antics. Yoshida was going to laugh too loudly. Then, their manager would clear his throat sternly, but he could be convinced to chat about baseball. By now, Izaya could have written the whole script himself.

He slipped out before the first act began, going for another cup of cheap coffee instead. At least then he would be spared from any invasive questions about his weekend.

The espresso machine gurgled out another cup of black filth into his mug; fuel for the caffeine addiction he was still trying to pretend was manageable. While he waited, he let his mind drift to an idle catalogue of what his coworkers must think of him. He spent so much time thinking of them, after all, it was only fair. Some things he had actually heard and the rest he could piece together from context clues.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Orihara-san shows up on time and gets things done. He is perfectly in line with expectations.” ★★★★★

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Orihara-san is sharp. He always has something clever to say in meetings.” ★★★★★

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“He’s friendly enough, but he’s a little distant. If only he would open up more. Then he could really be part of the team!” ★★★☆☆

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“A bit uncanny, isn’t he? Has anyone noticed that he’s kind of manipulative...?” ★★☆☆☆

While he was silently praising his last critic for being both perceptive and honest, Wada— the two-star reviewer in question —approached the coffee machine. Izaya gave her a cheerful nod, stirring his cup with a wooden stick even though there was nothing but coffee in it. It was a natural-looking way to prolong the interaction. This was something he had been looking forward to.

“Ah, Wada-san. I wanted to say, great job on that report. I thought it was excellent work. Very thorough.” Izaya smiled with his eyes, voice vibrant and clear.

Wada blinked, and then the familiar awkwardness that came from striking a sensitive topic overtook her. “Ah... Thank you. But Yoshida-san presented it, so...”

Izaya shook his head and grinned like his coworker had just cracked a joke. “But that’s just because he’s better at speaking in front of management than you are, right? I think it’s a shame that Yoshida-san’s the only one getting credit.”

That was the tender spot. Wada gave an awkward laugh. “Thanks Orihara-san.” She offered politely and started some coffee for herself.

“The weird thing is though, the other day I heard Yoshida-san happily accept credit for the work. I thought I misunderstood, but...”

“He what?” There it was.

“Mhm. I just thought you should know.” Izaya hummed solemnly as though he were agreeing in the most disappointed way. He took a slow sip of coffee. Steam kissed his glasses, but his eyes never left Wada’s face.

With his seed planted, he made it back to his desk. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the timing quite right today.

“So what did you do this weekend, Orihara-san?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Three hours.

Lunch!

Today, he tucked himself in a corner with his microwaved bento and hoped everyone would be too busy going over their weekends to bother him. He had notes to take after all. The conflict between Wada and Yoshida had made some progress today! Nothing he had said to Wada earlier in the day was a lie— those two would be at each others’ throats eventually whether he stirred the pot or not. But nudging them a little here and there kept his days interesting.

He flipped through the little files he kept on each of his coworkers until his thumb stuck on a section thicker and more worn than the rest. Miura. It was always something with that guy. He had enough unsavory tidbits from his life to blackmail him twenty times over, and yet there was no real reason to. It was a shame.

Apparently in thinking about Miura, his eyes had wandered to the man in question in what had almost certainly been interpreted as an invitation to sit together. Izaya tucked his notebook away just as his coworker plopped down across from him with a small clatter of his lunchbox. Homemade, of course. They exchanged pleasantries, fitting in bites of food between comments about the weather or the news before Miura steered the conversation elsewhere.

“You’re lucky you’re not married, Orihara-san. The wife was nagging all weekend. I finally got her to shut up long enough to let me get some sleep.”

’I’m sure you did.’

Izaya hid his mouth with another bite of food and gave the polite little smile people usually offered their coworkers’ bad jokes. He knew that in Miura’s case, ‘nagging’ probably meant asking where he’d been on a Saturday night, and ‘shutting her up’ didn’t require much imagination. He poked at the remains of his food, wondering how much any of his rent-a-girlfriends knew about his wife and if any of them imagined that they might be the next ones to experience his special brand of ‘shutting up’.

Izaya let the silence go on just long enough to become uncomfortable. “Ah... You must get tired.” He said with false sympathy. “Your wife, your... other commitments. I don’t know where you find the energy.”

Miura gave a short laugh and stabbed at his food, but his eyes flicked up for just a moment as he wondered if maybe, someone knew. Izaya smiled as if nothing was wrong. He was done with his lunch, anyway. “Well then, I have to cut it a bit short. Work to do. Good luck with the rest of the day, Miura-san.” He stood up and left his coworker to finish chewing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Five hours.

Everyone knew that nobody got any work done after 2:00 pm. Everyone knew that. And if everyone knew that, then why were they still here?

Izaya was leaning back in his chair and pretending to focus very hard on his report while his mind did impatient laps around the room. Unfortunately, Nakamura— his direct manager —caught him. His hands were folded gently as if he thought it would soften the blow he was about to deal.

“Orihara-san.” He started with that immaculate, professional smile. “I hate to trouble you, but we’re on a bit of a tight deadline with this project. Would you be able to stay a little later tonight?”

Izaya didn’t skip a beat. “Of course, I’m happy to do what’s necessary.” He basically couldn’t refuse. It wasn’t a request, it was an order.

When Nakamura was gone, Yoshida rolled up beside his desk to comfort him. His sympathy was exaggerated, but his grin was as unbothered as usual. “Overtime on Monday? Tough break, Orihara-san.”

Izaya glanced up with a disarming, tired smile that screamed ‘pity me’. “It’s alright. Wada-san puts in far more hours than I ever could. She deserves so much more credit, really.”

Yoshida snorted. “She just stays late because she’s slow. It takes a real genius to clear their work on time.” It was just friendly banter, of course. Yoshida never meant to actually spark trouble, even if his teasing was usually in poor taste. He couldn’t have known about the trail of gunpowder Izaya had laid this morning.

Wada glanced up from her laptop. The fuse lit. “Excuse me? If I am here late, it’s because I’m fixing the reports that you rushed through, Yoshida-san.”

Yoshida bristled, half rising from his chair. “What? That’s not true!”

They were so easy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Five and a half hours.

He hadn’t had much time to enjoy his little fire at all by the time a surprise email hit his personal inbox. Raira Academy. His sisters' homeroom teacher would like to chat with their guardian. Today, if possible (it was serious). Wonderful. That would be a breeze when he was already scheduled for overtime.

He could make it work.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Seven Hours.

“Oh, Miura-san.” Izaya called lightly when there was a lull in his work. “Nakamura-san gave me this task, but...” His tongue clicked sharply to emphasize just how unsure he was that he could get it done right. Miura regarded him with caution.

“You handled the expense reports last quarter, didn’t you? You’re more familiar with the formatting than I am.” He continued, giving the man a practiced smile and just enough deference to sound genuine. “I’d hate to slow things down.”

Miura froze, on to Izaya’s game already. “Eh? Well, I did, but—”

Izaya was already sliding the stack of papers across the desk. “I’ll owe you one.”

His least favorite coworker grunted, but didn’t push back. Nobody could resist banking a favor, even if Izaya would make sure that Miura didn’t get a fair trade.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Eight hours.

After a long day of nothing, the time finally came for Izaya to pack up his bag and make his weary way home. Unfortunately, he now had another stop to make first.

The hallways of Raira Academy were just as stuffy as he remembered. No nostalgia stirred in his chest as he made his way to his sisters’ homeroom, which happened to be his old homeroom. His high school days had been as ordinary as they were forgettable. Part of that was on him, he supposed, for keeping himself so distant. If only he had realized what it meant when adults told him that those were going to be his ‘happy days’. More troubling than his lack of attachment to this place was the thought that, if he could go back, he wasn’t sure he’d do anything differently at all.

The door slid open.

"Ah Orihara-san. Thank you for coming on such short notice. Your sisters have caused another... situation."

In other news, water was wet and Tokyo Tower was still over 332 meters tall. Izaya nodded, not bothering with a smile. "I understand. Lead the way." He was proud of the fact that his voice had come out disarmingly ordinary, not betraying any annoyance or amusement with the matter.

There they were. Mairu with her hair in a messy braid and one sleeve of her shirt rolled up, Kururi with her shorter bob and neatly-arranged uniform. Both leaning casually against the window as if this was a lunch date and not a disciplinary meeting. Both grinning at him like cats.

And so the conversation started. Izaya should have been impressed that they'd managed to deface school property so openly without getting caught until their little art project was complete. But he wasn't.

Izaya glared between his sisters as they all walked out of the school. The girls were on either side of him, each holding one of his hands and twirling him like he was no more than a sea anemone drifting gently in the current. "You know, if you want people to pay attention to you, you could just join a club. Maybe the art club, since you’re clearly so interested."

"That would be way less fun. We’d have to like, draw normal things.” Answered Mairu, who squeezed his left hand with menace. “Besides, you never joined a club. Aren't you supposed to lead by example, big brother?"

"It’s not about having fun. You should be spending your time studying or doing something productive."

"What, so we can end up like you? No way.” Answered Kururi this time.

Izaya shuddered at the way they could each carry half of a conversation and have it still feel natural. Was there something he could have done growing up to keep them from turning out like this? He let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, glasses shifting upward on his face. "You can have fun when you graduate. Do whatever you want after that, I don't care. At least then I won’t have to come down and bail you out."

"You hardly come down anyway. Maybe we just want to see our brother every once in a while.”

She wasn’t serious, of course, but it was just enough to sting.

Izaya bought them all takeout on the way to their parents’ home where the twins still lived. Alone, of course. Their parents hadn't been back in Japan since last Christmas, and only then for a week or two. Plenty of Raira attendees lived alone in the city. The only difference between them and their peers was that the Oriharas owned their property.

When they arrived at the family doorstep, the twins rushed past him. Excited to finish their homework on time and study, no doubt. One called over her shoulder. “Bye, Izaya-nii! Don’t work too hard— or maybe work so hard that you die!”

Izaya didn’t flinch. Their morbid sense of humor never touched him. That was just how they were. "No more vandalism." He called back, tone flat and unyielding. It was the closest he ever came to sounding like a real older brother.

By 7:12 PM he was back on the train, the twins already fading into the background of his mind. In the mildewy hallway of his apartment, the neighbors were still arguing. They must have liked it that way.

Izaya had a TV, but it mostly collected dust. He didn't play video games, either. Why would he settle for cheap imitations of life when the strangest corners of humanity, raw and unpredictable, were right at his fingertips?

He didn’t bother with the usual anonymous boards where bored salarymen traded gossip or horny teenagers posted heavily-filtered selfies. No, Izaya preferred the ones that reeked of desperation— petty revenge, confession boards, shady auction chatrooms, conspiracy circles. Places where people felt free to be the cruelest, purest, most beautiful versions of themselves. It was a welcome respite from the tight chains of corporate etiquette.

He never went in through the front door, either. He had a dozen little back-alleys bookmarked, odd scripts and shortcuts that let him skip past more presentable, crowded sites into the threads that actually mattered. He liked the small, seedy chatrooms that looked dead to an outsider until a specific passcode was entered or a few hidden links were followed.

There were always a few open on his desktop, but one of his favorite haunts lately was what was charmingly described as an ‘oopsie’ board by the organizer. Not because he personally found uncensored footage of fatal accidents entertaining— he didn’t. In fact, the sight of mangled bodies barely registered with him anymore. What amused him were the freaks who unironically spent so much of their time here.

These guys were sloppy, too. All it had taken to find their real identities was a few forgotten geotags or usernames reused too many times. From there it was just a matter of pulling at the threads. Unfortunately, despite their morbid curiosities, Izaya had already determined that everyone in this sick little corner of the internet was disappointingly average. A little desensitized, like him, but uninteresting in the exact same ways everyone else was. Still, some of them had their uses.

The irony of worrying about disrespecting the dead on a board like this was not lost on Izaya. These guys were the best.

Oh. Izaya leaned back in his chair. He loved it when this happened. The nights where he didn't even have to plant a seed for the flower of conversation to bloom made it all worth it.

The thought of anyone, ghost or otherwise, identifying him by smell alone made Izaya uncomfortable.

Club then posted pictures of a few different scenes, uncensored, without further warning. They looked real enough, but there was a distinct absurdity to them. Izaya smirked, a puff of laughter rising from his nose. He had to admit, it was impressively stupid the way these men died. How could anyone be blamed for pinning it to conspiracy? If there was a 'monster' behind this, it certainly had a sense of humor.

It was unfortunate that there wasn't. All of these images could be easily explained as random accidents. Skewered on a guardrail? Hit-and-run. That guy in a pile at the bottom of the stairs just slipped. The vending machines? They can become unstable when you lean on them. That last one looked like he'd just plain jumped. Izaya helpfully pointed all of that out to the room.

Once upon a time, he, too, might have believed in the magic of spirits and monsters. But now he understood that the shape of people's superstitions were defined entirely by their wishes for a more interesting world. It was all just the fundamental human craving to be part of a story bigger than themselves. He didn't blame Club. It would be nice.

A private message flashed in the corner of his screen.

He had forgotten about that. Circle was the kind of netizen who had a habit of poking his nose where it wasn't supposed to be and Izaya had sent him on some dumb errand just to see if he would pull through. Izaya sifted through the provided email leak like a phone book, cross-referencing it with a different record of ‘private’ purchase histories he had gotten from Club. Fascinating stuff. But not really.

Regardless if he needed that information or not, it was good to know that he could get it. Everyone on this board thought Izaya was a woman in her early twenties and he was impressed with the results. Anything he asked, they delivered.

The chat started to die down after that, everyone no-doubt realizing that they had work, or school, or some other meaningless obligation to drag themselves to in the morning. It was well past his corporate-mandated bed time, too. As he readied himself for bed, his thoughts looped over all the little ways he had watched his fellow humans unravel that day. But in the end, he was only a spectator. He could poke, sure, but not shake. The lack of control burned something inside of him.

Even with the waters muddied by rumor and superstition, the most interesting things only happened through the screen. In waking life, he had never once seen something extraordinary. Still, Izaya took pride in the fact that while Yoshida and Wada were complaining about each other to their spouses, and Dobashi was watching some re-run golf game alone in his apartment, and Miura was wasting away at some unsavory hostess bar in Shinjuku, he could run his fingers along the vile, hidden edge of the world. Enough to graze, never to cut.

His alarm went off. He had stayed up too late the night before. It didn't matter.

On the third Friday of every month, Tejima always hosted a nomikai for team-building purposes. Izaya had been dreading it since the last one. He supposed he should consider himself lucky that his wasn’t a team that tried to do these things every week.

The troops gathered at the usual izakaya, chosen not for its mediocre food but for its proximity to the office in which they spent the better part of their lives. Tejima did the honors of kicking them off with yet another rousing speech. The extra helping of meaningless platitudes and circular reasoning really spiced up the bland chicken and watered-down beer.

It was exhausting having to act so friendly after working all day. And it was especially disappointing because Club had said he had something special tonight. Izaya had really wanted to see what qualified as ‘special’ to someone like him. He wondered if he seemed tired. Nobody else did, for how tired he knew they were, so probably not.

Izaya raised his glass when everyone else did, smiled wide enough to pass, and spent the time as productively as he could. He made a point of not getting too drunk so that he could enjoy watching his coworkers loosen up. He was easily able to send Wada into another defensive rant and a few simple words of validation made Dobashi double down on some extreme revelation about how the rest of his life should go. With the alcohol doing most of the work, all he really had to do was act interested and suddenly his coworkers were laying out their grievances like cards on a table.

At some point when things were starting to get noisy, Miura slung an arm around his shoulders, dragging him close in a haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol vapor. Izaya kept on smiling, though the feeling of the man’s clammy grip made his skin crawl. “You’re one of the good ones, y’know? W’Should grab a drink sometime, just us.” He slurred, jabbing a finger clumsily at Izaya’s chest.

Izaya let the chuckle come easily, tilting his head just so. “Sure, Miura-san. Though I’d hate to make your mistress jealous. Or was it your wife you were trying to impress this week?” Miura barked a laugh, too sloppy to notice the venom in Izaya’s words, and hugged him closer like he had just told the funniest joke he’d heard all night.

The night went on long, but it came to a close as all things eventually do. A simple one-clap ending this time.

Izaya was stuck talking to his manager when nearly everyone else had gone their separate ways. Only three remained— him, Nakamura, and Miura, who was plastered to the sidewalk. Not unexpected, but definitely unfortunate. There was a high chance that Izaya would be stuck babysitting if he didn’t slip away quickly. Before he had the opportunity, Nakamura stopped him.

"Looks like Miura-san had too much fun..." He started.

"Seems so..." Izaya braced himself. He wouldn't have a choice.

"You two seem close lately. Do you think you could get him home safely? I'd like to know he's in good hands." Nakamura’s body made no effort to soften the request. The man was tired.

For what it was worth, Izaya respected him. But he did have a habit of asking too much too often. More than anything, Nakamura probably didn't want to see the look on Miura’s wife's face firsthand. But that was fine. The looks people's wives gave them didn't personally affect Izaya. Of anyone, he was the most equipped to handle it.

"Leave it to me."

The streets were eerily quiet at this hour. It unsettled Izaya deeply every time he saw Ikebukuro, usually so active and vibrant, draw this still. It was like someone had pressed pause on life itself.

Miura lived in the same direction as he did, close enough to the office to walk. Izaya had to overshoot his apartment to get him home, but not by much. That was likely part of the reason Nakamura had asked him to do this. It was slow going with Izaya draping his left arm over Miura’s shoulder and bracing him with his right, but they were already halfway there.

Miura was still somewhat lucid, but not very helpful when it came to getting where they were going. It was no secret that what Izaya possessed in charm and wit he sorely lacked in physical strength. His rough panting was one of the few sounds breaking through the night chill, along with an occasional groan or burp from his coworker. He could smell the vomit on Miura’s shirt and silently prayed that none of it had gotten on him.

“G’tta piss...” His drunken burden grumbled, trying to pull away.

Izaya clicked his tongue in frustration. “By all means, just go on the street...”

The man let out a wheezing laugh and staggered off into the shadows of a thin alleyway between two darkened buildings. Izaya just let him go, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to recover from the trek. He wasn't going to follow. He didn’t want anything to do with that.

He waited. He lifted his sleeve to his nose, sniffed, and sighed in relief when he found no trace of Miura’s filth clinging to him. Izaya caught the sound of a voice, but he couldn't make out any words. Miura must have been talking to himself. Was he angry at something?

He waited.

A small crash rang out, followed by a wet, gurgling noise. Had Miura stumbled? Was he puking again? Just how much did this guy drink? Did Izaya get paid enough to put up with this?

Still nothing. The only reasonable explanation was that Miura had passed out. The sooner Izaya got him back on his feet, the sooner he could go home and sleep. With an exasperated sigh, he stepped into the alley to collect his ward.

And for the first time in his life, he saw something extraordinary.