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One day later….

They hit the door left on the last night like soldiers returning to a siege they had begun to love.

The plaque still said DISPOSAL. The air still tried to be brave and failed. But the room itself had changed. Eighty percent of it was no longer an argument. Eighty percent were stone that remembered being stone.

Fizz tipped his lantern toward the nearest numbered square and saluted it like an old rival. "Final boss," he whispered. "We have come to beat you with bristles."

John set the bar back, slipped the duty slate into his inner pocket, and felt the egg in the void hum faintly against his sternum — warm, wordless, wanting. He checked the tether the way he now checked his own pulse.

[System: Mana sheath steady. Micro-tether stable.

Hatch Progress: 30%.

Status: stalled.

Note: Additional nutrient type required.]

They had pushed it up one more notch the day before, and then it had stuck like a cartwheel in mud. Beast scraps and old blood had taken them to thirty. Beyond that, the egg slept with a hunger that did not answer meat.

"Still thirty," John said, mostly to himself.

"Then we feed it later with something meaner," Fizz answered, hearing anyway, lifting the lantern so its soft circle of light slid along the cleaned ledges. "Stones. Cores. Scream juice." He wiggled his paws. "After class starts, we requisition. Or… we charm."

"After we finish this," John said.

They set it to.

They did not talk much at first. Talking wastes water you need for breath. John marked the last squares in chalk —9, 10, 11— with neat little corners so he could see victory at a glance. Then he climbed the ladder and began to scrub, slow and exact, the way he had from the first night. "Push. Pull. Rinse. Dry." Every bolt head. Every seam. Every place where a lazy wrist would skip.

Fizz ran the routine they had built until it felt like a song his bones knew. Water to lift. Air to carry. Lantern to find the lie left behind. When the lye bit too hard at the knuckles, he scolded it like a child and switched to soap where soap would do. When water pooled toward the wrong drain, he bullied it with a steady breeze until it remembered its lane.

He sang under his breath, because he could not not sing.

Final Sweep Song-

One more square, one more line,

Make the map of work look fine.

Stone remembers, dirt forgets;

Scrub the debts, scrub the debts.

They paused only to feed themselves a crust and to feed the egg nothing, because nothing it wanted was in the room, and John would not waste mana on "maybe." They had learned that lesson at thirty. He could feel the edge of his well before the system warned now, the way men who work with heat learn to feel where the burn begins.

By midnight they had pushed the clean forward to ninety percent. What remained was the worst ten — corners no one had respected for too long, a run of vents that had learned how to snarl, and a lip of gutter full of old, stubborn glue that had once been blood and now wanted to be forever.

Fizz swore under his breath at the gutter, then apologized to it and tried a different angle. "You can come off the floor," he coaxed. "You have done your duty. Retire. Find a nice pit. Write your memoir." He heated the metal just so with a cupped breath, then swept warm water across it. The glue let go with a sulky sigh. "There," he said, pleased. "It had feelings. I solved them."

John did not smile. Not with his mouth. His hands did a smile, it was firmer, cleaner strokes, no wasted pressure. He changed the brush head the moment the bristles told him they were tired. He oiled a hinge no one else would have oiled because a quiet hinge is a safe hinge. He wrote down every change in the ledger with square, honest letters.

Now and again, voices passed in the hall. Once, someone knocked — a silly, secret rhythm boys think makes them part of something. John did not answer. The ledger's last entry for outside trouble was already crisp and would be crisp again if needed: No slip, no entry. The door wore the rule like armor.

At the blackest notch of the night, Warden Lutch came and said nothing at all for a long time. She simply stood in the door and let her eyes go everywhere the cleaning had gone. When she did speak, it was not a question.

"You will finish," she said.

"We will finish," John said.

She went to the ledger and read the last line —vent run six scraped; gutter lip softened; Section Ten dry— and her mouth did that tiny twitch it had done before, the kind the lamp likes to pretend it saw.

"Carry on," she said, and left them the click of the latch like a small gift.

For another hour they did not feel time. There are at least two kinds of hours in the dark: the ones that sag and argue and the ones that harden and become a tool. This was the second kind. The floor stopped being a list and started being a room that wanted to be done.

Fizz's voice rasped by then, but he would not stop narrating, as if the words themselves made the dirt afraid to remain.

Gutter March (Whisper Version)

Left, left, left-right-left,

Filth is heavy, we are deft.

Right, right, right-left-right,

Shine the edges, win the night.

Dawn began wrong at first — only a thinner black, a sense that the lamps were less necessary and more embarrassed about it. Then it happened right: light found the high windows and slid down the walls in pale bands like new cloth hung to dry.

Fizz, who had fallen into the habit of bouncing the lantern's glow off every ledge as a benediction, pointed at the last un-scrubbed square. "That is all that remains of the empire of grime," he declared. "The tiny nation of Stubbornia. We invade."

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