Mr. Henderson’s spliced suit-arms lunged through the brass bars of the Prisoner’s Dock.
Julian didn’t jump back. He stood his ground on the iron grate, his boots planted firm against the tilt of the ascending cage. The grey pinstripes on Henderson’s sleeves flickered like bad tracking on a VHS tape.
Beside Henderson, Dr. Tallow shoved five serrated bone-saw fingers through the gap.
“Still behind the counter, Clerk Vance?” Tallow’s voice didn’t come from a throat.
It hissed out of perforated paper seams, raspy and thin. “Bed Thirteen is still open, and your charts are overdue for collection.”
“Bed Thirteen was incinerated thirty shifts ago,” Julian said, his voice flat. “Check your discharge log.”
“Discharges require my signature!” Tallow hissed. “You owe the ward thirty pints of arterial blood!”
The air turned foul in an instant.
