Bippo shrieked, a high, reedy sound like a dying rat. Tullia, however, didn't move. She stared at the caustic gloves for another second, the sickly green liquid inside rippling, then at the gaping maw of the broken doorway where three hulking figures in Ghalib Security’s charcoal grey uniforms, diesel-fed pulse rifles held ready, now stood. Their visors reflected the flickering emergency lights, making them appear like faceless, chrome-plated demons. “Last chance, Tullia! They’re here! Burn the evidence!” Bippo hissed, scuffling backward to kick the open canister under a shelf. Burn her hands? Her hands, the very instruments of her hard-won independence? The thought was an affront, a surrender. She might be hiding, but she wouldn’t disfigure herself just to escape a man who, by all accounts, was probably deluded about her identity anyway. What evidence? A faint glow that only *she* could see, a glow that would surely dissipate within the hour. No, this was about her pride. She would not scar herself for *his* paranoia. Her eyes darted. The bucket. The rancid, honey-thick floor wax. She’d been about to apply a fresh coat to the executive hallway before Sorenzo Ghalib’s premature arrival. It was a cheap, industrial-grade sealant, a foul-smelling sludge designed to repel mineral runoff and grease. If it could neutralize mineral seepage, perhaps it could mask a faint magical glow. “Out of my way, Bippo.” Her voice was low, laced with a cold resolve that silenced his whimpering. Before Bippo could protest further, before the first guard could even cross the threshold, Tullia plunged both hands, up to her wrists, into the viscous, sickly yellow liquid. The smell was horrendous: a pungent blend of stale chemicals, decaying citrus, and something vaguely metallic. It clung to her skin instantly, a greasy, opaque coating. She didn't wince. This was a baptism of filth, a shield of ignominy. “Move! Both of you! Executive order! All personnel to the Grand Hall! Immediately!” The lead guard’s voice boomed, amplified by his helmet speaker. He gestured with his rifle, the muzzle light sweeping across the dim depot. They were roughly shoved forward, Bippo still babbling about lost careers and shattered bones, Tullia silent, her wax-coated hands held stiffly at her sides. The guards herded them through the winding service corridors, past startled technicians and trembling data clerks, all equally confused and terrified. The air grew colder, the sounds of the Tower more muffled, until they were shoved onto the frost-white marble of the central rotunda. The chamber was vast, soaring seventy floors high beneath a dome of reinforced panes that usually bathed the floor in a harsh glare. Now, however, the light was dim, filtered through the city's diesel haze. Thousands of staff were already assembled, formed into rigid lines that snaked across the floor. No one spoke, save for the occasional nervous cough or the creak of expensive shoes. Each line ended at a single, stark white basin, attended by a grim-faced security officer. The implicit command was clear: prepare to be inspected. Tullia could feel the nervous energy radiating off the crowd, a shared shudder of panic. The film of wax tightened on her skin, pulling at the fine hairs on her forearms, stiff and pungent. Then, a ripple ran through the assembled staff. Tullia followed the collective gaze. From the primary brass cage elevator emerged a lone figure. Sorenzo Ghalib. He wasn't merely walking; he was *stalking*. His immaculate charcoal suit seemed to absorb the dim light, making him a void in the grand hall. His obsidian hair was slicked back, accentuating the sharp angles of his face, the harsh line of his jaw. His eyes, typically a startling shade of deep violet, were now almost black, gleaming with an intensity that seemed to peel back layers of skin. He carried a cane, Tullia noticed, a sleek rod of polished mineral alloy, its tip a needle-sharp point that glinted coldly. It was not for support; it was a weapon. Sorenzo moved with the predatory grace of a hunter, his gaze sweeping over the rows of staff, dismissing each face with cold detachment. He walked slowly, meticulously, down the first line, then the second. The air around him seemed to thicken, pressing down on the lungs of everyone present. Tullia felt her own breath catch in her throat, not from fear, but from the sheer audacity of the man. He was performing, a terrifying display of power designed to crush every last shred of defiance. His steps brought him closer, closer, until he was halfway down Tullia’s line. Her ribs felt hollow and tight. She kept her head bowed, fixing her eyes on the pristine stone, trying to appear as insignificant as possible. The fumes of the floor sealant rose sharp and rancid, an acrid layer she hoped would keep anyone from stepping too close. Then, the leather soles stopped right in front of her. A heavy pause stretched, punctuated only by the distant thrum of the building's steam conduits. Tullia felt Sorenzo’s gaze on her, a physical weight pressing down. She could almost feel his eyes tracing the contours of her bowed head, the grubby collar of her janitor’s uniform, the truly offensive sheen of wax on her hands. She held her breath. “What is that foul reek?” A cultured voice, dripping with disdain, cut through the stillness. It belonged to a mid-level manager two places ahead in line, known for kicking downwards to impress superiors. He pinched his nose, upper lip curled in disgust. “It smells like a rendering plant exploded in the basement. Some janitor clearly doesn’t understand the concept of personal hygiene in a professional environment.” He snickered, clearly angling for a commendation, a chance to show his 'dedication to corporate standards' to the CEO. Tullia stiffened, a surge of indignant fury rising in her. How dare he? She wasn't an aristocrat anymore, but her pride was still sharp. She might be covered in rancid wax, but it was for a purpose, a strategic maneuver. To be dismissed as merely unhygienic? It was infuriating. Sorenzo turned his head slowly, shifting his attention from Tullia to the speaker. The manager’s sneer froze mid-breath, his jaw locking in sudden fright. He tried to straighten, to offer some placating words, but no sound emerged. “’Abominable stench’?” Sorenzo’s voice was a low rumble, dangerously quiet. “’Personal hygiene’?” He took a single step closer to the man. “You imply that one of my staff, one of the foundational pillars of this enterprise, is… less than satisfactory?” The manager stammered, “No, sir, I only meant… it’s just the odor, sir. It’s quite… powerful.” He gestured vaguely in Tullia’s direction, a desperate attempt to throw her under the bus. Sorenzo's lips curved into a chillingly polite smile. “Powerful, you say. And you believe it is your place to judge the… *power*… of my employee’s presence?” He raised the cane. It hummed with a thin, violet vibration. Before the man could step back, Sorenzo brought the cane down with sudden, brutal force. A wet crack echoed through the chamber, followed by a shrill scream as the manager's left knee gave way in a mess of crushed bone and fabric. He collapsed onto the tiles, clutching his leg. Sorenzo’s face remained impassive, his eyes still fixed on the writhing manager. “Take him away,” Sorenzo commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. Two guards stepped out to drag the howling manager across the threshold. “Let this be a lesson,” Sorenzo announced to the petrified crowd, his voice carrying easily through the cavernous space. “Insulting the workers of Ghalib Apex is an insult to the company itself. They are… invaluable.” His gaze, like a predator returning to its chosen prey, settled back on Tullia. Her breath caught again. The brutal, casual violence had been shocking, but the way his eyes lingered on her, the terrifying emphasis on 'invaluable', turned her stomach. He knew. Or he suspected. And he was not playing games. “You,” Sorenzo said, his voice now directed only at her, slicing flatly across the hall. “You have a unique scent, an… earthy aroma. Remove that coating.” He gestured towards the nearest basin of pristine water. “Wash your hands. Now.” Tullia’s heart plunged. This was it. The reveal. The end of her quiet, unremarkable life. She looked at her wax-encrusted hands, then at the basin. There was no escape. Slowly, deliberately, she walked to the basin, the eyes of thousands of onlookers burning into her back. She leaned over the pristine water, its surface like a mirror. The rancid floor wax, her only shield, began to soften at the edges from the warmth emanating from the Vitri-Crystal conduits running beneath the floor. She plunged her hands into the cool, clear water. The wax instantly began to loosen, to peel away in greasy, yellow flakes. She watched, horrified, as the murky film dissolved, revealing the pale skin beneath, skin that she knew held the faint, tell-tale glow of Vitri-Mend magic. Any second now, the light would bloom, giving her away. Her eyes flickered upwards, meeting Sorenzo’s, which were now narrowed, watching her every move with an unnerving intensity. Just as the last stubborn fleck of wax detached from her thumb, just as the faint, warm pulse began to emanate from her fingertips, a sudden, sharp *CRACK* reverberated through the Atrium. It wasn't the sound of bone, but of glass. The gigantic Vitri-Glass windows, soaring above them and offering a panoramic view of Trevora-Kors, spiderwebbed with fractures. Outside, the cityscape shimmered, dissolving in patches, replaced by a momentary, terrifying void of static and raw, digital nothingness. A piece of the world, literally deleting itself.

Baptism by Floor Wax