The stench of industrial solvent and stale sweat hung thick in the air, clinging to the grimy walls of the East Side Machine Works. Veridia City’s perpetual twilight, filtered through a dozen cracked skylights, did little to brighten the gloom. Each thud and clang of the archaic presses vibrated through the concrete floor, a dull pulse of mechanized despair. Lilith Blackwood, Lily to the few who dared speak her name without an honorific, stood amidst the clamor, her expression unreadable. “Your factory is constipated,” she announced, her voice precise, cutting through the din like a surgical scalpel. Silas Thorne, a man whose face was a roadmap of worry lines etched deeper by cheap cigars, gaped. His jowls, usually set in a sneer, quivered. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, not from conscience, but from dwindling profit margins. “What in the goddamn hell did you just say, Blackwood?” Thorne spluttered, his voice hoarse, disbelief warring with outrage. “Are you out of your mind? I called you for a medical assessment on my workers, not… not a veterinary consultation on my bloody building!” Lily didn’t flinch. Her eyes, the color of cold river stones, swept over the factory floor. Men in grease-stained overalls moved like automatons, their coughs punctuating the rhythm of the machinery. A pallor common to coal miners and dockworkers painted their faces, but here, it held a distinctly jaundiced tint. “It’s not excreting well,” she elaborated, ignoring his rising indignation. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her gloved fingers. She made a mental note of it; the subtle stressor of this particular environment. She rarely betrayed herself physically. Thorne’s face reddened, a splotchy crimson that climbed from his thick neck to his balding pate. He glanced around, as if worried his men might overhear this absurdity. They wouldn’t; their heads were bowed to their stations, their senses dulled by the pervasive funk. Lily strode past him, her worn leather boots crunching lightly on scattered metal shavings. She ran a gloved hand along a rust-pitted ventilation shaft. The metal was cool, but a faint vibration spoke of inadequate function. She’d dealt with plenty of reactions like Thorne’s before. From the city’s high-society matrons convinced their vapours were unique, to the gutter rats who swore they could drink their way out of a gangrenous wound. Ignorance and arrogance, they were Veridia’s true constants. “Elimination is fundamental,” Lily stated, turning back to face him, her gaze unwavering. “A natural, regular process. For living organisms, for the city’s plumbing, and for industrial operations that employ human lungs. You understand this, of course.” Thorne let out a short, annoyed grunt, quickly covering it with a cough. He thought her mad, a peculiar sort of quack. He’d heard whispers of Lily Blackwood’s reputation – a ghost doctor, working out of the city’s forgotten corners, fixing what no one else could, or dared. Her fees were steep, but desperate times, coupled with a string of baffling illnesses plaguing his workforce, had driven him to her clinic’s unassuming back alley entrance. He’d hoped to hire a cheap fix, perhaps blame her if things went south, and cut corners on safety regulations he’d long ignored. This factory, this sprawling monument to his ambition, was the symbol of his ‘enterprise.’ Its productivity, however, was slipping. The mounting medical bills for his ailing workers were eating into his margins. He needed a scapegoat, or, failing that, a miracle worker who wouldn't ask too many questions. “This facility is crucial to my… operations,” Thorne said, lowering his brow, feigning earnestness. “Its continued efficiency is paramount. Can you, ah, fix it for us?” His plan was simple: get her to touch the problem, then claim she made it worse, demand a refund, and keep things exactly as they were. A few less men, perhaps, but the bottom line would stay fat. “Consider it done,” Lily replied, her tone flat, utterly devoid of emotion. “The treatment, once the root cause is addressed, is straightforward. To put it plainly, this building’s digestive system is choked. It can’t expel its waste properly, leading to a build-up of toxins. And when the building sickens, so do the people within it. Many of your men, judging by the pallor and persistent coughs, already show signs of systemic poisoning.” Her gaze swept across the factory again, narrowing slightly. “So, how does this… treatment… proceed?” Thorne asked, his voice laced with reluctant curiosity. He took her in again, from the sensible, sturdy boots that likely handled more than just sterile clinic floors, to the dark, functional trench coat that concealed any hint of a feminine form. Her hands, though small, were calloused, the knuckles a roadmap of old injuries. A faint smell of disinfectant and something sharper, metallic, clung to her. She looked tough, unsentimental, and utterly unappealing. He felt another wave of contempt. *Filthy. A gutter doctor.* “Thorne.” He started. “Yes? Yes, Doctor Blackwood.” He answered with an overly polite haste, as if caught pilfering. “Every exhaust vent in this facility needs to be stripped down. Every filter replaced. The entire waste disposal system, from the press run-off to the ventilation ducts, needs to be flushed and sterilized. With proper filtration.” “Every?” Thorne’s voice cracked. “Every. That’s the core of your problem. The factory can’t process its waste, so it’s slowly poisoning itself, and your workers. And by the way…” Her clear eyes sharpened, cutting into him. “You saved yourself a pretty penny, didn’t you?” Lily walked around Thorne, her steps measured. The air, despite the general stench, carried a faint, sweet tang she’d learned to associate with certain industrial chemicals. It shouldn't be here, not in these quantities, not in this concentration. “I heard this facility underwent a ‘cost-saving renovation’ six months ago. Before the absenteeism started to spike.” Thorne’s shoulders flinched, a barely perceptible tremor beneath his cheap tweed jacket. “New boilers? Cheaper piping?” “Or perhaps the quick-and-dirty method of waste disposal?” Lily continued, her voice gaining a dangerous edge. “Just dumping the spent solvents and chemical byproducts directly into the storm drains, or worse, burying them beneath the concrete slab out back?” “Waste oil barrels? Corrosive sludge?” “Or all of the above, compressed into a neat little package of corporate negligence.” Thorne wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a sleeve, his eyes darting away from her piercing gaze. *How did she know?* To cut costs on proper chemical disposal, he’d ordered his men to bury drums of hazardous industrial runoff beneath an unused section of the factory’s foundation. No one was supposed to know. Yet this sharp-eyed, ‘filthy’ doctor had seen right through it. “When those materials leach into the groundwater, or evaporate into the air, they become potent toxins. They contaminate the very oxygen your men breathe. Their lungs cannot filter the filth, their blood cannot carry clean oxygen. Their bodies, like this factory, are slowly rotting from the inside. Once we start excavating the truth, we’ll find all your dirty little secrets.” Lily offered him a cool, humorless smile, adjusting the scarf knotted loosely around her neck. “I’ll send you the full estimate by tonight. And of course, I’ll need to file a preliminary report with the City Health Department and the Environmental Safety Bureau. Just as a formality, you understand.” Thorne scrambled forward, his face a sickly pale green. “D-doctor Blackwood, please, listen to me…” “You were quite pleased with your savings, weren’t you?” She looked at him, her smile not reaching her cold, calculating eyes. “Now, you’ll pay double or triple that amount in fines. Plus my full fee, of course. As I said, proper elimination is critical, for people as well as buildings. And for the health of your balance sheet.” Lily turned, a quiet satisfaction settling over her. She sighed inwardly. Back at the clinic, her only staff, a sharp-tongued retired nurse named Maggie, would likely nag her about the wasted opportunity to extract more. But for now, this was enough. Her clinic needed resources, needed a steady flow of clientele who could pay, even if it meant playing Veridia’s grimy games. “I’m a doctor who believes in proper circulation and hygiene,” she stated, pausing at the factory door, looking back at Thorne. He looked like a man watching his empire crumble. “I’m the best at keeping things running smoothly, but I’m also exceptionally good at weeding out… harmful elements.” *Especially self-serving parasites like you*, she thought, her lips barely curving. Dozens of men suffered from this man’s greed, yet he prattled on about his factory’s 'crucial operations.' These were the men who choked the city, then wondered why it gasped for air. “Feel free to send any more ‘unusual cases’ my way,” she added, her tone deceptively sweet. “Veridia’s full of them.” --- Outside, the smog swallowed the last vestiges of daylight, turning the industrial district into a monochrome etching. Lily started her battered sedan, the engine catching with a familiar cough. Her job often put her in the kind of places most doctors wouldn’t touch, dealing with ailments far beyond the typical sniffle or broken bone. She had to navigate dangerous back alleys, confront men whose power came from intimidation and corruption, and always, always keep her wits about her. People often underestimated her, a quiet woman in a city built for rough men and louder voices. She was just turning onto a darker, less-traveled street when her ancient flip-phone buzzed. She clipped the earpiece into place, her grip firm on the steering wheel. “Lily,” a gruff voice crackled through the static. “He’s asking for you. And the usual delivery from the North Docks just sent a coded message. Something about a ‘broken crate’ and ‘missing cargo’.” Lily’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Dammit. Tell him I’m on my way. And tell the Gulls to keep their eyes open. Some things in this city are more valuable than gold.” Her gaze flickered to the rearview mirror. Veridia always had another shadow to cast.

The Iron Lily's Diagnosis