The first thing you feel is the biting cold. Second is the head-splitting hangover. You force your eyes open to reveal that, alas, you're still in the world of the living. Seems like you still have to go to work today.

You are a <span class="mu-s">Cleaner.</span> A clean name for a dirty profession.

From meaningless errands, to exploration, to contract killing, to everything in between, you work in all manner of jobs as a deniable asset to the Companies of the City. It's apparently one of the better ways to keep food on your plate and a roof over your head if you know what you're doing. <span class="mu-s">Your main goal is to get enough money and resources to get out of this shitty gig.</span>

You rise up from the bed. You live in a remarkably shitty apartment that barely qualifies as one. Your bedroom only has a bed that's hard enough to belong to a prison cell, a table with a barely functional TV, and a closet. The only pricy thing you own is a cellph-

<span class="mu-s">RING! RING!</span>

You answer it quick. The connection is choppy but you can just barely make out the robotic and exhausted tone of the man on the other line.

"Hey. It's me. Did I wake you up from your depression nap?" You start to answer but you get cut off. "Great. We have some messes for you to clean. A lot. Looks like you're in high demand, pal."

"I'd get ready if I was you. We'll transmit the list to you shortly; we'd prefer if you don't die on us too soon. Your 'life' 'matters,'" the voice of your handler drones on. "And one more thing, please review the assessment sheet provided to you when you joined."

"That is all. Good day." The Handler hangs up.

You toss your phone onto the bed and reach for that stupid assessment sheet on your desk. You get up and head to the bathroom. You might as well try looking a bit more presentable before you start today.