Heroes don't clean intestines.

  That’s the first rule you learn when you don’t awaken enough mana to get your face stamped on an energy drink can. The heroes—the "Hunters," as marketing likes to call them—arrive, fire their laser beams, strike poses for the broadcast drones, and head off to the post-raid party.

  What gets left behind is my problem.

  "Watch out for the esophageal sphincter!" I shouted, my voice muffled by the military-grade gas mask. "If that thing bursts, the acid will dissolve the asphalt and the union bonus goes with it!"

  The Sanitation and Cleanup Division (SCD) team retreated, dragging yellow boots through mud mixed with blue blood. Ahead of us, blocking the entire Avenida Paulista, lay the smoking carcass of a Cobalt Wyvern. A Rank B.

  It had been dead for two hours, taken down by the Golden Lance Guild. But Rift monsters are stubborn. Even dead, their cells keep trying to kill you.

  I pressed the button on the side of my goggles. The Augmented Reality interface blinked, overlaying anatomical diagrams onto the mountain of meat and scales.

  "Boss, the smell is getting through the filter!" a shrill voice complained in my earpiece.

  I looked down. Luna was crouched near one of the Wyvern's giant claws, holding a holographic tablet with one hand and plugging her nose (over her mask) with the other. Her uniform was two sizes too big, making her look like a child wearing her father's clothes.

  "Stop mouth-breathing, Luna. You taste the air that way," I replied, adjusting my latex gloves reinforced with protection runes. "And stop looking at the beast's 'ghost'. It's already gone."

  Luna shuddered.

  "It’s not gone, no. Its spirit is sitting on top of the ribcage, crying. Says it misses its mom. It’s depressing, Doctor."

  I ignored her. The girl had that loose screw typical of those who see the astral plane, but she was the only assistant who could stand working with me for more than a week.

  I walked to the monster's flank. The Hunter who dealt the final blow—probably that show-off "Solar Knight"—had used excessive fire skills. The skin was cauterized, making removal for material sale difficult. A waste.

  I felt that old, familiar melancholy. Thirty years ago, when the Rifts opened, every monster was a terrifying mystery. Today? They're cattle. Raw material for luxury handbags and power cores. Magic lost its mystery and became a commodity. And I was the garbageman of this magical capitalism.

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  "Mithril Scalpel. Blade 4," I requested.

  Luna handed me the tool. With the precision of someone peeling an orange, I made an incision just below the third floating rib.

  The stench of ozone and ammonia exploded outward. The rookies on the cleanup crew, watching from twenty meters away, gagged. I didn't even blink. I pushed aside the layer of subcutaneous fat and exposed the organ I was looking for: the Mana Gallbladder.

  It should have been purple, pulsating, and the size of a watermelon.

  But what I saw made me stop.

  The gallbladder was gray. Atrophied. And covered in tiny white nodules that looked like... fungus.

  "Interesting," I murmured, analytical mode taking over. "Luna, log this. Premature necrosis in the mana filtration system."

  "Gross. Is that a disease?" Luna leaned in, curiosity overcoming disgust.

  "No. Disease is natural. This here..." I ran a gloved finger over the white pus leaking from the organ. It was viscous, but didn't burn the glove. "This is design."

  I looked around. The police were cordoning off the area too far away to see. The drone cameras had already left, following the heroes. We were "alone."

  "Cover my six, Luna. I’m going to perform the Quality Control Test."

  "Oh no, Arthur! No!" Luna took a step back, horrified. "We just had lunch!"

  I took off my gas mask. The air in S?o Paulo was already bad; mixed with dead monster, it was toxic. But I needed direct contact.

  With a quick movement, I scraped a bit of that white substance with my index finger. I brought it to my mouth.

  The taste was horrible. It reminded me of old batteries, cilantro, and... despair.

  I swallowed.

  Immediately, the world darkened at the edges of my vision. The sound of the rain disappeared. I felt something uncoil at the base of my spine, sliding up like an ice serpent to my brain.

  [SYMBIOSIS ACTIVE]

  A guttural voice, not my own, echoed inside my skull. Red letters floated on my retina, invisible to anyone else.

  [ANALYZING ORGANIC SAMPLE...]

  [SOURCE: COBALT WYVERN (MODIFIED)]

  [DETECTED: SYNTHETIC ALKALOIDS. TRACES OF HUMAN MANA TYPE 'BETA'.]

  My eyes widened.

  Human mana.

  Rift monsters don't have human mana. Their biology is incompatible. Unless someone forced it. Unless someone was... cultivating this.

  "Doctor?" Luna's voice sounded distant. "Your eyes went black again. The Wyvern's ghost stopped crying and is looking at you with fear."

  The parasite inside me vibrated with excitement. It wanted more. It wanted to consume the whole carcass. I suppressed the instinct with a heavy sigh, feeling my stomach digest the toxin and convert it into a mild dose of adrenaline.

  "Luna," I said, putting the mask back on and feeling my body return to normal, though my hands trembled slightly. "Change the report classification."

  "To what? Biohazard?"

  "No." I wiped the scalpel on my pants. I looked at the shining skyscrapers where the Guilds were celebrating the victory. "Classify it as 'Criminal Evidence'."

  The Wyvern hadn't come from a Rift.

  Someone had "implanted" that thing in the middle of the city. And judging by the chemical reaction on my tongue, the poison that would kill this monster wasn't the hero's fireball. The beast was already dying before it started fighting. It was a biological time bomb.

  And we were the only idiots who knew how to disarm it.

  "Bring the bone saw, Luna," I ordered, walking toward the beast's skull. "Let's crack its head open. If I'm right, the brain is going to taste like bitter almonds."

  "I hate this job," Luna grumbled, but she was already revving the saw.

  The motor roared, drowning out the distant sound of sirens. Just another day of cleaning. Just another day sweeping up the dirt the heroes left behind.

  But today, the dirt tasted like conspiracy.