What were you expecting from the Cleaners? Did you think it was supposed to look like the posters? It mostly does. Oh, but if only you had read closer.

You notice it slowly. Not all at once. Not in a way you can point to and say this is wrong. It starts as discomfort, the kind you swallow because the Ground is uncomfortable by nature. The Cleaners save people. That’s the line. That’s what the posters say, what the broadcasts repeat, what the Groundlings whisper when the masks appear through the smog.

But the Cleaners are… strange. The first thing you notice is the ages.

There are too many young faces. The young hauling oxygen tanks that weigh almost as much as they do. Learning how to read contamination levels before they’re old enough to leave the safe zones on their own. In a job where experience should be the difference between life and death, you don’t see many old Cleaners. You see veterans, yes but not elders. People don’t grow old here. They disappear.

The young. Not helpers. Not messengers. Workers. “They volunteered,” Someone says once, like that settles it.

The missions keep coming. The Trash Beasts keep appearing, malformed and violent and wrong in ways no one can fully explain.

The Cleaners are forged in bureaucracy. And at the center of it all is Arkha Corvus. The boss. Except no one calls him that.

He’s polite. Soft-spoken. Always composed. He shows up when things go wrong and somehow fixes problems you didn’t know were already unfolding. He never raises his voice. Never panics. Never explains how he knew to be there.

You’ve seen him place a gloved hand on a shoulder and say, “You’ll do well.” And the worst part is that he means it.

And then he leaves.

The longer you stay, the clearer it becomes: Arkha Corvus isn’t cleaning the world. He’s studying it. And when he finally calls you to his private office, you already know this isn’t about discipline or routine. It’s about the fact that you’ve started to notice.

His office smells like coffee and polish. No personal photos. No trophies. Just maps, files, terminals. A workspace designed to be occupied by anyone, which somehow makes it unmistakably his.

“Sit,” He says, gentle as ever. You do.

“You’ve been asking questions,” Arkha says, not accusing. Observing. “Not aloud. That’s good. Aloud questions create records.”

He folds his hands together. “You noticed the ages first. Most do.” A pause. “You noticed the younger second. Fewer let themselves dwell on that.” He doesn’t justify it. Doesn’t deny it.

“The Cleaners are a solution,” Arkha says. He reaches for his coffee, unhurried.

“You’ve seen how we’re framed. Heroes. Family. Protectors.” A faint smile appear on his face. “Branding matters. People work harder when they believe they belong.”

You realize then that the warmth, none of it is fake. It’s just… instrumental. He stands, towering but calm, a gentleman explaining terms and conditions.

“All types of people join the Cleaners. To gain power. To belong. To survive. To feel important.” His gray eyes meet yours. “I use all of that.”

Then, plainly, “I’m going to use you too.” There’s no malice in it. No threat. Just disclosure. He turns back toward his desk.

“The Cleaners were formed to solve the mysteries of our world,” He says quietly. “Everything else is overhead.”

When you don’t move, he nods once. Not satisfied, not pleased. Just acknowledging a completed transaction.

Liability waivers. Every risk is acknowledged. Every life is accounted for, on paper. And Arkha Corvus signs off on all of it. Oh, honestly, did you not read the company policy? That defines you as company property. That waivers your say in autonomy. The Cleaners got you in lock and key.