You return to the postbox.

You return to the postbox.

Put the apology card in Eszti's mailbox.

You take out the card and place it into mailbox number 4.

Coward.

You take out the blank card and place it into mailbox number 4.

Who needs writing? We fücked that up enough that they'll be able to guess who it's from. And what it's for.

Look for Eszti's mailbox.

'Mr. & Mrs. Kavanaugh' appear to be residents of Apartment 4.

'Eszti Kavanaugh' -- it rolls oddly off your mind's tongue. 'Newitz' had a nicer syllabic flow...

No Newitzes. The building manager wasn't lying. A name change, perhaps?

That lock's shit. Begging for the bang of a prybar.

Surely you'll be able to tell which is Eszti's drawer from the contents? Cigarette butts, poker chips, crochet patterns...

No 'Newitz' -- but people change their names. Especially people in your line of work.

Break into the mailbox.

You slip the prybar fluidly into the side of the postbox.

You hardly need to apply pressure. It comes undone with the slightest leverage.

Shoddy maintenance, Tonio.

The mangled flap of metal hangs limply, leaving the letters and parcels within exposed.

Scope out the neighbours.

Dozens of names you've never heard slip by you. Subscriptions, advertisements. Unopened letters from years ago, their recipients dead or relocated.

Suddenly a familiar phrase catches your eye: The Noscorrentes Review.

Paycheque from the literary magazine, followed by several copies of the magazine itself. So somebody paid by them who doesn't care to read the mag...

That interrogatrix bitch. Number 77.

Nice. And her name is...

Zoe.

Enough poetry. Move on.

Find mail addressed to Kavanaugh.

You open each drawer until you find it. 'Kavanaugh'. Apartment 4.

And within, an envelope stamped by the Portofiro offices of EMTERR.

All mirrors angled to reinforce the same image: A cover as life.

When you knew Eszti, she hated EMTERR but understood its lumbering bureaucratic movements. Seems she's put that knowledge to fine use.

Wonder if she still hates them?

Seems like they return her phone calls, at least.

Open the letter.

The address on the envelope reads 'Kavanaugh', but inside is a cheque marked 'Eszti Newitz'.

'Kavanaugh' must be her husband. His name alone on the address: Apartment number 4.

Clever. But no match for CASCADE.

Hello, Eszti.

Target acquired.

CASCADE bests ESTOC, once again!

You know she's still keeping score.

Nod silently.

The postbox, too, is silent.

Because it's dead. You killed it and dug through its entrails.

'Husband'? More like victim.

It seems nothing has changed but her life.

Eszti, married? This can only be a desperate attempt to blend in. Not like a real husband.

A life sacrificed on the altar of her cover.

Good for her.

Any sign of Eszti?

In one drawer you find a macramé catalogue and an envelope addressed to a name you do not recognise -- 'Kavanaugh' -- but stamped from the Portofiro offices of EMTERR.

You slide your fingernails into the lower corner of the vertical slit on the side of the postbox and prepare to pull.

Inside there is just an aluminium ribbon some two centimetres across. It's only a matter of what's more resistant -- your fingernails or the ribbon.

Brace, gäng. Gonna cane.

Pull.

The lower edge of the mailbox door bends backward as you pull, but so do your fingernails. A horrible pressure begins mounting as they threaten to break off.

Crrr-hhk! The lock pops open.

Again, you try to wedge your fingers into the mailbox slit, and again comes that horrible folding sensation as your nails bend backwards.

Your hand instinctively pulls back as though stung. Once is enough.

You manage to wedge your nails into the slit of the mailbox door, but as you pull... a horrible bending sensation begins to spread.

You're going to snap them right off.

Who needs... a prybar... do it myself...

The slit moves a fraction of an inch. Your fingernails move more.

Give up.

The tiny space you managed to prise open slips shut.

Wild idea... maybe try it with the prybar.

Seems like you need the prybar.

Going to be a tough ask without a prybar -- maybe try and find another way to the door.

Pull harder.

Crunch. Something comes unmoored, and it's not the lock.

A trickle of blood runs down the phalange of your middle finger. The nail is coming off.

In the infinitesimal newly-created space between finger and nail, horror is born.

Don't care... I am the tool...

Leave.

You step away from the mail.

Alternative wording

You slink away from the scene of petty crime.

A postbox with drawers numbered 1-12, the whole apparatus locked at the side with a single keyhole.