Ari approached cleanup the way he approached everything else: as a problem with a solution.
He did not hurry.
Haste invited mistakes. Mistakes created noise.
He waited a full day before revisiting anything connected to the event—not because he feared discovery, but because distance clarified judgment. The silence remained steady, allowing him to think without interference.
When he began, he started small.
He reviewed what he had touched. Where he had stood. Which surfaces mattered and which did not. He had already limited exposure instinctively, moving through spaces with the awareness he'd cultivated over months.
Still, instinct was not enough. Precision mattered now.
Ari returned to the environment during a time he knew would be empty. His uniform granted him access without scrutiny. He moved with the confidence of someone who belonged, head down, posture neutral.
No one stopped him.
He addressed evidence methodically—not obsessively. Obsession suggested fear. Ari felt none. He focused on anything that could raise questions, not on eliminating every possible trace. Total erasure was unrealistic. Plausible absence was sufficient.
He worked quietly, efficiently, leaving nothing that contradicted the narrative of normalcy the space already supported.
When he finished, he paused and looked around—not with satisfaction, but assessment.
The space looked the way it always had.
Unremarkable.
That mattered more than perfection.
He disposed of what needed disposing of in pieces, at different times, in different places. He did not rely on a single method or location. Redundancy reduced risk.
Throughout the process, the silence held.
His hands were steady. His thoughts remained linear. There was no spike of anxiety when footsteps sounded nearby, no flinch when doors opened or closed.
He blended.
Ari returned to his room late that night and washed his hands—not compulsively, but thoroughly. He changed clothes. He sat on the edge of the bed and reviewed the sequence once more.
No gaps. No loose ends that mattered.
The realization settled without drama: he had succeeded. Not because he was clever. Not because he was special.
Because he had prepared.
Because he had waited.
Because he understood systems—and how to move through them without disturbance.
Ari lay down and stared at the ceiling, listening to the city hum softly beyond the walls. The noise inside him remained absent, replaced by a calm that felt earned rather than borrowed.
He did not feel invincible. He felt competent.
That distinction mattered.
As sleep took him, Ari understood that cleanup was not an aftermath—it was part of the act itself. Control extended beyond the moment of release. It required follow-through, discipline, restraint.
He had all three.
And as the silence wrapped around him once more, unbroken and deep, Ari accepted the truth without hesitation:
He could do this again.
And next time—It would be even cleaner.