FSE

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Over the next two weeks, the maid attentively tends to your wounds and you cannot shake the feeling that she seems distantly familiar.

"I feel like I kn-know you..." You contemplate, and her face lights up with a smile as bright as the sun, and her eyes sparkle like sunlight over the surface of a lake.

"You remember! Yes, I... I was there too." Her expression dims a bit at the reminder, and you cannot help but feel guilty for inadvertently dredging up what she would no doubt prefer to bury. "I mean...I was rescued not too long ago myself."

Your eyes roam her features, and a loose thread of memory weaves into place.

The last you had seen of her, she was being hauled out and tossed into the street like trash, believed to be dead.

That son of a bitch had nearly killed her too. You hope to everything sacred that your savior bashed his fucking brains in, because who knows how many have died by his hand?

"W-who saved you? And m-me?" You ask, and are told that Sebas, the Butler of Nazarick, has valiantly rescued you both. The recollection you have of someone stopping your assailant is foggy at best, and you unfortunately do not even remember his face.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you don't remember much of ANYTHING.

"Can you tell me your name?" Tuare presses, and you open your mouth to reply, but your mind fumbles for the answer, only to come up empty. And then it dawns on you... you don't know.

You do not know your own name.

"Um... I-I don't rem-member." You shakily reply. Your speech is still a bit broken from sustained brain damage.

Tuare gives you a low-tier potion that you drink with your food each day, and with it, your recovery is faster than it would be without it.

But still, it is excruciatingly slow.

When you were trying to sleep yesterday, you overheard Tuare meekly ask someone for something a bit stronger, and the bitch snidely remarked "For yet another human? No- I don't think so."

You cracked your eyes open to peer at her, and woman looked human herself. She wore her hair in blond ringlets and her somewhat scandalous outfit reminds you of something you would be forced to wear to serve some of the seedier clients.

What the Hell was her problem?

"That's ok," Tuare sympathizes, and carefully wraps a clean bandage around your head. "You will, with time, I think."

"Wh-where are we?" You ask her.

"We're in the Great Tomb of Nazarick." She replies, and uses a pair of scissors to cut the excess length of the bandage after tying it off.

Where is Nazarick? You glance around for anything which may indicate what region or continent Nazarick is on. Quiet luxury permeates everything around you, from the thick carpet below to the heavy, scarlet velvet drapes pulled back to expose the morning sky. This place doesn't look like the typical doom and gloom of a Tomb. The complete opposite, in fact.

Does she have head trauma too?

The confusion must be written all over you face, because Tuare giggles. "I thought the same thing. It does not look much like a Tomb, does it?"

"No, it-d-doesn't."

Tuare goes on to explain that The Great Underground Tomb is actually a ten Floor dungeon, and each Floor has its own unique theme. The First to Third Floors are modeled after a catacomb-like tomb, and are the only ones which look like an actual tomb. The Fourth Floor is an underground lake. The Fifth Floor is a frozen glacier. The Sixth Floor is a rain forest. The Seventh Floor is a mainly volcanic landscape complete with a sea of magma, save for the occupant's personal quarters where he does paperwork and Defense management. The Eighth Floor is a wasteland. And the Ninth and Tenth Floors are the realm of the gods; in other words, the home base of Ainz Ooal Gown. Each Floor is run and protected by a Guardian, an inhuman being of great power.

You are stunned. Only knights from the guilds who occasionally dropped in at the brothel spoke of places like this; you honestly thought most of what they said was bullshit anyways.

"Lord Ainz, the ruler of Nazarick, will be deciding what to do with you. I really hope he lets you stay!" Tuare says with a hopeful smile, and your heart skips.

'What else would he do with me? If he doesn't decide to let me stay?'

"Sh-shit, me too. I d-don't have anywhere to go." You bleakly admit and run a hand through your hair.

'I don't even know where home is.'

"He may look really scary, but he did grant me protection under his name, and safety here." Tuare reassures you. "I'm sure he'll do the same for you!"

"How did you m-manage th-that?" You ask.

Damn it, your stutter was starting to irritate the shit out of you.

"Sebas vouched for me. If it wasn't for him, they may have wiped my memory and released me in a nearby town... although one of the Guardians did suggest killing me outright." She says with a nervous swallow, and your heart drops hard into your stomach.

"But I didn't want to be placed anywhere else." Tuare continues. "What if I was recognized and recaptured? And Sebas...I owe him my life. Because of him, I have a home, and a decent and rewarding job. I only feel safe if I am with him."

You put that piece of information in your back pocket for later and pray you can also depend on Sebas. He had saved you, after all, so you hope he also intends to protect you here in the Tomb as well.

---

Another week passes. When you recover enough to be able to stand and walk, and the worst of your wounds heal, you ask Tuare if it is possible for you to bathe.

While you had been given a gentle sponge bath shortly after your rescue to clean up the blood, and your bed sheets are crisp and clean, you still feel filthy- and damn it all, you think you can still smell that disgusting pig on you.

Tuare agrees and guides you to the bathroom. It's marvelous, with huge slabs of white marble, veined in silver and gold, and when you are shown the shower it dawns on you that you have no idea how to work the knobs of the faucet. The bath at the brothel was always already drawn for you. You stare dumbly at the silver knobs until Tuare realizes what is wrong.

"It's okay, I didn't know how to either until Sebas showed me." Tuare says, before she turns them both and like magic, water rains down into the pristine tiled enclosure. She tests the water temperature with her hand, and when she deems it warm enough, she assures you that you can take your time and she will wait for you outside.

You hastily undress and step in. And when you feel the hot water cascade down over your skin, you are halfway convinced you have somehow died along the way to the bathroom and gone to heaven. At the brothel you were allowed supervised baths, but it always felt so... dirty, to have to soak in a tub of your own and a stranger's filth to try to get clean. But this... this was an experience like no other. The running water allows you to feel like the grime and fingerprints are completely washed away, and you are truly cleansed.

You dawdle, thoroughly enjoying yourself under the decadence of the shower head. The guava and strawberry shampoo and conditioner are so creamy and delicious-smelling you are almost tempted to taste them.

You honestly don't know how long you have been roughly scrubbing at your skin, but once you are pink and almost raw, you decide it is enough. Your feet ache in protest before you are finally satisfied that you have succeeded in scraping and washing away the outer layer of flesh that has been violated by dozens of strangers. When you step out, you wrap a luxuriously fluffy towel around your torso and dare to take a look at yourself in the mirror.

You saw yourself in the mirror, once, and while do not remember when exactly, you would surmise it was not long ago. And it had shaken you to your very core, how little you recognized yourself. Your eyes were hollowed pits, with dark circles of purple gathering like storm clouds beneath them and your face was dappled with bruises. Your lips were pale, your cheeks sunken, and your flesh an ashen complexion. What had looked back at you... was a hollow-eyed doll. A broken, wretched shell of your former self.

You knew then it would not be long before you were deemed as "used up" and thrown away, like the other girl had been. You stopped looking at your reflection after that. You no longer wanted to be reminded of just how few grains of sand were left in your hourglass.

But your reflection is different now. It has changed, and for the better. While the ghosts of bruises on your face, arms, ribs and legs still linger, they are fading, and considerably. You have begun to gain a little weight now that you are eating regularly, making your cheeks fuller and you finally had the strength to stand on your own. Your eyes are no longer hopeless and hollow. The bags beneath them have, for the most part, disappeared. And they are blue- you forgot they are cobalt blue, like Tuare's. Your lips have regained their rosy hue, and had also plumped. While your skin is still pale, now it boasts a glow of recovering health. Your hair was no longer lackluster and limp, either. It has body to it, once again forming loose waves and reclaiming its golden sheen.

'Maybe... maybe I'll be okay.'

Feeling like a new woman, you take Tuare up on her offer to show you where she works in the Tomb. You are eager make a good impression and to prove your worth in order to convince Lord Ainz you can be made of use.

Tuare is kind enough to lend you a spare maid's dress so you can at least look the part.

"I'm sorry it's a little small, but as soon as I can I'll have one made for you in your size." She promises as she passes you a pair of heels. "But it still looks great on you! You're going to fit right in with the rest of us."

Tuare finishes lacing up the corset backing for you, and you give your uniform a final once-over in the full-length mirror, making sure the micro-skirt isn't tucked into your underwear and that the seam running up the back of each thigh-high stocking is symmetrical. You adjust the low-cut cleavage of your uniform, ensuring you won't fall out if you bend over for one thing or another. You are a little leggier than Tuare, so the black dress falls just barely mid-thigh and is accentuated with ivory trim, with a full puffy skirt beneath. It also has a white half-apron, with pockets included for a notepad to take orders for the kitchen and restocking supplies. Your outfit is completed by pair of strappy, black six-inch heels made of buttery-soft leather.

Tuare hands you a feather duster and a folded dust rag.

With real clothes, you feel a little more human, and less like an animal in a cage. You have not worn something nice like this since...you still cannot remember, but you want to say ever? If you had, it must have been before you were enslaved to the brothel, your personal prison; there, you were always nearly naked (if not completely), and vulnerable. You love it, the way the fabric covers you, the illusion of protection, of safety it gives you. Your sinuses begin to sting as you choke back tears of joy.

"I felt the same way when Sebas gave me my first uniform too." Tuare says quietly, noticing the flood of emotion overwhelming you. "I never thought I would wear anything so soft before he took me in."

"It's...so elegant." You murmur in awe. "If it wasn't for a meant for a maid, I would feel like royalty."

Your stutter was finally gone. But your memory in still dust in the wind.

"I thought the same thing. I had never touched silk in my life. " Tuare replies.

You sniffle and push your tears down into that dark place inside you. You can cry later. Now you need to earn your keep.

"What do I... where do I start?" You stammer, admittedly clueless as to what to do.

"I would start in the hallway, and once you get a feel for it, we can move you up to cooking in the kitchen with me." Tuare suggests. "I need to go help prepare dinner for the evening, but I'll be back in a little while. Will you be alright by yourself?"

You hesitate momentarily; the idea of being alone in a Tomb with strangers who don't seem too keen on the idea of humans moving in is terrifying- but you then nod. You don't want to be the reason she is late for her job, not after all she has done for you.

"You may see other maids or maybe even Guardians while you work. Sebas has made everyone aware you are here, so you will be safe. But don't forget to bow to anyone you see. Guardians demand utmost respect." Tuare cautions.

"Okay. I certainly will. Thank you, Tuare. For everything." You say, and Tuare smiles, then bows low at the waist with a practiced grace, lowering her head. You return the gesture rather clumsily, and stumble a bit.

'Damn it.'

You are still somewhat unbalanced thanks to head trauma, but at least you don't fall on your face.

A lingering sense of unease latches on with spiny teeth when Tuare disappears down the hall and turns into the swinging double-doors of the kitchen.

Now you are all alone.

You press your lips into a thin line and look around. Compared to the blood-stained and grimy brothel, this place is in immaculate condition. The air is anointed with the scent of wood polish and lemon, as if it were just wiped down yesterday.

'This place really needs dusting? But it's already so clean!'

You suppose you can simply pretend it's dirty and flick the feathers over things for practice. It is better to look busy than not.

As you sweep over the hallway and many elegantly framed paintings that hang throughout the tomb, you gradually became more comfortable by yourself and practiced in your movements.

Upon closer inspection, you notice that dust is collecting is the little grooves of the intricate wall molding that stretches up from the baseboards.

Okay. Maybe it was a little dirtier than it first appeared.

'But still, this isn't so bad. In fact, it's easy. I can do this.'

Just as you began to build confidence, you hear light footfalls behind you. You think this to be Tuare returning to check on you, but as you glance over your shoulder and the silhouette draws closer, you can discern it was someone much taller.

'Shit...' Fear blooms in your chest, constricting the air in your lungs.

A man. A dauntingly tall man.

He is broad of shoulder and dressed sharply in a vermilion pinstripe suit, his hair dark and slicked back into jagged points. His features are angular and regal, as are his ears; they are long and pointed with silver rings and cuffs adorning his right one.

'Not a man. Something inhuman.' Your anxiety increases tenfold.

Something flashes through your mind. A fragment of a memory.

Someone... maybe your mother or perhaps an older sister, used to read to you from a book which featured the native species of Yggdrasil, and you remember seeing charcoal drawings of dark elves, ogres, goblins, lizard men and demons of all classes.

You try to make out her face, but it's watery and smeared.

He does not resemble an ogre or goblin though. He is much more human-looking, and is quite attractive, undeniably more handsome than any of the clientele that you were forced to serve at the brothel. He possesses a strong but not quite aquiline nose, a brow that furrows with seemingly cold and calculating concentration, and he wears rounded, silver spectacles that compliment his high cheekbones and sharp jawline.

'Is he a dark elf?' You ask yourself.

He radiates an air of authority and intelligence, and you deduct that he must be a Guardian. The way he carries himself with his hands confidently tucked behind his back tells you he is deadlier than he looks; your suspicions are confirmed when you notice a steely armor-plated tail armed with six long spikes on its final segments swaying behind him.

He is not just a demon. He is an Arch Devil.

'Shit a brick and fuck me with it...'

Your heart flips into your throat and your blood turns to ice in your veins with dread. Time slows to nearly a standstill.

"He may look really scary, but he did grant me protection under his name, and safety here." Tuare's words echo in your mind.

Shit, this guy definitely fits the description of 'scary'. What if he is Lord Ainz?

You do not simply bow; no, he is far more intimidating than what a bow of respect requires. You drop to your knees, and the Devil glances your way and momentarily quirks an eyebrow, seemingly somewhat taken aback by your respectful gesture.

You also lower your head in an attempt to make yourself as small and insignificant as possible.

"You, maid." Your heart drops through the floor, and you snap your head up.

'Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck...' He's talking to you, and you are panicking inside.

"Come," The demon prompts with a sharp command. "I require assistance."

You swallow, terrified, but obediently scramble to your feet. As a Guardian, or very possibly the ruler of Nazarick himself, you must show him utmost respect, as Tuare advised.

But dear fucking gods, you do not feel safe being escorted anywhere in this place by anyone but Tuare. However, you fear that if you show anything but absolute compliance, your resistance will give them a reason to throw you out.

You follow his lengthy strides as he stalks down the hallway. Your legs are long, but he is tall and moves quickly- it's not easy keeping up with him.

Where he is leading you, you haven't a clue. Your heart is pounding, and you watch as his steely tail sways fluidly behind him, giving you the impression of a silvery serpent gliding through water. You take care to keep a respectable distance from its reach- it looks deadly, and you do not doubt a serious wound can be inflicted if it were to hit you. A furtive glance over your shoulder establishes the disheartening emptiness of the hallway. Tuare is nowhere in sight, as she is still occupied in the kitchen.

You have no reassurance, no lifeline of support and safety to cling to, and can only pray that he isn't guiding you to some place where no one will be able to hear you scream.

You are on your own.

The Devil treks on for what seems to be miles. Your feet are absolutely killing you at this point, and you wonder how the Hell Tuare manages to do her job in six-inch heels all damned day. Your chest heaves and burns with exertion, but you try to breathe quietly and not draw attention to yourself; this is the most exercise you have had since you were brought here.

Somehow, the demon does not seem winded in the least.

He brings you to a new and unfamiliar Floor. The lighting in this corridor is quite dim, and the dozens of torches that line the walls are the only reason you can see at all. It's considerably warmer on this level, and humidity seeps into your pores and causes your clothes to stick to your skin.

This level is composed entirely of cobblestone, which appears more ancient than the earth itself. Each rock is pitted and scarred, and this place looks like an actual tomb or maybe even a dungeon.

This is what was conjured in your mind when Tuare had told you that you had been brought to the Great Tomb of Nazarick.

As you brace your hand against the wall to catch your breath when the demon finally slows his pace, your palm finds the surface balmy and also coated with a thin layer of dark ash. It smells like summer rain after a wildfire. Scorched, dark and damp.

"In here." He says, and he pushes open a large oak door, and awaits for you to step in.

You are bound by instinctive hesitation, but then force a tentative step forward; traumatic experience promises that you will be locked in, but you are even more terrified of what could happen if you fail to comply with his request. He says nothing, but seems to sense your anxiety and chooses to step into the room first, alleviating a portion of your fear that this may be some sort of trap.

Still, you are wary.

You then cautiously follow, and strain your eyes to sketch out your surroundings. Once they adjust to the monochrome darkness, you can make out that you are in a crafting room of some sort. The lighting is even more dull in here than it was in the corridor, but you think you can discern the silhouette of a work bench, a very large table in the center, a few small shelves, and a neatly stacked pile of ash wood in the furthermost corner of the room.

There are cobwebs and a thin layer of dust coating everything. You squint to focus your gaze on several dirty glass vials full of mystery substances which line the shelves of the derelict room, the brilliance of their greens and blues are muted below the grayish layer. The dust was so thick on some of them that it looks more like they have sprouted fuzz. Some bottles were clearly more frequently used than others, and the fingerprints dotting them attest to their favoritism.

Now, THIS place needs a good scrubbing.

"W-would you like me to clean in here, Master?" You offer, and again your tongue is tied with that gods-forsaken stutter, but this time it is born from jittery nerves.

When imprisoned in the brothel, you were trained to address your clients, and any male you encounter for that matter, as Master. To give them the impression of submissiveness and complete control often prevented things from escalating further, a precaution taken on the chance that they may be prone to violence. While the Devil is not a client, you do not doubt him to be a potentially violent individual.

He regards you for a moment, and cants his head ever so slightly. His tail flicks and his perusal of you turns penetrating, almost predatory, and you feel a smoldering aura of danger rolling off of him in hot waves. Your heart thuds hard against your ribs.

Shit. Maybe you should not speak until spoken to.

"Yes... I would." He finally agrees, and reaches behind the door to pull out a broom and dustpan and leans it against the wall, rather than passing it to you. "You may return to your duties on the 9th Floor when you have finished."

The demon then collects a severely melted candle from his workbench and to your amazement, proceeds to conjure a tiny golden flame from the tip of his pointer claw, and lights the wick to cast a warm golden glow which highlights the contours of every shape in the room.

At least you can see a bit better now.

He then turns on his heel and leaves, and when you hear another door in the distance close, you let out a shuddering breath.

'Holy shit.'

He's intimidating as Hell. You were expecting either a lashing of the tongue or something worse for your offense, but he did no such thing- he simply let it go. He also was kind enough to give you a little more light to work with.

Perhaps the sense of danger prickling up your neck like insect legs is just your nerves being frayed after your harrowing ordeal.

Another brief survey of your surroundings makes you sigh wearily. You know you will have to go over everything more than once and work twice as hard to ensure it is all sufficiently clean, because you can barely see a damned thing in here.

The silvery lacework of spiders grace every wall and corner. Old cobwebs hang loosely in mats from the rafters, waving with a slight draft near the new and delicate silky strands of a living arachnid. You balance on your tiptoes the best you can and brush them away with your feather duster, and hope to Hell that the spiders don't avenge their homestead by jumping down onto your face.

You curse your petite frame when you can't reach them all. You get what you can, but you will need to stand on a chair to clear the rest away.

A quick glance at your admittedly bare surroundings, and you groan inwardly at the lack of anything which could safely serve as a suitable step-ladder.

'Shit.' You hope the demon understands the struggles of the vertically challenged.

You decide to move on and collect each bottle off the top shelf and deposit them on the bottom, and with each swipe the black plumy feathers of your duster gray with filth at an alarming rate. You then follow up with a thorough wipe-down with the rag that Tuare told you to stash in your apron. Once the shelf is restored to its original polished luster, you then carefully buff the bottles, and hope the demon will be pleased with this detail. After putting everything back exactly as you had found it, you shift your attention to the large table in the center of the room and its adjacent workbench.

The table itself is massive, and big enough for you to lay on without your feet even coming close to hanging off the edges. It takes a while to dust and towel off its area.

Resting on the workbench is a shallow steel tray. Within it, you find a vast array of tools. You decide to shine them too, even though they are not particularly dirty- it would seem that he actually uses these often. They are unlike anything you have seen before. They did not appear to be quite the right design for woodworking, or anything you are remotely familiar with, for that matter. Most are pointed and sharp, some have serrated teeth, some have a razor's straight edge. Others are pick-like, and you see a few forceps and scissors, but they are not like the kind Tuare uses to trim your bandages. These are sleeker, almost surgical in appearance. You wonder what craft he specializes in.

Maybe he's a doctor?

Ah, yes, that would explain the tools and the table! This place must need a doctor at some point, right?

You finish this side of the room, but before you can sweep and mop the floor, you need to spiff up the wood pile in the corner. You tap handle of the duster on the edge of the table, causing a snowfall of gray from the feathers to powder the ground.

You cross the room and bend down, and begin to dust off the stack of pale wood... the center of the branches is narrow but sturdy, and they thicken and stretch outwards to be crowned in knobby ends. You wonder how it is possible for each to be shaped so uniformly- they do not look carved, they look too smooth, too polished-

...you strain your eyes.

'Oh, gods...'

Icy fear peels up your spine and your pulse kicks wildly.

They are not ash wood branches at all.

They are human femurs.

He is not a doctor. He is a monster.

"Ah, well done! This place is looking better already."

You jolt hard with a start, damn near dropping your feather duster and whip around to see him stalking into the room.

You thickly swallow around the lump of fear in your throat, and your heart deafeningly drums in your ears.

"Th-thank you, Master." You squeak out, your knuckles turning white as your fingers clench tightly around the duster to keep your hands from shaking.

You want to run. But you can't. Yours legs feel firmly rooted to the floor. And you are frozen in place with fear.

Frozen like prey.

He saunters over to the table and appraises your work. The corner of his mouth curls in a smirk.

"You even shined my tools. How thoughtful." He silkily remarks and runs his claw almost reverently over the one with serrated teeth.

"What are they for?" You stupidly blurt out without thinking.

Your eyes shutter closed and you feel your face tighten in a near wince when you realize what you have done- spoken out of turn. AGAIN.

'Fucking idiot.' You scold yourself.

You open them slowly to see him raise a brow at the brazen question, and then his grin stretches to reveal two wicked rows of not blunt teeth, but pointed fangs.

"I like to think of myself as... a_medical scientist_, of sorts." He selects his choice of words with meticulous precision, as though he is taking care not to startle you further. "The human body is a biological marvel, so I use these to dissect the dead and learn as much from the cadavers as possible."

The dead. Cadavers. So, he isn't killing people?

"In fact, had it not been for my research and the knowledge acquired from my autopsies and experiments, it would be unlikely that Tuare would still be with us today." He coolly explains, noting how your eyes flicker between him and the tray. "Her wounds were quite severe, as were yours. I did what I could for you both, but think with time, you should make a full recovery."

Oh. Oh, fuck.

'He is practically a doctor, and I am a colossal asshole. He helped save my life, and I assumed he's a fucking serial killer.'

"Have you recovered any of your memories as of yet?" He inquires, his voice adopting a rather clinical tone as he begins to rearrange his tools back into their preferred order.

"I... I sort of remember Tuare. She was in the brothel with me. But that is all, I think." You tell him, your trepidation melting away.

"I see. Before long, you should begin to piece together the rest. Besides the gaps in your memory, have you experienced any other side effects associated with head trauma? Nausea? Vomiting? Headaches?" He probes.

'Yep. Definitely a doctor.'

"No, Master. And thank you... for helping me." You quietly murmur, and try collect your frazzled thoughts into a semblance of order. "I would probably be dead otherwise."

"Indeed." He concludes grimly.

'Shit.'_You may have offended him- he's clearly far from ignorant, and _has to know you had assumed the worst about him. You cannot help but feel reprehensible for judging him so hastily.

You feel him gauging your every expression, as though he is trying to memorize a textbook. Intently and with unshakable concentration.

"Um... is there anything else you would like for me to do after I finish here, Master?" You extend an olive branch, hoping you haven't burned a bridge before it was even built.

"Actually, there is..." He licks his lips. "I do not expect an answer right away, so please do not feel obligated to say yes or no immediately. But once you are settled and more comfortable in your new surroundings, I am in need of a personal assistant. I simply ask that you take this position within the Tomb into consideration."

Your lips part in shock. You were a judgmental bastard, and here he is offering you a fucking job.

You couldn't say no after you may have already hurt his feelings. And it's not like he was demanding an instant response.

Besides, how hard could it be? He would likely only have you cleaning and bringing him meals- that's what the here maids do, isn't it?

"O-okay... I think I might like that." You say, and give him a small smile.

He slowly smiles back, breaking the tension like a pebble gently breaking the surface of still water, and as you watch his tail give a seemingly pleased wave, and you feel an airy flutter in your stomach. It's an odd sensation, and it causes your breath to hitch in your throat. Even in your current predicament, you still have eyes in your head, and there's no missing the fact he's six-foot-two of broad shoulders and elegantly angular features.

Would it really be so bad to work for him all day if this was the view?

'No. No, it wouldn't.'

"Excellent." He replies at last, and pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with two digits. "I do hope you take me up on it."

He leaves you to finish the job, and you unconsciously worry at your lower lip the entire time. If you accept his offer, you'll secure yourself a position in the Tomb under a Guardian, and therefore ensure that you will have a home.

And besides Tuare, he is the only one here who has shown you any decency, despite the fact that you are human. He's been nothing but a gentleman.

You decide you will take it.

Once you are confident the room has been restored to it's morbid glory, you are utterly wiped out. Your bones feel heavy and your muscles ache to give in to the pull of gravity. Your health is still far from one hundred percent, and the mere hour of work has left you drained and drunk with fatigue. You slowly hobble back to the Ninth Floor and every step is like burning, broken glass under your feet.

These heels will be your death. Whoever invented these can eat a buffet of dicks.

By the time you make it back to where Tuare had left you, you feel as if you have just scaled a mountain. You sneak a quick peek into the kitchen, and Tuare is still busy darting back and forth with loaded plates balanced on her arms between the hustle and bustle of other waitstaff. Rather than bothering her, you haul your exhausted self back to your room. After unfastening the ridiculous number of straps that shackle the heels of Hell to your feet, you flop onto the bed for a much-needed nap.

---

You know it's coming, and your muscles tense as much as they can to brace for the impact- but the knowing doesn't soften the blow.

It never does.

His fist strikes as hard as you knew it would. You feel the bone in your clavicle splinter into an untold number of fragments as your brain becomes inoperable. He's on top of you, holding you down with his knees pinning your elbows, his obscene weight crushing the air from your lungs.

You had already drained what little strength you had trying to fight him from wrangling you into this position.

'Escape...escape...escape...'

The pain takes you elsewhere, but not too far away; somewhere deep inside, to that dark, safe place that absorbs the mind-shattering kind of agony which precedes death. Your vision is blotched with violent hues of red and purple that shapelessly move and merge without pattern or design.

You wonder if it's just blood in your eyes.

The tidal wave of pain still cripples your sight, but the bastard swims back into view. His lips pull back into a sickening grin to reveal crooked, yellow teeth.

'I'll rip them out of your skull, one by one...' You vow with blistering hatred.

It is unnerving to see the eyes of a serpent glaring down at you from a human face; his icy gaze is empty of emotion and utterly devoid of conscience.

Your sight is darkening around the edges, tunneling your vision. Which is fine. You don't care to see or feel anymore anyway.

He's so fucking heavy, it's impossible to breath. You think you may actually suffocate this time.

You vaguely make out trails of ruby running down the massive wall of his body, like rain over a window pane. Suddenly you feel it splashing hotly onto your skin. Your eyes flutter to open wider, and you see matte black claws pull tightly from their fleshy sheaths to hook into the meat of his shoulder, and they brutally rip backwards, making gaping wounds like fabric being torn at the seams.

The manner in which sound comes rushing back into your ears is as the ocean crashes full force to the shore, and he is screaming.

Your eyes are drawn to his face, and for once, HE is afraid. The fear in his eyes is wild, raw, and it sends an alien thrill whipping through your veins.

At last, predator has become prey.

Despite your wretched state of debilitation, it is enough to make a tiny smile play on your lips.

His bellows are then deafened by an explosive roar like thunder tearing open the bowels of the sky.

You jolt awake in a cold sweat, gasping for air as the phantom weight of your rapist fades and you can once again feel your lungs fill with oxygen.

Everything is nearly pitch black. A shape stirs in the bed across from yours and the hair on your arms prickles with adrenaline-charged fear before you realize it is only Tuare.

It dark because nightfall was hours ago.

Shit, you must have slept through the rest of the entire day!

"Are you alright?" She mumbles groggily.

You wipe the sweat from your brow and peel back the heavy comforter to cool yourself down.

"I think so..." You pant, and try to still your trembling hands and slow your hammering heart with deep breaths. "... just a bad dream."