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Your body is a cage for a soul he cannot touch. His crystalline eyes shimmer with a mesmerizing iridescence from behind his spectacles as he stares down at you with all of the heated appraisal of a hunter who has snared a silver vixen within his trap.

The torches nestled in the sconces along the stony wall paint the Devil's visage in flickering gold and shadow. His nostrils flare as he drinks in your fear, and his tongue sweeps over his fangs before his lips peel back into a sinister grin to reveal rows of wolfish teeth. You fight to keep your own lip from curling as hot animosity whips through your veins like lightning- but you keep your rage in check. He does not stand for insubordination.

That's what landed you here in the first place.

Your frustration, your struggle, your seemingly inextinguishable flame of resistance thrills him to no end. You have yet to shatter for him, and as much as it infuriates him, you can also see that it poses a not only a problem, but a puzzle, a complex equation for him to solve.

A challenge.

The scientist in him preens with curiosity at this aberration in nature that he has discovered; a unique specimen he can experiment with- to dissect and pick apart, and locate every little secret mechanism, to map where all of your gears fit together so he can learn what exactly makes you tick... and what he can subtract to break you.

And now, he has you right where he wants you. You glare back at him, your determination a dulling glint in your gaze, but then you yield and shutter your eyes. You can never meet his own for too long. His white-hot stare is piercing enough to melt you to the bone.

You refuse to break, but you cannot deny that he is gradually wearing you down, little by little. Here in the basement at his ranch, he determines when you eat, when you drink, and how much. You are completely dependent on his mercy.

At least he has taken the collar and chain off of you.

For now.

But he only trades one method of restraint for another; you are shackled to a St. Andrew's cross, where he then proceeds to poke, prod and examine you as though you are merely an insect beneath his microscope. This is his process- he tries to reach, to twist his claws down into that one hidden place, deep inside, that part of you which he hasn't quite yet been able to grasp and crush, to kill.

The demon turns away from you to tinker with the array of tools on his steel tray, and you watch with mounting anxiety as he expertly draws a mysterious liquid from a small glass vial into a syringe. The rapid flow of the substance floods into the barrel to swirl in a shimmering whirlpool of amethyst, and then he halts the draw and allows it to settle. His brow knits as he gauges the dosage with utmost scrutiny. His clawed thumb pushes the plunger with calculated pressure, and you see a small spritz burst from the bevel of the needle.

His movements are the definition of flawless and precise- it unnerves you to wonder how many times he must have done this before to develop such meticulous muscle memory.

While you may not know exactly how many injections have been administered by his hand, you do know how many have died.

3,068.

You are subject 3,069.

You did have a name, and barely a week ago. He stripped that away from you too, along with your clothes and your dignity. This leaves you as nothing but a number. Livestock.

You will get your name back "when you earn it." Or so he says.

That is, if either he or dehydration doesn't kill you first.

Your tongue sticks to your palate; you peel it off and roll your lips. You've had an excruciating case of cotton mouth for the past two days. The bastard is only giving you enough water to keep you alive.

You are so fucking thirsty.

Your attention is drawn like a magnet to the ornate golden goblet on his work table, an oasis that he has temptingly placed within your line of sight, but cruelly just out of reach; a honeyed promise as to what you can have if you obey... or maybe he just keeps it there to get your hopes up and make you more compliant.

You do not know for a fact that there is water in it. But you sure as Hell hope so.

He carefully taps the body of the instrument, snapping your focus back to him, and he turns on his heel to face you once more. You look away and nail your gaze to the wall, an endeavor to not to center your attention on the menacing instrument. However, your eyes instantly swing back to it as if it is out of your control. To say that you are not a fan of needles is a massive understatement.

He granted you a tiny bit of reprieve when he introduced a blindfold to the process a few days ago. You hope that he will be merciful and use it again.

A shiver wracks your body, from both fear and the icy chill in the air.

Your gaze flickers back to his, and you do not miss how it has darkened. The shroud in his eyes boasts challenge; he wants for the fire in your own to dim, for you to submit. He awaits the day that they once again burn with the knowledge of your inferiority, an admittance to how weak you are compared to him.

He reaches for the dark cloth draped on the corner of the table, and you breathe a small sigh of relief.

The demon places the syringe in his teeth and carefully threads his gloved fingers through the thick mane of hair at the back of your scalp, tilting your head forward so he can wrap the blindfold around your face. The graze of his claws sting like the pricks of needles as they threateningly brush over the skin when his hands pull away- you are cautious not to struggle. They are razor sharp, and easily snag on flesh.

The blindfold casts stifling darkness and obscures your prison, although you can see it all too clearly in your mind's eye. Your arms tingle with pins and needles as they are uncomfortably stretched overhead, clasped tightly in cold steel manacles on each of your wrists. The chains rattle and clang with your movements. You're so damned uncomfortable.

"Stop moving, 3069." You heard him growl, addressing you by your subject number.

'Fuck you.' You huff inwardly.

You obeyed- this time. The last time you had struggled, he punished you by not only starting the process over, but gagging you as well, to add insult to injury. If he gagged you again, you would lose what little moisture was left in your mouth.

You have precious little time to prepare yourself when you feel his fingers splay over the skin to tighten it, just before he aims for your vein. The instrument's snakebite makes your face go numb and goosebumps break out all over your skin. Your veins catch fire as the potion spills into your bloodstream, and you hiss through your teeth.

It burns like Hell every time.

You feel the needle slide out, and his thumb press over the wound. He applies pressure until he is sure none of the potion will leak out.

The minutes stretch on endlessly, trickling by at a snail's pace. Your tongue flicks out to run along tender, cracked flesh of your lower lip.

You desperately want water. You swallow thickly, and your throat sticks to itself. Your tongue gnaws at the roof of your parched mouth, a futile attempt to stimulate salivation, and the thick roughness of your taste buds only increase until it is unbearable, until you simply can't stand it any longer.

"C-can I please have some w-water, Master?" Your voice scrapes out in a gravelly rasp. Every swallow is like crushed glass down your throat and your eyes water with the effort. But this one hurt worse of all- because with the sensation of shards splintering into your esophagus, you also swallow what little pride you have left.

"If you are compliant, then perhaps." The demon says with a weary sigh.

You need water. Badly. You would be good if he would only give you some scrap of hope that he'd hold up his end of the bargain, and let you have some. But after everything he has put you through, you do not trust him as far as you can throw him.

'I won't let you break me.' Your defiant streak growls, but whether you are trying to convince yourself, or him at this point, you cannot be sure anymore.

As angry as you are, you can no long ignore that you are growing weaker by the day, your resolve slowly crumbling like sand.

Pride isn't worth jack shit if you are dead.

You do your best to tune him out as he shuffles around and clinks the bottles of potions. Your mind skips and wanders; you wonder if it is light or dark outside, and what Tuare may be doing in Nazarick. She really is the only one who would notice, much less care that you are missing. The sudden press of his glove's soft leather and a light sting of his claws on your throat causes you to flinch, but then still when you realize he is not hurting you, but merely taking your pulse.

"Heart rate is 108 beats per minute. Slightly elevated due to both the potion and stress," He mutters, "but lower than yesterday. It would seem the blindfold is effective in reducing situational stress and obtaining more accurate readings."

Good. Maybe that means he will keep using it. But you don't want to think about what the potion is, or why it is raising your heart rate. You don't have much medical knowledge, but you are relatively sure that a high heart rate is not a good side-effect.

"The Median Cubital vein is less pronounced today due to dehydration." The Devil also notes, and it pisses you off that he does not give any indication of wanting to rectify that.

"The concoction seems to be having the desired effect, but not quickly enough for my liking. Next time I will increase the dosage and hope it yields more promising results." He adds, and you hear his quill pen rapidly scratching over the surface of the parchment he takes his notes on.

What the Hell is he giving you?

'Don't think about it. Just...just don't think about it.' You try to distract yourself.

You imagine you are warm in your bed in Nazarick, wrapped in a fluffy blanket and nibbling on Pestonya's pastries, and washing them down with a cup of water- not naked, freezing and dehydrated. If you had only behaved, maybe that is where you would be right now.

Gods, you're so tired, and the cold makes you even drowsier. Your body feels stretched thin and drained, and your head feels too heavy. It lolls to the side as you drift into a light sleep.

You dream of water, of summer rain kissing your skin. Fat droplets of condensation rolling tantalizingly down the slick edge of crystal.

"That wasn't so difficult, now was it?" The demon chides, and you jolt awake when he slips the blindfold off of you.

You are so utterly exhausted that you must have dozed off. It is the only reason you were still for him.

You blink several times, the fuzzy veil of sleep slipping away, and you feel something warm trickling down your bicep. A quick glance to the left reveals a stripe of ruby racing down your bicep. He must have given you a second injection in your other arm.

He turns towards the table and when he faces you again, he cradles the golden, jewel encrusted goblet in his palm.

'Water! Oh gods, please...please be water.' Your fists clench with restraint. You want to jump for it, but fear that if you make any sudden movements, he may retract his generosity.

He slowly brings it to your lips, and you cannot help but momentarily hesitate- what if he had laced it with something? It would not be the first time he has drugged you.

"Drink." He says, his voice taking on the sharp edge of command, and he tips it further until you feel the refreshing splash of liquid against your lips. "This is an exercise in trust, is it not?"

'How can I ever trust a Devil?'

Still, you obey, deciding it no longer mattered, as he has already injected you with some foreign substance that does who-the-Hell-knows-what. You open your lips and swallow, and your blood sings with relief at the taste of clean water soaking your tongue and soothing your throat.

'He did it. He actually gave me water.'

It's so good that you want to cry.

He kept his word. Does this mean you need only obey and he will-

He suddenly pulls the cup away from your greedy lips, and you try to swallow what was in your mouth as quickly as possible.

'No!' You whine at the loss when a bit escapes and dribbles down to drip onto the stony floor.

The Devil sweeps his finger up your chin, gathering the stray droplets and holds it out to you. You are so unbearably thirsty that you instinctively lunge for it, but your shackles hold fast and keep you detained.

Fuck pride. You need it. You fucking NEED it.

"Please?" You whimper, and you feel a tiny bit of your resolve, your dignity crack at how pathetic you sound. His chest expands with a sharp inhale.

"Please, Master?"

Oh, how he loves to hear you beg.

Mirth and fire dances in his eyes, glittering like molten gold as embers reflect off the dozens of facets and the corner of his mouth curls upward in a cavalier smirk.

Gods, he really is devastatingly attractive.

You remind yourself that this is largely what makes him the perfect predator that he is. The skin he wears is beautiful, alluring; it is impossible not to admire the striking intricacy of the velvety stripes on a tiger, but you must never forget that he has fangs; that he bites.

And he is always hungry.

His pinstriped suit glows like flame in the torchlight of the dungeon, and his steel-plated tail waves to and fro with sadistic satisfaction.

Yes, a tiger. A tiger suits him well.

"Yes. You have permission."

As soon as the last syllable leaves his mouth, your tongue lashes out and manages to steal the beads of moisture off his finger, just before they roll down his palm and away. You give the digit a desperate, firm suck to ensure you get every last drop.

A pleased growl rumbles through his chest, and he reaches out to sweep his other hand over the curve of your hip. The sweet heat of his touch melts into your skin and the sharp of his claws make you tense and tremble; through his gloved palm you feel his entire body thrum with barely leashed hunger and restraint. You recognize it as that same primal, untamed desire that rears its head inside you, the familiar dark... something that you have yet to fully come to terms with. You can feel it as it uncoils, low and dark and deep in the pit of your belly.

Whatever it is, it draws a breathy, soft moan from your lungs, and you cannot resist arching into his touch as much as your bonds will allow.

"That's a good girl." His grin stretches to show his wetly glinting fangs, sending wicked excitement slithering up your spine.

---

***Nearly two months ago***

Your memory is a shattered mirror- broken into so many tiny fragments that it is almost impossible to put any two pieces together to form a whole.

How did you end up here?

You can't remember. You do, however, recall a beating so brutal that you blacked out from the pain. The client who is responsible carries a sickening sense of dread wherever he goes, and leaves ugly black stains on whatever, WHOEVER, he touches. He is the definition of toxic.

And he visits every week.

No one wants to be chosen. No one deserves to be his pick.

But you?

You have become his favorite, as of late. But such is typical for your luck of the draw.

The door to your room, no, your prison, slams open; he always has to make a violent entrance- a precursor to the agony that is sure to follow, and a golden halo spills around the silhouette of his morbidly obese which damn near blocks the doorway; but this is no angel. He is your own personal devil.

Why does it always have to be him?

You have learned a long time ago to stop begging. To stop crying. To forget pleading with him to stop. He is unfeeling. You may as well be trying to reason with stone, with that which has no emotion or feeling whatsoever.

You can only wait for it to be over.

You take a shuddering breath and wonder how long you can stay conscious this time as he takes what he wants, and breaks you again.

He is absolutely merciless. He has struck you before, but on this night, he seems particularly enraged, and as soon as he has you behind closed doors, he viciously unleashes all his fury. A hard, open-palmed slap sends you reeling back against the wall, and before you can recover from it, he punches you as violently as possible in the nose, tearing a broken scream from your throat. Your eyes water and your ears ring, making the world around you go silent; you can hear the hollow drum of blood pulsing in your head, and his muffled laugh of cruelty as you sputter blood.

It is hard to see much, but you can think, despite the pounding pain. You use your other senses; touch and hearing, to take note of your surroundings in the brief precious moments before he determines where he wants to strike you next. Maybe you can crawl into the closet and close the-

He kicks you in the ribs with enough force to crush the air from your lungs, and you both hear and feel the audible crack of splintering bone.

Your mouth drops open in a wheezing gasp. Fuck, it hurts so bad. It hurts to breathe.

'Fuck you. You fucking piece of shit. One day I'll get out of here, I'll find you and shatter every bone in your body.'

The thought gives you a tiny shred of hope to cling to. It hooks in with a claw of determination and you repeat it over and over in your head like a mantra.

Festering hatred. The idea of revenge. It's kept you alive thus far. You will survive, if nothing else, for the sake of sheer spite.

In addition to a broken rib and a badly swollen and bruised face, there is an ache throbbing angrily between your legs from the last client who tore you. Your left eye burns as it rapidly swells almost completely shut, and you barely manage to see through a narrow slit. A sharper sting where your lip has split open adds insult to injury. But you remind yourself that you will feel numb soon enough; as long as you can hang on to your life, as long as you keep breathing. Once he is done, they will shoot you up with your angel of mercy, a powerful dose of morphine so you can handle the next monster they unleash upon you.

If you survive this one.

Your vision grows dim and blurry with tears, but you can still make out his face twisting into a sadistic grin of sick satisfaction. You have learned to both fear and hate that fat, smug face more than anyone's. You will give anything to dig your nails into his greasy, disgusting flesh and rip with all the hatred you possess.

How you want to hear him scream. To watch his face pale and see terror bloom in his eyes.

You have imagined countless scenarios and fantasized how you want to kill him. How you want to torture him.

Something cold and black has been growing inside you, an ebony, polished seed of darkness that leaves ugly stains your soul. It gleams a little brighter and bleeds a little more poison into your bloodstream with each encounter.

Another hard blow to the head. Vertigo twists your balance in several different directions at once. You hit something cold and solid; the floor. Coppery blood floods your mouth and soaks your tongue. You feel a dizzying wave of nausea, but fight it tooth and nail. If you throw up what was in your stomach, you will lose what little nutrition you have been given, and it may be another 24 hours (if you're lucky) before you eat again. You do not have scheduled meals; you eat when they remember to feed you and the other slaves. You push your hands shakily against the ground as you try to drag yourself as far away from him as possible. An additional brutal strike, and you drift in and out darkness.

'I hope to die this time. Please just let me fucking die.'

It is like this every single week. He beats the Hell out of you until he is satisfied that you have screamed and bled enough, and then he uses you raw. The only reason you have suddenly become his girl of choice is because his last favorite was thrown into the street just a few weeks ago, presumably dead.

You did not doubt that you were next.

'Escape. Escape. Escape.' This is your other lifeline. Retreating into the recesses of your mind. Memory. Dreams.

You have one precious, intact memory that you cling to for times like this; you are back at home, tending the garden with who you believe to be either your mother, or maybe an older sister, and are enjoying the birdsong and warmth of springtime. The stone path is punctuated with patches of plush clover after every rock. Clusters of defiant daffodils rear their golden heads, proud and bright, and there were spatters of fuchsia alongside the tulips whose petals were a blazing mix of red and canary yellow.

You both work hard to keep it so beautiful.

You try to remember what the touch of sunshine feels like, what fresh air smells like. You dream of the taste of strawberry tea, of the satisfying chill of the liquid running down the back of your throat.

With a glance back at the spatters of fuchsia, your favorite, and you notice that they glisten as if drenched in dew. But...you do not remember them having such a deep red hue. You reach down to touch them, and they smear wetly over your fingertips. Your heart drops into your stomach. They are no longer flowers.

Blood.

It is all you can taste and smell now.

Your rage roils, towering and corrosive and hot. Everything has been taken from you. And now, this bastard has even found a way to taint, to DEFILE your memories.

You hear a loud thud that shakes the floor; something huge and heavy crashes in front of you. You jolt with a start, bringing you back to yourself. It thrashes and bellows, and you realize it is the client. Had he landed on you he would have broken several of your bones, if not crushed you to death.

'Did he trip? Or have a heart attack?'

You don't give two shits what the circumstances are. Now is your chance. You snarl with all the fury of a feral animal fighting its way out of a corner, and fling out your right hand, curling your fingers into claws and you rake downward over what you hope to be his eyes with every ounce of strength you have. You bare your teeth with dark malice as you feel warm moisture bloom under your fingertips, and his flesh gathers under your nails. A tiny spark of victory trickles into your veins when an agonized scream reaches your ears.

'I made that fucker bleed!'

A roar tears through your snarled jaws, a guttural and visceral sound and you rip at him and fumble in the darkness with a wild desperation, hungry to feel more of his flesh rend under your claws.

Your blood turns, like the filth at the bottom of a lake being stirred to muddy the waters of your spirit.

'I'll rip you apart and paint the walls with your blood!'

"Please, calm...self... It's all right...my protec..."

There is a voice cutting through the buttery thickness of the smell of blood and tears and chaos, but with your ears ringing and blood thrumming in your head, his words are broken sounds you cannot fully translate, but his tone is calming and is the first male voice you have ever heard that spoke tenderly and with kindness. It somewhat dampens the blistering ire charging through your veins, and you feel gloved hands gently tug under your ribs as you are slowly pulled away from your abuser.

"Shhh... you're safe."

'No, I'm not done with that fucker! Not until I-' The grossly overweight client is tossed aside out of your reach effortlessly, as though he is no heavier than a sack of cotton; your defender is inhumanly strong and had the monster not been stopped, he surely would have clubbed you to death with his fists.

Through your watery vision, you can vaguely make out that there is a dark shape towering over you, but it was much thinner than your assailant.

Whoever this is, he saved you. You decide will not fight whatever follows next. You are too tired; your body is shutting down, and you feel yourself break out into a cold sweat. You begin to tremble uncontrollably as you rapidly descend into shock.

'I...I can't see...' The peripheral of your eye that wasn't swollen shut darkens.

You hear the distorted warble of raised voices as you sink and resurface in the inky black sea of unconsciousness, and you feel as though you are floating. Your savior lifts you into the air and holds you securely in strong, warm arms. He smells of button shiner, petrichor and amber. It is comforting, and it reminds you of the garden after spring rain. Your head rolls limply and your arms hang loosely at your sides as he carries you into the night.

Before that, you remember nothing.

Phantom voices come and go, skipping like stones over the black lake of your consciousness as you fade in and out of coherency.

"Do not repair ... memory...Do what...must with the rest, but I expect a blank slate."

"But Se-....said to....

"I do not care what... sa-....to do. You will...."

"Yes, Lor-"

"...wounds are severe, the potions...only do so m-"

"She'll live. I've made su-"

The sun glares bright and beautiful overhead. The garden sparkles, glittery and wet with morning dew. You are gathering berries, your fingers carefully plucking the little clusters of black pearls from between the thorns arming the wiry stems. Your digits quickly stain with a deep purple, and you pause occasionally to lick the sweet but tart juices off. The wicker basket on your arm grows pleasantly heavy, and quickly; this year yields a bountiful crop. You hope to make jams and pies with them to sell.

It's a lovely day. The meadowlarks call to one another and butterflies swim through the air, their wings like little fragments of stained glass. You watch one flutter by, charmed by the sweet serenade of the creamy yellow blossoms decorating the vines of honey suckle that have grown to stretch and weave around the rough wooden gate. Her delicate little feet land on the silky petals and her proboscis unfurls to gather nectar.

This is your favorite time of year. It's bathes you in golden warmth and everything all around thrums, bright and colorful with new life.

Your fingers are slippery, causing you to drop a berry- it rolls in a circle within an impression stamped into the damp earth. You bend at the waist to pick it up, and... your brow knits.

The impression it has landed in... it is natural, and yet, it is not. It is an animal track of some sort, but it is massive, and unlike anything you have ever seen. The pad of its paw spans larger than the breadth of your palm, and it is crowned by four rounded toes.

You have seen many creature tracks in your lifetime, but none quite like this. This...

This belongs to a colossal predator.

A man-eater.

The wooden splinter of a twig snap cracks from the treeline behind you. Your heart plummets.

---

You gasp and stir lightly, awakening to feel something soft and plush beneath you. Your fingers curl into it and you unconsciously press your nose in. It smells fresh and of clean linen; it isn't musty like your old pallet of a bed, which was composed of scratchy old blankets. As you come to life, you realize you are in an unfamiliar bed with new sheets, something you have not seen or felt in ages.

'Where am I?'

You shift and feel a fluffy pillow under your face. A pillow! You have not had such a thing since... Hell, you cannot even remember. You nuzzle into the item of luxury and doze off and on, drifting in and out of dreamless grogginess. You become dimly aware of the low tones of voices in the room and muted clattering from a nearby presence. Other than that, it is eerily quiet. This place is absent of the usual screams of pain and groans of the brothel you were enslaved in.

Someone is here. But where 'here' is, you don't know.

You are afraid to awaken fully and see who you belong to now.

Whether twenty minutes or twenty-four hours have passed, you cannot be sure. But when the weight of someone settles next to you on the bed, and you can no longer ignore what is happening around you.

Instinctively, you cringe, waiting to be slapped awake.

Nothing happens.

Hesitantly, you crack open your eyes, to slowly and cautiously peek at who invades your space. You let out a breath you don't even realize you are holding as your bleary gaze sketches out that it is a female, around your age, give or take a few years. Relief immediately washes over you.

The girl is kind faced, with golden hair and is finely dressed as a maid.

She is holding a steaming bowl of food on a tray and she timidly watches you from her peripheral. There is a shadow, a shroud haunting just behind the blue of her eyes. You recognize it.

You have seen it in the mirror, in your own reflection. It is shallowly buried hatred. Pain. Fear. The wariness of prey that has narrowly escaped being devoured, and still bears the scars.

'They hurt you too.'

"Is it alright if I look at you?" The maid whispers.

You slowly nod. To anyone else this may pose as a strange question, but you know all too well what it means. You and the other brothel workers had been trained not to make eye contact with the clients unless it is demanded of you. To do so without permission could result in a slap or worse. This maid must have, at some point, been in the same position you were just freed from.

You look back at her, meeting her cerulean eyes and an inkling of familiarity in the back of your mind prickles to suggest that you know her somehow.

"I'm glad you pulled through. Are you hungry?" The maid asks. She holds out a bite of stew on a spoon to you and you nod again, and open your mouth in robotic obedience. If you don't eat when told, it may be days before you taste anything but blood or bodily fluids on your tongue.

The seasoned meat, buttery potatoes and robust juices taste so good that you want to cry. You did not have the privilege of eating cooked food at the brothel. You were fed bread and dried meat to keep you as thin and weak as possible. To keep you from fighting back. You swallow it with effort, as your throat is still bruised from nearly being strangled to death a week ago.

"Th-thank you." Was all that left your mouth before you feel your sinuses swell and sting with an oncoming wave of tears. You break down and sob uncontrollably. The maid slowly wraps her arms around you, taking care not to startle you in your state of fragility. She holds you, and to your surprise, cries with you.

---

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.

"You remember! Yes, I... I was there too." Her expression dims a bit at the reminder, and you cannot help but feel guilty. "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.

"W-who saved you? And m-me?" You ask, and are told that Sebas, the Butler of Nazarick, has been kind enough to rescue 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, 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 much faster than it would be without it.

But still, it is slow.

When you were trying to sleep yesterday, you overheard Tuare meekly ask a woman 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 assures you, 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.

Where is Nazarick? You glance around. This place doesn't look like the typical doom and gloom of a Tomb. 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 the only one which looks 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. Places like this are only heard of in talk from knights who are in the guilds.

"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 decides not to let me stay?'

"Sh-shit, me too. I d-don't have anywhere to go." You admit.

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

"How did you 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 guides you to the bathroom, and as 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, warm water rains down into the 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 feels 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 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, about three months 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 color, and had also plumped. While your skin was still pale, now it has a dim 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 are useful enough not to be sent away.

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. "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 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. Tuare hands you a feather duster.

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 pushe 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 creatures 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 quite clumsily, and stumble a bit.

'Damn it.'

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

A lingering sense of unease latches on when Tuare disappears down the hall and turns into 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 smells of wood polish and lemon, as if it were just wiped down this morning.

'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 better than not.

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

You also sweep the dust that is collecting is the little grooves of the intricate wall molding that stretches up from the baseboards.

Okay. Maybe it was 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 gain confidence, you hear light footfalls behind you. At first, 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...' Anxiety blooms in your chest, constricting the air in your lungs.

A man. A dauntingly tall man.

He is broad of shoulder and dresses sharply in a vermilion pinstripe suit, his hair dark and slicked back into jagged points. His features are sharp 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 flashed 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.

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 high intelligence, and you deduct that he must be a Guardian. The way he carries himself with his hands casually 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 fluidly swaying behind him.

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

'Oh. Shit.'

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

If any of the Guardians wanted you dead, it would certainly be him.

He continues his path towards you.

You do not simply bow; no, he is far more intimidating than what a bow of respect requires. You drop to your knees and lower her head in an attempt to make yourself as small and insignificant as possible.

The Devil glances your way and momentarily quirks an eyebrow, seemingly somewhat taken aback by your respectful gesture.

As far as humans knew and were concerned, Demiurge possesses the power of a God (or in his case, a Devil) and they should respect and fear him as no less, which this lowly insect clearly understands. Of the many encounters he has had with the much weaker race, never did they bow; if they didn't try to foolishly fight him, they typically only stand clear of his path or flee in terror. Thanks to Sebas, he never gets more than a lowered head out of Tuare. He loves that this one kneels to the ground at the mere sight of him, and he has not even uttered a word to her.

Demiurge passed the human by. His inhumanly acute hearing could detect her racing pulse, and he could smell fear screaming from her every pore. A vicious grin spreads across his face, sharpening his features.

"You may now stand." He said without turning to her as he reached the end of the hallway. His voice has a steel edge but flows like buttery silk, and is also empowered by a passive skill. This skill is called Command Mantra, and it can instantly turn the weak-minded into puppets dancing on his strings. However, he knows he does not have to waste this power on the girl, as she seems completely submissive to him. She will no doubt obey.

You are taken by surprise, and jolt when he speaks; you didn't think he would deem you worthy to waste words on. But you do as you are told, and cautiously stand, and straighten your maid's dress.

"Th-thank you, Master." You say quietly. You are trained to address your clients and any male you encounter as Master, or so you were when in the brothel. To give them the impression of submissiveness and complete control often prevents 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.

'Master'.

Demiurge absolutely loves the sound of that.

After turning the corner where shecannot not see him, he chuckles to himself. The Arch Devil relishes how terrified humans are of him, and he lives off their fear and submissiveness to his power. And this little female seems to be an especially submissive one. Oh, how Demiurge likes this. Always the one to bow before Lord Ainz, he had someone bowing before him for a change. He would very much be looking forward to their next encounter.

Over the next few days this becomes routine. He takes the same path in the hallway as always, and when crossing hers, she kneels to him, and lower her head until he gives her permission to rise. He takes great pleasure in how her heart rate sky-rockets in his presence, how she freezes and then falls to her knees as though he is Lord Ainz himself. And how she stinks of fear around him greatly appeals to the predator in him. He feels her wary gaze on his back as he passes by, and knows her eyes are transfixed on his weapon of a tail as he turns the next corner.

While you are undoubtedly afraid of and tremendously intimidated by the red clad demon, he is...interesting to look at, to say the least. No man you have ever laid eyes on looks quite like him; as most of the men dress in protective armor, or at least brandish some sort of weapon. The fact that he dresses elegantly like a gentleman and wears no physical protection (his tail was deadly looking enough) tells you he can not only very well take care of himself, but is a force to be reckoned with.

As an Archfiend, he is dangerous, and you know you should be nothing but terrified of him...but you cannot help but to find that forbidden factor appealing. You are oddly attracted to him, not only to his refined yet edgy appearance, but his confidence and thinly veiled power is truly enticing.

You assist Tuare in the kitchen the following afternoon, and join her for lunch in the maid's quarters to bring her up to speed on how well you are faring.

"I can't thank you enough for helping me. I'm actually starting to feel more...human again. And I think I actually like it here." You say before taking a bite of your salad.

"Of course! I'm always happy to help. I'm glad to see you are adjusting well. This place can certainly take some getting used to, especially with us being the only humans." Tuare replied. "Have you seen Sebas or any of the other Guardians since you have been here?"

"I... actually can't remember what Sebas looks like." You shake your head lightly as you try to remember. "I try every day, and sometimes I remember bits of my life before the brothel, but I still don't remember how I ended up there."

Tuare puts her hand over your from across the table and squeezes reassuringly. "It's okay if you don't remember yet. I can reintroduce you to him tomorrow. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

You nod, and then continue. "But I think I did see one. He was kind of scary, but...attractive?" You try to find the right words. "I bowed like you said, and he permitted me to rise after he passed by. I've seen him a few times, and he always allows me to stand afterwards."

"He actually spoke to you?" Tuare seems genuinely surprised. "The Guardians rarely speak to me. Even after Lord Ainz granted me protection, I'm still treated as an outsider. Only Sebas really sees us as worthy of respect. It must have been him! What did he look like?"

You unconsciously bite at your lip to hide a shy smile as you remember.

"He was tall...and handsome. He wore a vermilion suit and red tie and had long, sharp ears. A tail too. He was intimidating, but I have never seen such a handsome face before. You know how unattractive all of our clients wer-" Your words die on your tongue when you see Tuare's face pale and her eyes widen in shock.

"You saw Lord Demiurge?!" Tuare whispers, as though she fears he may overhear her. "The Arch Devil?"

"Um...if that is his name, then yes." You confirm. "Is-is that bad?"

"He is the Guardian of the 7th Floor. The Commander of Defenses. When I first arrived here, Sebas and Lord Ainz were deciding what to do with me, Sebas said Demiurge had suggested killing me outright as a means of preventing information of Nazarick from leaking to the outside world." Tuare admits, and keeps her voice low. "He isn't...well, it's probably an understatement to say he is not fond of humans. He sees them as no more than toys or tools."

"...Shit." Is all you can say, and you swallow around a nervous lump in your throat.

"Sorry, I'm not trying to scare you, but I'm really surprised he spoke to you. I would definitely be very careful around him. He's dangerous." Tuare cautions you.

You nod to show that you understand. Tuare is quiet for a while, and then changes the subject, but you have trouble focusing on whatever Tuare is talking about for the remainder of your lunch.

You are on edge for the rest of the shift when you have to finish dusting your designated area. To your relief, you do not see the demon that day.

The following day, Demiurge is passing through the hallway as his presence was requested in the throne room, and again he found himself crossing paths with the human as she hummed to herself, performing her dusting duties. He stepped silently this time, so she did not see nor hear his approach. The demon paused when he was less than 6 inches away from her. He took this opportunity to take in her appearance. For a human female, she was rather pretty. Not as physically stunning as the succubus Albedo of course, but aesthetically pleasing nonetheless. The long, golden hair that hung loosely in waves around her shoulders and fell in tresses down her back smelled sweet, like honey, undoubtedly from helping Tuare cook pastries in the kitchen. He noticed her skin was unusually pale from spending the majority of her life indoors, and frame slender; he knew this to be because they were given little nutrition to keep them thin while imprisoned at the brothel. Bruises still dapple her exposed arms and neck but are gradually fading with the passing of time.

You turn with your feather duster in hand, and upon seeing his towering form standing before you, you promptly drop it with a start and your voice flees your throat. Beyond startled, you fall to your knees and start to lower your head.

He bends at the waist and catches your chin in his black gloved hand before you can drop your head completely, and he raises your face to meet his gaze.

You have to fight the urge to not jump at the unexpected physical contact, and keep your eyes averted from his face, as you were trained to do.

"Look at me, human." He hisses. The Arch Devil's voice carries a venomous chill that makes cold fear trickle over your scalp.

You do as he orders, trembling like a leaf. His gloves were leather and soft, but his fingers within ended in claws that were sharp on your face, and threaten to puncture your flesh. Your gaze meets his and you gasp. Behind the glass of his spectacles in place of eyes, there are what look to be finely polished diamonds, which lacked pupils or sclera, and are intricately cut with countless sparkling facets. Your frightened reflection gapes back at you on the dozens of mirrors of the gems. How he can see is a mystery.

The demon studies her eyes; they glisten with fear, as to be expected. She is questioning his intentions, but dares not speak. Yet she obeys, and her gaze did not yield, despite her obvious terror. She quivered lightly against his touch, but held her ground.

She is ideal for what he sought.

His lips peeled back into a predatory grin, and her eyes widened even further as it exposed his sharp fangs to her.

"I believe I will make you my personal servant." His crystalline orbs glimmered mischievously.

It was within the next hour that you are brought before Ainz Ooal Gown.

You fought your natural instinct to flee like a motherfucker when you saw the Lord.

And the ruler of Nazarick is the most intimidating entity you have ever seen; the colossal undead emperor reclined confidently on his throne; he makes the fact that you think the demon was frightening almost laughable.

He is nothing short of terrifying; an Elder Lich, a sorcerer whose form is that of a 7-foot-tall skeleton clothed in a magnificent black academic robe, edged in violet and gold. The collar seems excessively gaudy, but somehow it fit the overall design. However, his face is a bare ivory skull. Points of dark red light burn like flame in his large eye sockets, and behind that skull glows a halo of black radiance. He is an Overlord; the highest-ranking of magic casters who have become undead in order to learn the most potent spells.

You, the demon and Sebas are gathered before him.

Upon seeing the gray haired and bearded Butler, you instantly recognize him, as a small fragment of your shattered memory slips back into place. His hair is pure white, as is the beard and mustache framing his mouth. However, the old man's back is ramrod-straight, like a sword forged of steel. His face is wrinkled around his eyes with laugh lines which gives you the impression that he is a kind and gentle person, but his intense, steel-grey gaze is like that of a hawk sizing up its prey.

This is your rescuer.

He is stone faced, and dons a black tuxedo suit. But there is an underlying softness and warmth to his eyes; a kindness and mercy just beneath the surface.

Sebas is extremely quiet and still, his lips are pressed into a thin line. Something is wrong.

"I cannot imagine what would possess you to bring yet another human into the walls of Nazarick, Sebas. The ruler rumbles. "After the fiasco it created before, I do hope you had a very good reason."

It is clear he is not particularly pleased by your presence.

"Yes, Lord. Had I not saved her; she would have been beaten to death. The aggressor was the same ma-monster who had nearly killed Tuare. And her fate would have..." He closes his eyes, as though he is struggling to find the right words as he relives what he has witnessed. "I could not in good conscience stand idly by and watch her die." He concludes, tipping his chin upwards, resolute in his belief that he has done the right thing.

Lord Ainz looks somewhat thoughtful for a moment. He can see how affected Sebas was by this. While this is indeed an inconvenience, he is also admittedly impressed; the NPCs are not only moving of their own volition, but seem to be developing emotions that influence their decisions as well.

Sebas has proven his loyalty once before by showing he will obey an order to kill the very human he rescued, so he does not doubt his allegiance in the least. No, this is a matter of the NPCs evolving beyond their programming.

"So, it is because her fate would have been Tuare's? Had you not prevented Tuare's death when she was left in the street to die?" Ainz connects the dots.

"Yes Lord. It is as you say." Sebas agrees. "I apologize for letting my emotions to dictate my actions once again. But that...monster could not be allowed to continue. It was more than a disgrace. It was criminal, what he had done. She is a victim, like Tuare, and not a threat to us in the least. I understand if you cannot allow her to remain here. But my Lord, I implore you to spare her life. Tuare remembers her and has taken to her well, and if I may humbly give my opinion, I think she would fare here even better with another human, a friend to confide in. "

Sebas kneels in a low bow as he pleads for your life.

Ainz decides he wii entertain the idea as this woman was harmless enough and will allow her to remain, but he cannot not further encourage him to continuously bring home every battered human he runs across. As a reprimand, he will not grant her full protection in his name as he has with Tuare.

"So now that she is safe and healed, what do you intend to do with her? We already have one human working in the kitchen." Ainz asks, curious if he has even thought that far ahead.

"I understand this was not protocol, and the security risk that comes with bringing in outsiders, so if you wish it, I will have her memory wiped and will release her in a nearby town, as far away from the brothel as possible. And I will deal with the consequences of my actions, as they were punishable." He says with a submissive bow of his head.

You do not like the sound of that. You have never been on her own, that you can recall, and are just now regaining some of your memories. Now you might lose them again?

What if someone in one of the towns recognizes you and tracks you down and returns you to the brothel?

The Devil steps forward and kneels before the skeletal king, and raises his head. "Most honorable ruler, might I make a somewhat selfish request?"

"You may, Demiurge." Lord Ainz permits as this piques his interest.

"I would like this human as my personal servant. I have watched her clean and deem her competent enough to keep my personal quarters tidy, and having her around would certainly lighten the amount of work placed on Pestonya."

"An excellent idea, Demiurge. And I'm sure as far as Pestonya would be concerned, it is not selfish at all. I grant your request." With that, Lord Ainz seals your fate.

You are partially relieved but also terrified by this decision. It places you in the hands of the demon that Tuare is terrified of.

"My Lord, if I may suggest, I think she would fare better working in the kitchen alongside Tuare." Sebas can no longer stay silent and intervenes. "They already know each other, and I feel she would be more comfortable working with her."

Sebas is well aware of Demiurge's true intentions. Needless to say, as a Devil, they are anything but pure. Demiurge cast an icy glare at the butler, and Sebas' eyes gleam like polished steel.

"Oh? And what skills does she possess in cooking that you are aware of?" Demiurge inquires, a light air of sarcasm just beneath the surface. "She has only proven adequate in cleaning thus far, so-"

"I'm sure with Tuare to guide her, she will learn quickly." Sebas cuts him off, but maintains his composure.

"Enough, you two. I will enact a compromise." Ainz puts an end to their bickering. "She will work in the kitchen when she is finished with her duties on the 7th Floor, and therefore will be most useful to Nazarick. Demiurge, she is now assigned to you."

Sebas visibly bristles, but holds his tongue. He does not dare challenge his master's final decision.

"My most humble thanks for indulging, my Lord." The Arch Devil rises to his feet and bows once more at the waist and he flickers his gaze briefly at the Butler and a sharp and victorious grin creeps over his face.

"And fear not, Sebas. I promise to take excellent care of her." The Arch Devil promises silkily.

You swallow thickly, and see Sebas almost trembling with rage, and watch his hands tighten into fists at his sides, but before the ruler he tries to maintain his resolve.

What you, a lowly human wanted, is meaningless; how you feel about being handed over to the demon is not even discussed. The decision as to what would become of you is over in less than five minutes.

While he allows this second human to stay within the Tomb to keep on good terms with the Butler, Lord Ainz extends his kindness to the nameless maid no further than that, as a means of ensuring Sebas will not make a habit of bringing home strays.

"Come, human, I will guide you to your quarters." The demon saunters towards the exit and clasps his hands behind his back. His tail sways fluidly like a steely serpent gliding through water, and you obediently follow closely behind your new master.

'Tread lightly. Remember what Tuare said.' You remind yourself. 'He is dangerous.'

Seeing as you have no choice in the matter, you try to dilute your anxiety by looking on the bright side; perhaps this is a good thing. You have gained favor with a Guardian, as Tuare did, and hopefully this will help ensure your safety in your new surroundings.

You cast one last glance back at Sebas, who looks ultimately defeated. He eyes fall from yours and to the ground.

But it is that grim look on the Butler's face that prevents you from fully deceiving yourself; he looks as if you were not just granted a new home, but rather sentenced to the guillotine.

Something is very wrong.

It is a long, agonizing walk from the throne room to the 7th Floor. Your feet are killing you by the time you finally reach your destination, and you are thoroughly winded. Demiurge, however, maintains steady breath and has not even broken a sweat.

"Here we are." He shows you into a small but cozy room with a bed, closet, and even your own bathroom complete with your very own shower, which you are absolutely thrilled for.

"I'll allow you to get settled." He says. "And dinner will be delivered at 7pm, as I'm sure you will need this evening to adjust and recover." He concludes, and pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"Thank you, Master." You say and bow, but he does not respond. The demon closes the door behind him and leaves you to your devices.

As soon as he is out of sight, you shuck off her shoes and flop unceremoniously onto the bed. Fuck, you are exhausted. Your body is still not at 100%, and you tire quickly. You slip beneath the covers and take a long and much-needed nap.

The routine of her kneeling as the Arch Devil passed her in the main hall to the entrance of the 7th floor continued over the next month, and they grew somewhat accustomed to one another's presence.

He was civil and polite, and mostly kept to himself. The only words exchanged between Demiurge and the maid over the next few weeks were a curt 'thank you' when she brought him food or drink, him giving her permission to rise, and her thanking him. She did, however, do her job well, keeping everything from the floors to the furniture spotless and free of dust and dirt. The only area she was not to clean was beyond the colossal twin doors which separated the expanse of volcanic grounds and magma from his office and personal quarters where he worked and slept. She took pride in her work, but never received any praise from her assigned Lord.

She was still extremely intimidated by him, and every once in a while, she would notice him staring at her with the sharp, cold-blooded gaze of a wolf. Like he was waiting for her to run, so he would have a reason chase her. An excuse to sink his fangs into her flesh.

But despite those fleeting moments of unease and fear, she still found herself looking forward to their brief interactions on a daily basis, as the 7th floor was quite lonely; and only Pestonya, the dog-headed maid would appear once every two weeks to do a brief sweep of the area. Her work load was stretched across three other floors. Due to how busy she was (or perhaps because she was an unwanted and out-of-place human) she wasn't very chatty and she still found that only Demiurge and Tuare would really speak to her, making her feel extremely isolated.

Time passed quickly now, evaporating like morning dew in the blinding light of the sun.

For a time, it seems like Demiurge has simply moved you to a different section of the Tomb. You do not understand why Sebas had made such a big deal about being assigned to the Guardian of the 7th Floor, though you suspect he must have his reasons. The Arch Devil appears to be a quiet master and isn't cruel or abusive, as far as you can tell.

You have been instructed by Pestonya to respectfully address him as Lord, Lord Demiurge, or Master. A reasonable enough request for your situation. Demiurge, however addresses you as "you" or "human".

He never called her anything else.

One day you were dusting the hallway to the 7th Floor, humming to yourself.

"When you finish up here, I would like you to clean my personal chamber." He requests.

You jump out of your skin and your stomach somersaults into your throat, and you damn near dropped the feather duster as you didn't hear him coming.

Fuck, it was so unnerving how silent he can be when he wants to. Like the ghost of a stalking panther, you never hear his approach.

"...Yes, master." You say before you swallow thickly, and turn towards him. You briefly glance up at him, and then promptly drop your gaze. You are gradually learning to look him in his startling gemstone eyes, as your new master preferred.

The Arch Devil stifles a laugh, his lips curling in amusement to reveal his pearly-white fangs.

"You seem to be rather nervous. Do I frighten you?" He teasingly asks as he steps closer to you, narrowing the distance between you to a mere three inches.

You draw a sharp breath as he invades your space, and...

'Oh. Oh, he smells good...' Like wildfire, dark spice and sandalwood.

You feel like you are shrinking beneath his shadow. He is dauntingly tall at six foot two, and radiates a dark shroud of evil and untold power.

Hell yes, he frightens you. But he also excites you. He's so attractive, and dangerous...sexy.

When it came to romance or flirting, you are fucking clueless. They did not teach such things in the brothel. Only how to either lie still and let the clients have their way, or how to obey sexual commands.

Will he be angry if you admit that he absolutely scares the shit out of you, but you do secretly enjoy admiring him from afar?

Probably.

It is safer to lie. So, you do.

"...N-no." You whisper, meekly looking up at his towering form. He is at least two heads taller than you, maybe three. You have to crane your neck back just to meet his eyes.

His eyes narrow and mouth quirks into leer as he regards her shaky response. Under the menace of his relentless diamond gaze, you are paralyzed.

Frozen like a rabbit being hungrily eyed by a wolf.

Demiurge unexpectedly grabs you by the shoulder and fist your golden locks tightly with his other hand. You yelp in shock as he roughly yanks your head back, exposing your throat and he lunges forward.

'He's going to tear my throat out!'

He brings his face down into the crook of your neck and inhale deeply. You still.

"You aren't a very good liar." He hisses in your ear; his voice is silk but thread with steel. "And you reek of fear."

The demon's tongue flicks out in a brief lick against your flesh, sending your senses reeling in a downward spiral.

"I can even taste it; it is so strong." His heated breath spills over your skin and you shudder.

You tremble in his iron grasp, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end as your face goes numb with both fear and... something else which you cannot identify. You breathe hard and fast through your nose.

"I strongly advise against lying to me. Because chances are, I will know the truth." And with that, he suddenly releases you and saunters away.

For at least three minutes you were numb; frozen in place like a deer in the headlights. Your heart was hammering hard against your rib cage and chilly, nervous sweat trickles down you neck. Your breath coarsely stutters from your lungs as you realize you are alive, and he has not hurt you.

But you were so sure he was going to strangle you.

The predatory intent in his voice and gestures shakes you to your very core. He is more animal than man; he holds a powerful and violent demeanor wrapped in a thin veil of composure.

Now you are absolutely terrified to enter his quarters alone, but you have no choice.

'Just do it. Go in, clean, and get out.'

When you shakily finish dusting the hallway, you used a trembling hand to quietly knock on the large twin doors to his quarters, and hope like Hell he won't answer. But he does, and he grants you permission to enter. You hesitantly step inside to find him reclined in a chair with a parchment scroll unfurled in his hand, quietly reading. His armor-plated tail twitches restlessly behind him.

You kneel to him, and he permits you to rise with an elegant gesture of his hand, and as you do, you take in your surroundings.

At first it appears to be a fairly normal room- but as your eyes scan over every surface, you notice-

'Holy shit.'

...there are skulls and bones, inhuman and human, everywhere. On the dressers and desk, displayed on the wall, and just about anywhere there is free space. You gulp and then notice upon closer inspection that the very chair he is reclined in as he looks over a scroll, seemingly preoccupied, is entirely constructed of artistically arranged spines, ribs and femurs.

Every fiber of your being screams at you to run from this place, but you know that is the worst thing to possibly do in the presence of predator.

'You can do this. You had better do this and do well. Your life may depend on it.'

You take a brief moment to compose yourself and once you steel nerves, you go to work dusting every surface of the furniture and the morbid decorations of creature remains. You struggle not to tremble like a leaf as you gaze into the hollow eye sockets of the human skulls that seem to emptily stare back at you.

You cannot help but to wonder if they are the remnants of servants who have met their fate after failing or offending him in one way or another.

As you walk past a dresser, your foot sticks to the wooden floor. You have stepped in something tacky- you look down to see a large, dark stain on the wooden floor, possibly a spilled black coffee.

You thought this was odd- someone as proper as your Master does not seem to fit the type to leave such a mess.

"I would like you to scrub that before you leave." The demon politely requests, and you jolt hard.

Your back is to him, but you easily can imagine the grin that stretches across his face when he no doubt sees you jerk with a start.

"Yes, master." You slip off your shoes so as not to track the mystery stain, and breathe a sigh of relief at the opportunity to step out of the graveyard to retrieve a bucket of water and a scrub brush, even if it is for just a few precious minutes.

Once outside his quarters, you breathe raggedly and rapidly, your heart races uncontrollably as your composure temporarily crumbles. You made haste to the maid's supply closet to collect the necessary cleaning supplies. It is extremely tempting to hide out in there, but if he really can smell your fear, you know he will find you in no time, and worse, you'd be cornered.

You quickly but reluctantly return and kneel in preparation to scrape at the stain.

You are too afraid to look at him as you clean, should you catch his intimidating gaze on you, so you keep your gaze averted.

To your horror, now that you are closer to it, the soured coppery smell and deep burgundy color make it frighteningly obvious that this is not a spilled coffee as you initially thought, but actually a blood stain, maybe a week old. And by the size of it, someone has died. It has not even been wiped, and you wonder if he has left it there intentionally, as a reminder that it can just as easily be yours if you fuck up somehow.

'Don't think about it, just clean it and leave.'

You dip the stiff-bristled scrub brush into the bucket of soapy water and crouch down on your hands and knees. It smells like death, and you fight the urge to gag. You scrub what you can as you face him, but to complete the job, you will have to have your back to him. There is only so much you can get from one direction as it is oddly placed and collided with a baseboard.

'Fuck.' You hesitantly turn the opposite way.

Demiurge is observing her from the corner of his eye, as she hurries around with a feather duster, flicking it over the various surfaces delicately like a little bird, occasionally glancing his way but terrified to make eye contact. She is obviously eager to flee, but still manages to do a thorough job and knows better than to shirk her tasks.

Good. Efficient, if nothing else.

But that maid's uniform which was two sizes too small is sweet torture.

He watches and wonders what it may feel like to pull her into his lap to feel her curves beneath the thin lace and ruffles...but then she gets down on all fours to scrub at the stain. He expects her to face him the entire time out of fear of taking her eyes off of him, but no. She does the complete opposite, much to his surprise and pleasure.

Demiurge sees her maid's dress hike up as she is facing away from him, carelessly scrubbing away; he then holds his breath when he notices her underwear was practically nonexistent- a mere scrap of lace. The demon watches intently with heated interest; his carnivorous stare unblinking, like a shark's. She leans further downward and scrapes the spot harder, and unbeknownst to her, she is treating him to a fabulous view of her ass, framed in white silk ruffles and bare except for where her black garter straps bisected each cheek from the tops of her stockings to the connect with the hidden belt. The thought of pinning her down and mercilessly fucking her on all fours in that position flits through his naturally sinful mind, but he exercises self-control. Instead he licks his lips, and grinned a wolfish grin.

All in good time.