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After peeling the last potato, you dump and change out the water they are soaking in, then wash your hands. With a sigh, you hang up your apron to step out of the kitchen, only to instantly collide with Sebas.

You bounce off the solid wall of his body and stumble back, barely regaining your footing.

"I-I'm so sorry!" You stammer as you stare up at him, and icy panic floods your veins.

What if he sees the marks on your neck? He's going to want to know what happened, then he will learn you tried to steal, and if Lord Ainz finds out what you did, you will surely be thrown out.

His steely eyes search your face, seemingly reading your fear like a book. Everything is happening in slow motion, and you can hear your heart drumming in your ears. The Butler opens his mouth to say something, most likely to apologize for bumping into you.

But what if he instead asks how the bruises got there?

'Run.'

Not knowing what else to do, you whirl around and bolt for the Seventh Floor as fast as your legs can carry you.

You fly down the corridor and the torches lining the walls blare with the gust of your stride. The risk of running into Greed doesn't even occur to you until reach the common room, where you collapse against the wall, panting and winded.

'What am I going to do? I can't keep lying and running away.' You undoubtedly left Sebas puzzled thanks to your fight-or-flight response.

You have to find a way to hide the marks on your neck- to Hell with what Demiurge said. The make-up will run out eventually, and you would prefer to not use it all within this week alone. Perhaps there is a spell that can make them disappear?

As far as you know you are not magically inclined, but how hard can it be? Your gaze falls upon the bookshelf.

Maybe you can find some answers within one of the books...

You peruse them until one in particular catches your eye_._ Gold leaf has been inlaid within the carved curling vines and spade-shaped leaves adorning the spine.

You unwedge it from between two thick, leatherbound volumes. It lacks a title, which you think to be odd, so you open it up to leaf through the pages.

A watercolor painting of a reptilian, winged creature seems to leap off the page. A frog-like face with bright red eyes grins back at you, flashing a mouthful of pointed fangs. Beneath it is a caption that reads 'Half-imp form'. Demons and imps, while appearing mostly human upon first glance, have a 'true form', and can take on many shapes and sizes, depending on class. The true form of a demon is typically that of an apex predator or a chimera of different species, giving them the deadliest features of each creature, such as the teeth of a piranha, the wings of a bat and claws of a hawk (see the depiction above).

You turn the page to see a snarling tiger with yellowed saber fangs and eyes that gleam with an eerie intelligence, much like the painting in the Great Hall... and from your dreams. His fur burns fire bright among pillars of flame.

It makes you wonder what shape Demiurge's 'true form' takes. You imagine him to be this fearsome tiger or perhaps even a silvery serpent with his persuasive tongue, his handsomely humanoid face merely a mask for a cold-blooded creature lurking just beneath the surface.

You flip the page again.

'Hypersensitive skin'. Demons possess three times as many nerve endings in their bodies as other heteromorphs. Because of this, they can be easily overstimulated and often wear layers of clothes as protection.

Is this why Demiurge wears a full suit and gloves, leaving no flesh exposed but his face? Because his skin is so sensitive? You decide to store that information in your back pocket for later.

Footsteps and voices echo from down the corridor.

'Shit.'

You close the book and shove it back into place on the shelf, then tiptoe to your room, where you slowly sit on the bed and try to look as innocent as possible, hopeful in that he hasn't heard you.

"...supposedly has information as to who used the World Item on Shalltear." A woman states. The conversation is faint, but draws closer.

"Excellent. Has the human been captured?" Demiurge asks.

"Yes. Malphas will be delivering him shortly."

"In one piece, I hope? He will be useless with his vocal cords torn out."

Your stomach somersaults at the visceral imagery that comment evokes. 'They captured a human?!'

"We assume_._ Though I will not be surprised if he is sporting more than a few bite marks." The woman laughs.

"Neither will I." The Devil chuckles. "I suppose I can surgically repair any damages done, as I would prefer not to waste a healing potion on a human we intend to dispose of afterwards."

"I agree. " It is then that you recognize her voice; it is the blonde woman who denied Tuare a stronger potion during your recovery. Though she appeared to be human, you now believe her to also be some sort of demon in disguise. "Shall I {message} you when Malphas arrives?"

"Yes, I would appreciate it. Thank you, Solution. Please inform the Neuronist that I will have the prisoner delivered to her for interrogation once the necessary repairs have been made."

You hear one set of footsteps click away, but the other lingers, shuffles about, and then stalks down the hall towards you.

Of course, Demiurge can smell fear, and after running away from the Butler earlier, you're rife with it. You know then and there that you will never be able to hide from him.

Breath hitches in your throat, and icy fear trickles over your scalp.

"Why are you here in your room, Pet?" The Devil calls before even turning the corner. "There is still work to be done."

You see no point in lying. The Shadow Demon likely already reported all which transpired.

"I- I ran into Sebas." You mutter numbly as he saunters in, avoiding eye contact for the moment.

"And?" He cocks his head with an impatient sway of his tail.

"I... I was afraid he would see the marks on my neck." Your fingers anxiously curl into the frilly skirt of your uniform. "What if he asked what- what happened, and- what if he tells Lord Ainz I tried to steal? He'll throw me out-"

"Pet." Demiurge cuts you off. "I will tell no one what you have done, nor will you be obligated to, so long as you never do it again."

"R-really? You won't?" You glance at him, admittedly stunned, as you were under the impression that he would hold this over your head as leverage.

Hell, he still may. But his voice is so sincere that you actually believe him to be telling the truth.

"I fully expected you to make poor choices at first. I cannot fault you for being frightened and out of your own element; you are merely human, after all. So no, I will not tell anyone." He promises, and then crosses the room to stand before you.

"However," Gently, he cups your chin to make you look him in the eye. "I do expect better from you, from this point forward."

"Um... okay. But..."

"But...?" Demiurge raises a brow and waits for you to continue.

You battle the rising swell of emotion within you, swallowing down the hard lump forming in your throat. Steeling your resolve, you wrangle it into a sheen of tears that threaten to fall.

Wiping your eyes, you ask "What do I do about the marks? If Sebas asks? I mean-"

The Devil's eyes narrow, making your stomach clench in fear. Plastering on your best pleading face, you bite your lip and then shift your gaze away from him and down to your feet.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. I'm just..." Your voice wavers. "...just afraid."

Even if there is nothing you can do to absolve yourself of the grievous errors you've made that landed you in this position, it is cathartic to speak freely.

But the Devil only sighs in exasperation, the crease of his brow attesting that his patience is wearing thin.

He turns on his heel to leave, and you hear him stroll down the corridor and pull open the doors to his quarters.

A few minutes later, he returns and what the demon brandishes makes a numbness spread through you. A thick, black leather collar with a silver O ring soldered to a platinum plate on the front.

'Damn it.' Rather than pushing the matter, you should have simply let it go.

"Turn around and lift your hair." He softly instructs. Much to your dismay, you have no choice but to comply. Slowly, you turn your back to the most deadly of predators, and gather your locks into your hands.

He reaches around you, and you instinctively tense as he fastens his heavy symbol of ownership into place.

"He will not question you about this." Demiurge says, and you hear a smile of cruel delight in his voice. "You are to shower and sleep with it; the leather has been treated to be waterproof, and it is charmed to soften for comfort when you lie down. However, only I shall remove it."

Ire and regret roils hot and black in your core. You should have just put on more makeup, and to Hell with the consequences. The silver lining is that the marks are now hidden, though with the weight of the collar around your throat, the bright side is dim at best.

"Thank you, Master." His hands pull away as you hollowly express false gratitude, and allow your hair to fall in a cascade of golden waves down your back.

"That's a good girl. Now, I will grant you a short ten-minute break to gather your wits, but I expect you to complete your tasks today without incident."

Why is he suddenly being so affable? Either he's in a good mood, or he's up to something.

'One is just as likely as the other.'

"And just to be clear, this includes NOT accosting my associates." He adds with an edge of teeth, and you blush. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master." You whisper, and swallow. "I'm sorry."

Demiurge leaves without another word.

---

"I suggest you come quietly with me."

But as Malphas fully expected, his human target and his comrades would do anything but. Instead, they share a hearty, condescending laugh among themselves.

The Devil had tracked him to the outskirts of a village and patiently waited for him and his friends to leave the local tavern, from which they later emerged inebriated.

Of course, he could have saved himself some time by storming in and dragging his target out into the street kicking and screaming, but he did not doubt such a brazen capture would have resulted in multiple bystanders stepping in and being hurt in the process.

And unlike Demiurge, he makes an effort to keep the body count to a minimum if possible.

"I dunno who or whadafuck you even are, but we aren't goin' anywhere but to tha brothel." The burliest of the three humans slurs, his breath reeking of alcohol. He is a balding man with thick stubble, and built short and squatty like a bulldog. He sways, leaning into his pointing finger, and stumbles.

Malphas raises a brow. This one clearly cannot hold his liquor.

"Oh, but you are. You are likely too drunk to realize it, but I'm offering you and your friend an opportunity to leave with your lives. It is only him that I want." Malphas says, nodding to the man in the middle. "And you-" His nostrils flare as he catalogues the various scents on his clothes. "you have a woman and cubs at home, and if you do not want to leave her a widow with two mouths to feed, you will walk. Now."

Even in the gauzy light of the full moon and nearby torches, Malphas can see as his face goes from ruddy to pale at the mention of his family, but he stubbornly holds his ground.

'Idiot.' The Devil's patience is wearing thin.

He who possesses the sturdiest of nerves, presumably the leader of the group, draws his sword.

"If anyone needs to walk out of here, it's you. You aren't taking Jasper or any of us anywhere."

Malphas' claws fully extend to their length of three inches, and his eyes thaw from glacier blues to fiery gold. Slowly, the steely coils resting around his waist begin to shift and unwind like a serpent awakening, and he watches raw fear collectively dawn over their faces. Upon first glance, humans believe it to be but an odd belt of sorts.

Mankind is remarkably unobservant of the little things. The Devil's in the details, so to speak.

"Your decision is most unfortunate." The demon sighs, and terminates the spell, allowing his dark aura to spill full force into the space between them. He can instantly hear the hair on their arms prickle beneath their sleeves, and their hearts quicken as the sixth sense prey possesses roars in alarm from the looming apex predator.

"W- we ain't scared. You might be a freak, but there's three of us and only one' a... w- whatever the Hell you are." The armed man with the sword sneers, then charges.

Spinning in a rapid twist, Malphas dodges his lunge. The spikes of his tail crash into the gang member's back with all of the unforgiving force of a morning star mace, and a sickening crack rings out as the man's sword falls from his hand to nosedive into the earth, then he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. Malphas' aim is impeccable- his enemy's spine has been severed.

A quicker death than he likely deserves.

"Last chance." Malphas growls to the drunk as he rips his tail from his comrade's carcass, slinging a crimson arc of blood over their shoes.

This time, the fool wisely bolts, tripping over his own feet in the process. The Devil's target, however, is frozen in fear from the visceral scene, his eyes bulging and mouth hanging wide open.

"Now... Jasper, is it? If you will come with me, my brother would like to ask you a few questions. If you do not give me any trouble and are truthful with him, then you just may-"

Jasper makes a mad dash for the treeline.

Malphas pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in exasperation.

"Damn it." So much for diplomacy.

Casually trailing him, the demon strolls to the edge of the woods, sheds his tailcoat and unbuttons his shirt, then drapes his clothes over a high branch, out of reach from human hands.

Like ink blots bleeding through cloth, the suggestion of stripes begin to decorate his complexion and ivory canines elongate to push past his lips. Dropping onto all fours, he erupts into a pillar of fire that scorches the clouds, casting a scarlet glow over the trees and birthing a host of dancing shadows. Tongues of flame spiral away from his body in pinwheels of ember spats, revealing his true form- a colossal black tiger with eyes of molten gold.

Stretching into his new shape, he yawns, allowing his tongue to unfurl from its cage of jagged fangs. Lifting his head to scent the air, he hears a cloud pass overhead, wrapping the moon in a curtain of royal blue, and granting him the perfect veil of darkness.

A rumble like distant thunder rolls through his chest, and he melts into the night, silent as the forest holding its breath.

He stalks low in the underbrush; the air above is thick with lingering smoke and sage blossom, but Malphas' keen sense of smell detects an underlying stench of fear among the foliage which paints a path for his nose to follow.

His prey did not get far. Without an adequate sense of smell to guide him, the human ran himself in mad patterns and only managed to turn himself around in a frenzy to escape.

Malphas finds him panting and flattened against the trunk of a tree, eyes wild and blind in the dark. The human's heart hammers against his rib cage, flooding his veins with adrenaline.

Claws flexing into the earth, Malphas' ears flatten and his muscles coil tight as he calibrates his pounce.

Snap.

In the distance, a deer flees the area and and the man makes the split-second decision to run. With a vicious snarl, Malphas springs and sinks his serrated fangs into the corded meat of his bicep, and they crash to the ground.

A weak fist pounds against the side of Malphas' skull, and that is when he disengages his meat-hook claws from his shoulder and in one fluid movement, he flips the human onto his stomach and closes his jaws over the man's thigh. Blood spills hot and metallic over his tongue, sending both his taste buds and bestial instincts into a riot. The temptation to rip his head back to carve a chunk of meat off for himself flits through his mind.

But he does no such thing.

'Should shifting form be necessary for his capture, you will need to disable the right arm and left leg. But use extreme caution to avoid piercing the brachial and femoral artery.' These are Demiurge's instructions for apprehending this target. Before he tracked the man down, he carefully studied the diagram his brother had sketched for him. 'It matters not how he is apprehended- only that you bring him to me alive.'

This is not the first time Malphas has been employed to capture potential enemies of Nazarick. His shapeshifting ability makes him a most effective agent in gathering outside intelligence. Humans rarely think to look to the treetops, be it in their castle's courtyard or the deep woods where bandits gather and warring nations come to meet upon neutral ground.

But sometimes even he must sometimes do the same, and join his prey at the watering hole.

One of his favorite methods to glean for information is to frequent taverns in disguise and drink adventurers under the table; and once a human is drunk off his or her ass, they turn into an open book. Little do they know, his resistance to poisons means he's practically stone sober while they spill their darkest secrets.

And last week, a gang member with particularly loose lips unloaded his life's story, along with a juicy tidbit that Malphas knew would be of great interest to Lord Ainz. The fool was even kind enough to drop a name.

Jasper.

As for this man's offense, word around town is that he has information as to who got their hands on a World Item and unleashed it upon a lamprey-like monster.

Whether or not the claims hold any merit has yet to be seen, but the key details makes it is the most promising lead they have, and he hopes this will bring them one step closer in pinning down what Lord Ainz believes to be Nazarick's greatest threat.

Releasing his bear-trap jaws, Malphas removes his weight from his prey, confident in the fact that he has stripped him of his ability to flee. His tongue glides over the ruby slick of his fangs, muzzle shortening as his bones grotesquely pop and snap as he reverts to his bipedal form. Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he smears his prey's blood like war paint.

The human is still desperately trying to escape as Malphas rises onto two legs, but he only manages to dig his fingers into the soil and drag himself away from his assailant a few inches at a time. The Devil leans down and closes his fingers around his ankle, yanking him back towards him. Malphas then hauls him out of the woods, kicking and hollering. Once they clear the treeline, the demon drops him to collect his clothes and slips them back on.

After buttoning his shirt and straightening his coat, he approaches his wounded target, who is still attempting to crawl away. Malphas flips him over onto his back, his eyes still burning like Hellfire.

"Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The easy way means you keep your limbs."