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The daunting form of Lord Demiurge melts from the mouth of the corridor, the orange of his suit so bright that it almost burns into the air around him like flame. His footsteps echo the pounding of your pulse as he sees you staring at the doors to his quarters. Your face heats with embarrassment as moments ago you were considering stealing from him.

"Good morning, Pet." Demiurge's purr flows like silk from his tongue as he stalks in your direction. "I take it you slept well?"

Pet.

"Y-yes, Master." You respond, and your breath courses short and quick through your nose as you bow.

"Good girl." You instinctively flinch when the Devil reaches for you, but he only gives your head a fond pat and strides past you to the towering bookshelf. His talons drum over each volume until he finds and withdraws his leather-bound book of choice.

You glimpse the title as it flashes with artfully inlaid gold leaf; Paradise Lost.

"Master?" Scarcely more than a whisper, you meekly query. "Um... can I ask you something?"

Crystalline eyes glance over his shoulder before he replies with a passive "I suppose."

"I... I don't remember much from last night. What happened?" You try to fish for information by playing dumb. Had he drugged you? You didn't eat or drink anything you had not prepared yourself, so why you experienced memory loss this time is a mystery.

The demon turns to you, and the fanged grin that splits his face open makes your blood run cold. A conniving glimmer of mirth then alights in his eyes. He then pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose before replying, "You served your Master, like a good girl."

His answer is unsatisfactorily vague, and you resent the pleasant shiver that comes from being called a good girl.

"Oh." You spinelessly reply, and quail from pushing the issue. From your peripheral, you see him tuck the book under his arm and stalk towards you, making your flesh prickle with needles of fear.

Claws tenderly brush away the locks of hair you had strategically fluffed around the bruises, and you jolt from the unexpected touch. He lowers his face next to your head and exhales hotly over the mark you had the most trouble concealing, his breath a lick of flame; a visceral throb in your core unfurls, spreading wide and fluttering like the fresh wings of a butterfly. You gasp as your nipples tighten, and he chuckles, lithe and dark.

It's alarming- no, terrifying how eagerly your body responds to his touch.

Like your very cells remember him.

"I would say you recall well enough." He insinuates with an excruciatingly smug grin. "And I advise against playing dumb, as it does not suit you in the least, Pet."

'Shit.' Nothing gets past him.

"Now, you may go clean on the Ninth Floor. However-" The demon then feather-lightly swipes his fingers through the makeup caked over the bruises, and draws a brow at the streaks of creamy hue it leaves on his gloved digits. "This here can remain our little secret for today, and only today, but let it be known that I do not appreciate you hiding what marks you as mine. Do you understand?"

What marks you as his.

Every hair on your body stands on end as his declaration reiterates that you are not merely his assistant, nor his maid.

You are his slave, in every sense of the word.

'Escape.'

Your throat works with a hard swallow. "Y-yes, Master."

---

Your feet carry you down the dank corridor leading away from the Seventh Floor. The mineral smell of damp stone, spongy with moss, makes you feel grimy. Shadows from the flickering sconces jump and dance along the walls of ancient cobblestone, and you wonder if the creature that held you immobilized as Demiurge had his way with you is slithering amongst them.

Each step echoing into the darkness momentarily muffles the cacophony of your inner turmoil, insulating it between clashing layers of apprehension and determination.

With fists clenched tightly at your sides, you stare straight ahead and keep marching, clutching the final thread of your sanity with a white-knuckled grip.

Roiling anxiety churns dark and bitter in your mind, and you are but a passenger in your own body as a dozen scenarios of how your escape may play out race across your mind's eye.

Will your chances be better or worse if you scale your way down from a window, or if you slip out through a door? You consider tying your bed sheets together to manufacture a makeshift rope, but you would have to find a window that isn't in your Master's quarters.

If a window cannot be safely accessed, where would the nearest door to the outside be?

You honestly haven't a clue.

Has Lord Ainz posted armed guards at each entrance to the Tomb? If so, how the Hell will you get past them?

What if you are caught by the living shadow? Is it even possible to defend yourself against a phantom?

Shit, what if Greed rips you limb from limb?

But what bothers you above all else is knowing you will have to leave Tuare behind. You cannot help but feel reprehensibly selfish after all she has done for you, and know she be nothing short of devastated by the loss of her friend, just as you would be, were the situation reversed.

'Oh, shit...' What if Demiurge decides to target her in your stead?

You would never forgive yourself if the Devil set his sights upon her.

But you can't bring yourself to stay here. You just can't.

At some point, you drift through the kitchen doors, and are vaguely aware of the mouthwatering scent of rosemary, lemon peel and roast chicken flooding your senses.

A distant voice echoes from what may as well be a million miles away as you gaze down at the blood-stained cutting board, and the butcher knife lying next to it. The reflection staring back at you on the blade's mirror-like surface is bleary-eyed, lost.

It is an all-too-familiar sight, one of which you had hoped to never see again. Your stomach turns with self-disgust.

'I won't be a victim. If I die trying to escape, I will have died fighting.' You promise yourself.

"Is everything alright, dear?" Pestonya's voice finally slices through the fog, and you jolt with a start.

Swallowing thickly, you reply "Y-yes, ma'am. Er- at least, I think so."

But Pestonya cocks her head in the fashion of a curious canine, indicating that you are fooling no one. Soft brown eyes, while identical to a dog's, harbor an unsettling gleam of humanistic intelligence and her nostrils flare, making you blush with the knowledge that she undoubtedly can still smell the Devil on you, despite having taken a shower.

You may as well be wearing a scarlet letter.

The head maid furtively glances to left, then right, and her voice drops, low and soft. "Does he hurt you?"

The blood in your veins freezes over as the color drains from your face. It's all the response she needs to confirm the truth.

"You don't have to answer me. But tell me this- if you could escape to a safe place, would you want to?"

But after being tricked into becoming a slave once more, inherent paranoia clawing in the back of your mind screams that this may be an elaborate trap, but you trust Tuare was being truthful when she said Pestonya is one of the only ones within Nazarick that likes humans.

'The only way I won't be a victim anymore is if I can get away from him.'

In light of your limited options, you take a chance, and cautiously nod.

"Meet me here, this evening, after you deliver Lord Demiurge's dinner."

Your heart stops cold in your chest.

She's actually going to help you escape?!

"Why are you helping me?" You ask, leveling her with a look of caution. "W-won't you get into trouble? With my Master? And... Lord Ainz?"

You fear your Master's wrath, but Lord Ainz is terrifying beyond all reason. What nightmarish repercussions will you face if you get caught by the Overlord himself?

"There... are things, things that I am sure Lord Demiurge does not want you to know, but I believe you deserve to be made aware of." Pestonya says pensively. "This is not the first time you have set foot in Nazarick, dear."

Your jaw drops, and she raises a hand before you can bombard her with questions. "I will tell you what I know tonight. But for now, it is imperative that you do not say anything to anyone that may raise suspicions."

With that, you catalogue your countless questions for later. Favoring her with a grateful bow your head, you whisper, "Thank you... thank you so much."

'Thank you for giving me hope.'

The head maid's black lips draw back into a smile, and she clasps her hands together. "Now, this conversation never happened. You can tell no one, not even Tuare. I know how much she means to you, but for your own safety, no one can know."

It is then that the full gravity of having to leave your only friend behind settles heavily into your chest like a block of ice, cold and unwelcome. The walls seem to breathe, closing in around you.

The welling of unshed tears stings your sinuses, but it doesn't compare to the heartache of knowing you won't be able to bring yourself to say goodbye.

With a hard swallow, you push the lump clogging your throat down, down into that dark place where you bury your emotions.

"Let's proceed with preparing lunch, shall we?" She immediately snaps back to casual with a short wag of her tail.

But you, on the other hand, have a bit more difficulty pretending all is well as Pestonya's words circle round and round like a carousel in your mind.

What does she mean by 'This is not the first time you have set foot in Nazarick'?