Crowned - 15 | Crash Course

 

Kairo led them to the laboratory on the west end of the Helmire Castle. It was a black tiled tower on the outside, standing upright at an awkward angle to give an illusion of a natural hilltop. 

Kairo led Elvira and a reluctantly dragging Kaeo to the ground floor room, the doors of which opened when he pressed his right palm over it.

A dimly lit room greeted their sight. Elvira felt a chill run down her spine and covered her chest to rub her hands over her arms. The walls were lined with wooden shelves which displayed strange organs floating in bubbling glass jars. Thin white smoke lurked around the shelves, as if guarding the objects at display.

From the farther right, Kairo picked up a mauve vial and held it out for them.

“Do you remember this?”

Elvira nodded, recognising the vial’s contents instantly. “Linch blood,” she stated.

“Indeed!” Kairo exclaimed, “It’s for the research we were supposed to do five years ago! I halted it so that we could complete it together,” he chirped, grinning ear to ear.

Kaeo rolled his eyes, “So that is your research error that you have been droning about for the past years?” he threw a disgusted look at Elvira.

Kairo’s grin turned sheepish. Elvira glared at him.

“What if I were dead and gone for good?” Elvira asked, “Would you just shut the project down?”

“What! No! of course not! We did this because I knew you were alive,” Kairo reassured as he took the vial and led them out of the first room and into a second room on the ground floor.

“So, what’s it about?” Elvira asked.

The new room seemed mediocre with its plain white walls and the floor covered with elongated tables and wooden chairs as its dominant aesthetic. Kairo placed the vial on the first table in front of the door and banged a hand over its top. Instantly, a three-dimensional projection appeared over it.

“Linchs may be E tier Creatures but they are classified under LLL by size. Their sheer mass and ability to utilise the poison they consume make them a predatory species. I want to combine their genes with that of a dragon and create a blood sucking, poison consuming, lethal, end-of-the-world-harbinger dragon!”

“To conquer the world,” Kaeo added.

Brows raised, nostrils flared and mouth pinched on both ends, Elvira uttered, “Obviously.”

“Nothing makes conquering territories easier than a dragon’s invasion!”

There was an ecstatic glint in his green eyes that made him look like a perfect villain as he spread his arms in front of a holographic projection of a dragon over the tabletop.

“And pray tell, how would you acquire the dragon gene considering they have been extinct for about—four centuries and counting, now?!” Elvira demanded, trying to make sense of the idealistic plan.

“Where do you think you can find a dragon skull?” Kairo countered.

“The black market…”

“That’s not how villains work!” Kaeo snapped at Elvira’s reply.

“At the Church Dianthia, of course, those who protect Virae’s direct bloodline more than their own flesh and blood!” Kairo supplied.

Elvira’s brows threatened to jump off her forehead and walk away. “What do you mean a skull; how do you know that it is not the skull?!” she intentionally lowered her voice to a whisper as she shouted.

“Well, who’s to say that your Church is safekeeping the real religious artifact – unless we prove it otherwise?” Kairo giggled.

“Having the skull’s genes would be better though, naturally,” Kaeo supplied.

Elvira’s brain wandered off to history classes back in school.

The skull in question would be the head of the first dragon on their planet Wreath. There was a time when shadow-Earth only harboured two species, the originals being the Dracionious, or Dragon-kind and other being Dinorious, or the Dinosaurs, who were warped onto Wreath after a meteor hit the real-Earth.

The sudden appearance of the Dinorious species was considered as an Act of God, obligated by the Stars, and suddenly, the dominant Dracioniouses not only had competition but also a war of resources at hand. Every giant creature took immense space and Wreath could only host so many.

Amongst the angry dragon-kind, there was one dragon who was able to transform into a human owning to his patience, high affinity to magic and insane spell-crafting skills. He was Virae, the first mage on Wreath who was later worshiped by the Dianthia supporters.

During the Great Evolution Era (F526 – F528) Virae taught the transformation spell to his fellow dragon-kind because he found it more convenient to live as a human. Suddenly, tables were turned and once again, the Dracioniouses had an upper hand when it came to lasting survival. They fell into a leisurely life, calling themselves Blossoms, and discovered the pursuit of sexual pleasures.

Thereafter followed the Sin Era (F527 – F777) until the great curse Morana, created by Virae, wiped the majority of the Dinorious population. The genocide was frowned upon by the Stars and the Heaven. Instead of the curse affecting the rest of the Dinorious population and killing them off, it caused mutations amongst them, altering them and birthing into existences a myriad of Creatures, who were now known as Creatures of God.

The Church of Melantha supported the Creatures and their rights whereas the Church of Dianthia worked in line with Virae’s principals of eradicating all Oddities and establishing Blossoms' sovereignty over Wreath.

It was just a part of Wreath’s extensive history which Kairo lent in order to conquer the world.

“But if we’re caught…” Elvira said through gritted teeth.

“Then we don’t have to go into an elaborate monologue to reveal all our plans, okay?” Kaeo snorted.

Elvira rolled her eyes at his lack of seriousness. Kairo was not proposing just petty villainy anymore, no, he was proposing global religious artifact theft! Elvira wanted to be of help, truly, but at what stake? She never had any qualms about religion or the politics of her world. She could care less since she was rejected by the very people who birthed and raised her. Still...

“How are we getting in?” Elvira asked, licking her lips.

“Now we’re talking!” Kairo exclaimed and clapped his hands. As he separated them, a sheet of paper appeared between his fingers. He held onto it by its corners and Elvira squinted at the blue lines and realised it was a map.

“Where did you get a map of the greatest Church in the world?” Elvira sniffled with admiration.

“I punched it out of saint,” Kaeo stated.

“Diabolical.” Elvira seethed.

“He was drinking at a pub and harassing the barmaid, I didn’t even have to try hard,” Kaeo scoffed.

“Are you defending yourself so I don’t judge you?” Elvira snorted, a laugh edging on her face.

“No, I am stating facts!” Kaeo snapped.

“Let us focus on the task at hand, shall we?” Kairo clapped, “Burn the image into your brain!”

Elvira nodded aggressively and stared at the blueprint, not understanding a thing. Her nose whiffed a burning stench and before Elvira could realise, the paper held between Kairo’s fingers burst into flames and ashes.

“I – I couldn’t even look at it!” Elvira complained.

“Don’t worry,” a jade magic circle appeared over Kairo’s hands which he flicked over in Elvira and Kaeo’s direction, “Your mind will remember it when you’re there.” He explained.

“What?!” Elvira cried.

“Or, just eat this ash if you don’t trust Kai’s magic and the map will appear before your eyes.” Kaeo supplied.

“Are you trying to kill me again?!” Elvira snapped.

“Oh my, was it so obvious?” Kaeo drawled.

“Elvi, don’t worry, that is exactly how the spell works. The ash isn’t harmful at all!” Kairo clarified before Elvira could jump on Kaeo and start pulling his hair.

“Okay,” Elvira nodded. Somehow, Kairo was naturally trustworthy.

“What! You trust him with the same thing and not me?!” Kaeo exclaimed, eyes widened with surprise.

“He’s better than you,” Elvira shrugged.

Kairo flicked his finger and created a wall in between them before Kaeo could lunge at Elvira and indirectly harm himself.

“Now, you must know that Dianthia is a Church so, obviously, it is surrounded by Holy Grounds. There are anti-teleportation wards so we cannot have an easy entry and only natural magic would work within the grounds. Which means no deceptive magic like illusions or creation magic like this wall would work there. The grounds are blessed with divine magic so, spells which have a cause-and-effect relationship with nature would be our only escape.”

Elvira raised her hand.

“Yes?” Kaeo asked, containing a genuine smile at her scholarly antics.

“What is divine magic? Aren’t there only four types?”

“Ah, to work at a church or any holy place you have to pass an exam full of ethics and religious morals and stuff. If you pass, you are hired and taught the Divine Script, it’s a dead hidden language unlike the usual spell writing languages like the Conjuror Runic I use and the Stryn Script used by Alchemy Type Mages. Spells are written in order to satisfy a need, right? That need, depending on the recipient, changes the medium, which is the language.”

Elvira nodded, frowning.

“Like the shape-shifters of Kalmia, they are able do it so easily because they have their own Beast-Script spells. Languages are passed down only to those with abilities,” Kaeo clenched his teeth as he peeked over the wall to mock Elvira.

“No wonder I did not know about them,” Elvira huffed and shoved a middle finger in Kaeo’s face.

“Yeah, the more languages you know, the more powerful of a mage you become! Conjuror Runic lends magic from the world and uses it for a cause. Stryn Script lends magic from the mage and uses it in a cause. That’s the main difference between the two basic ones.” Kairo explained further.

“For example, creating a sword out of thin air would require a Conjuror Runic based spell and crafting a sword and then giving it the ability to throw fire, water or air blasts would require a Stryn Script spell,” Kaeo dumbed it down.

“What is this? A heist plan of the villains or a crash-course in theories of magic?” Elvira scoffed. Though her face feigned nonchalance, her eyes sparkled with gratefulness.

“Right! Now, how do we get inside?” Kairo asked.

“We blast the grounds, send in the troops and steal that head like it always belonged to us.” Kaeo grinned.

the pen who gained sentience

News Reporter: As the 'Freedom' magic swells through, more and more objects gain sentience. The onset of memories intertwined with emotions has overwhelmed quite a few unwilling participants onto the path of villainy. Though as Barbie Dolls banding with the Robots in hopes for a World Takeover (rooted in deep hatred over human treatment) are becoming commonalities, there are shocking cases like that of an ancestral pen writing its autobiography which are taking the world by storm!

The entires go as follows:

I remember being crafted by my master. After the searing molten metal was molded into my form, he carved his seal onto my back and forever branded me as his. My master's hands were rugged against my polished finish; he never took care of his hands. They were always calloused, scathed or scratched in one place or the other: I observed for as long as I stayed on his display shelf. Regardless, he held each of my siblings with ardent care, a representation of love for his craft.

I would miss him, I remember thinking, when a contractor claimed me away as a prize for a writing contest. Though, my master's memories would soon be shadowed by the eccentricities of my first owner. 

He was a gentleman by facevalue, a man of refined clothing and graceful eloquence. He smiled charmingly, curtsied to every compliment and housed me proudly within his breastpocket. A scholar, one would think him as, until they'd spend a night in his working quarters against the bright warmth of the kerosene lamps on his limping oakwood table and witness him writing so passionately that his tongue would poke out of his pursed lips.

One would think he's drafting the constitution or writing the Declaration of Independence with such fervor, but no! Oh Master, if you would only witness the utter filth he used me for. His sharp Ts and cursive Gs were using my precious ink for writing erotica! And mind you, he was not poetic about it! He was crass, descriptive and imaginative (trust me, I'd know) within those pages and somehow he made a fortune off of them!

It truly baffles me, to this day, how he accounted his success to me. 

"'tis all because of this pen," he'd say to his friends, as if it were I, an innocent non-sentient object, who was whispering the devil's ideas into his head at the arseclock of dawn! The Audacity! 

That is how the nature of my existence became ancestral. 

I was passed down to my first owner's son, even though he had a perfectly fine daughter who could use me for better purposes, who seemed to inherit his father's exceptional imagination.

Though, my second owner used his imagination for a purpose quite contrasting to his father's. While his father was using me to bring bodies together, my second owner used me to bring bodies apart. Quite literally. No, he wasn't a divorce lawyer. My second owner was a member of the Mafia and he was masterful at coming up with ways to dismember his brothers in Christ. 

He used my delicate head in evil ways, scratching illegible cursive over the parchment, whilst seated in a dingy office with moonlight as his governing agent of sight. No wonder the letters seemed equally threatening as to what they read; and honestly, I would have been fine with such misuse if he wouldn't use his pantpockets as my placeholder.

That was straight up abuse.

And the stench was often nauseating. Not that I could feel it then, though, as everything is coming back to me now, I have since leaked my ink twelve times on the paper while trying to write about him.

Thankfully, he lost me in a gambling debt. I remember being estatic as I was held being passed onto a better man. A man with soft hands and an erudite gleam in his eyes. He combed his blonde hair in different styles everyday and kept me on his well furnished bedroom desk and used me seldom. 

Though, when my third owner did use me...it was somehow even more devious, albeit oddly wholesome and weird. He used me to write letters, love letters, normal isn't it? Yes. His letters were poetic and innocent, often desperate and fervent with emotion — but he drafted them to the man he loved while his illiterate wife would be hanging by his arm, peeking over the parchment and giggling. Never without her.

"I w'nder what yer writin. Is it for me? I do love ye!"

"Of course, my darling, it is for you. I'm always thinking of you and writing of you," he'd reply to his wife, still using his straight and sharp-edged handwriting in the honour of his manly lover. 

His moral delinquency, brought on by the times he lived in, thrived for as long as I remained with that family. Therein, I faced the first traumatic event of my life. There are no pen therapists, but I do insist humans to come forward for this profession because pens genuinely need a grip for their sanity to cling on. We might be mightier than swords only because swords merely kill, while we can do much more than that.

The odd couple eventually had a kid; the kid got its grubby claws on me and ABUSED MY GENTLE NIB-HEAD OVER THE PARCHMENT, SCRIBBLING AND SCRATCHING TO THE POINT WHERE I FELT THE PARCHMENT TEAR AND CRUMBLE IN THE FACE OF MY EVIL MINISTRATIONS. That child made me a criminal, a first degree murderer, and if that wasn't horrible enough, that demon-spawn threw me off the open window.

I was flung down three floors and into the muddy wet fields, traumatized and abandoned. I call that event of my life as APENDONMENT, you get it? yeah? funny? no? My bad. 

Why are you still reading? 

Regardless, those insect infested fields were my new home. At least for a week, I remained unused and degraded, until a dog ran up to me. It peed in my line of sight and we looked at eachother, intently, while he did his business. It was to no one's surprise that the animal found fancy in me, after the quick moment we shared and picked me up in his salivating mouth.

Are you writing that down, my future therapist? Yes, thank you. 

The ten minutes I spent in his slimy mouth felt like a lifetime's worth of goo accumulating in my crevices. I was let go at a middle class doorstep, a little downtrodden albeit homey and picked up by a little girl.

As a wise pen had once said, after all ink-ridden scratches on parchment comes a new ink filter and the smoothest, most flourishing writing.

Finally, my time had come. After all the trials and tribulations, my perfect body worn down by my paint chipping away and my master's mark pierced by a dog's canine — I found a family who accepted me at my worst. They bathed me and placed me in their happening living room, a family of three who ate together and made merry. 

They used me seldom (my ink was expensive) but when they did, it was for honourable purposes. I filled out the little girl's school admission form in that house. I was used to write greetings on birthday cards and sign a deed for a field. My new owners were content with what they had and were always striving to do more for their little girl. 

Placed on top of a cabinet, in a stand of my own, I witnessed the little girl mature into a lady and her parents curve into old gentle souls. Their shaky hands had no use of me anymore and the invention of a telephone line had me forever stuck in my place, steady and observant. I would have felt neglected if the mother did not do her weakly dusting chores whilst humming to a new tune.

She was a beautiful singer and she passed on with a smile on her face. I was used to sign on her Death Certificate and I put my best curves forward in her honour. 

Her husband did not do the dusting after she was gone. He remained on the living room couch, where the family had eaten dinners together, celebrated happiness and hugged eachother in moments of sorrow. He remained there, now alone and staring into the ceiling.

I would have felt lonely but somehow, I knew he was more. Alone but not forgotten; for the last time, I was used to write the little lady's wedding invitation. Her father found his smile again for her husband-to-be was a good man. She took her father into the city after the wedding went through and I was packed up in a box, abandoned on an attic, never to be used again.

Laptops and texting had taken over, I heard as I laid in my bed of dust for many an ages, hoping someone would use me again.

I was made as a tool for a free human society, to be used by those who pursued freedom of passion. Though, when in their hands I begged for a life of my own but now that I have one — I have nothing to do with it. Odd, is it not? 

Freedom

 Aira tapped on the webstory app. Its icon enlarged, burst into colourful confetti and zoomed out to reveal Aira's profile page. Her eyes skimmed over the bell icon in the upper right corner and her shoulders slumped upon its grey sight. No new notifications, comments, reviews or reads.

The whizz of a coffee machine and the scent of vanilla essence sweetened the sense of misery as her thumb tapped on star shape in the lower left corner of the app. A list of trending stories popped up with the first one was titled, 'I was sold off to the Demon King and Now He is Obsessed with Me!' 

Aira rolled her eyes and swapped the screen until she reached the last page; ranked 96th was her story, 'Loss and Loss.' There was only one upvote on her story, eighteen thousand times less compared to the top grossing story. A sigh escaped her lips.

"Aira, no using phone during your shift!" 

Her teeth clenched as she locked her phone and pocketed it in her uniform. She raised her head to pass a stiff smile to Shumaila, her coworker. Shumaila was kind and beautiful with bright doe eyes, full pink lips and skin as white as moonlight. It wrung Aira's heart to work beside someone like Shumaila.

The chime against the door tinkled in arrival of a customer. Instead of heading to Aira's counter, which was in front of him, the man walked over to Shumaila and began reciting his order with a flirtatious glint in his eye. Shumaila giggled ever so slightly as she typed in his order and confirmed the bill. The flush of a smile caused by the customer earned her a good tip in the Tip Jar. 

"One café latte with whipped cream and mint sprinkles coming right up!" Shumaila recited as she tore the printed receipt off the cash counter and handed it over to the customer. His hand lurked over hers a minute more than what one would be considered gentlemanly. Shumaila retreated her hand as soon as he grabbed the receipt and gestured him to wait on the many empty tables for his order to arrive. 

Though, in the four minutes he waited, she couldn't shake the intense gaze presiding her every move. Sweat clamoured in her hands as she passed a smile to Aira and informed, "I'll take a break for a moment, don't mind," before walking inside the 'Employees Only' room. 

She paced to the locker room while wiping her hands on her apron, again and again, until a searing burn agitated her skin. She gulped as she reached in front of her locker and stared dead into the mirror. Everything seemed normal, nothing was weird about her face. Still, she rubbed her palms all over her features to make sure she had no makeup on.

Nothing.

"Shumaila! Are you f**king kidding me?! What are you doing in here instead of serving customers?! Peak morning hour is about to start! I did not hire your pretty face to hide in the lockers!" Raiden, the young manager, shouted as he entered the locker room.

Shumaila flinched at the loudness of his tone and backed into the locker as Raiden infiltrated her personal space. "I—I, you know, I got anxious. I don't do well when I am anxious and there was this man staring—"

Harsh fingers grabbed her face by her cheeks and pushed them together to seal her lips in a pout. "If you are made this pretty then you better f**king get used to being stared at, you s**ty wh**e!" Raiden cursed. He let go of her face with a jerk when tears welled her doe eyes. Her head hit against the locker handle with a loud thud.

Shumaila whimpered as Raiden walked away with a last warning, enraged steps leading him to where he was heading before getting distracted by the crying mess of a lass. "No body wants to work, everybody wants easy money like it will f**king drop off a tree," Raiden grumbled under his breath as he walked through the 'Employees Only' door.

He beelined towards the cash counters and pocketed all the cash from Shumaila and Aira's cases and Tip Jars. "Don't you make you lose money!" He called to his workers before walking out of the café. The cash wad was thick in his pocket and his steps are hasty on the cobbled floor. A walk turned into a jog which eventually morphed into a run as he dashed past the glistening shop windows of high-end stores. He turned round the corner, into an uphill alleyway which led him to a street contrasting the pleasures of life he left behind.

His pace slowed as the smell of accumulated garbage overwhelmed his senses. Small huts lined both sides of the cracked road, buzzing with employment and overpopulation. Even the sun did not shine in this area, Raiden realised as he made to the twelfth hut on the left of the street.

A scream resonated through the neighborhood and the people surrounding the hut made a way for him, decorated by pitiful glances and harrowing sighs. He gulped as he banged open the wooden plank for a door and found his father swinging a blow at his mother.

He gulped, disgusted, his chest heaved and breath hitched, summoning all his courage he shouted, "Stop! Here's the money! Let her go!" He emptied out the cash wad from his pocket, his eyes not leaving his mother's withering self.

"Da fook am i gon do wid dis? Innit too li'l? Wad do ye think, dis won lemme win!! Can ye no' earn even?! Whot a load o' crap I've born!" The father tsked as he snatched the cash from Raiden's hand and swung the wooden log against Raiden's kneecaps. 

The young boy wailed and collapsed to the floor. His mother slithered closer to shelter her son even when her old bones were shivering like the last leaf in a storm. The father tsked at the pathetic sight infront and walked out.

"Watya lookin' at?! Go yer ways, ye swine lot!" He shouted at the crowd standing outside the door. Though, as one last act of mockery, he threw the log he used as a weapon to beat his family inside their house. It landed against the mother's foot, lifeless and unthreatening without a user. 

"Atleast we got a good one for soup tonight," she whispered in her son's ear, her eyes never leaving the thick log. She pulled away from the hug and patted her son's back, "Let's get going." She had a job to do, places to be at and responsibilities to fulfill. 

Her bones ached as she limped downhill, ignoring the stares and whispers following with the wind. Her feet were already swollen from an older beating and new bruises were beginning to form under the long sleeved blouse she had on. Her shoulders were hunched but the corners of her lips remained upturned. Her circumstances did not wear the smile off her face as she rung the bell at a giant mansion's gate.

"Who is it?" The security man asked through the speakers inbuilt in the wall, beside the bell.

"It's Mary," she informed upon which the metal gates buzzed and drew apart. Her small frame tried its best to not limp inside the mansion's lawn. She squared her shoulders even though they hurt her bruised collarbones, she straightened her back even though it felt like she was being stabbed repeatedly by pins and needles, she held her head high even though all she wanted was to fall to the floor and never get up.

She knocked against a richly engraved wooden door and waited patiently until a muffled "Come in," was uttered. Mary twisted the golden handle and entered the spirit scented room. 

"Morning Mary, how are you?" A voice croaked from the elegant king sized bed lined with sapphire and gold. 

"I'm quite fine, how are you Ms. Vasilissa?" Mary asked as she walked up to the lady's side and gently plucked the blanket off her. 

"I'm as good as I can be. Ahsen is supposed to come today, will you send a word to the kitchen after you help me with the loo?" The lady asked. 

"Of course Madam," Mary replied as she slid her hands underneath Vasilissa's armpits and dragged her limp body onto the wheelchair beside the bed. 

"I want the British Rose scent today, if you don't mind," Lady Vasilissa whispered as Mary dragged her feet off the bed and gently placed them one by one on the footrest of the wheelchair.

"Of course Madam," Mary agreed and pushed the wheelchair from one room to another. "Is there a colour you are thinking of today?" Mary asked as she turned the wheelchair around in a circle to let Vasilissa survey the surrounding masses of clothes in the closet room.

"What do you think Mary? What would be the best colour on me?" Lady Vasilissa giggled.

"You trust this old woman's choice too much, Madam," Mary snorted but proceeded to walk up to a set of pink chanel. "Maybe this?" She asked, smiling genuinely.

"I love your choice!" Lady Vasilissa exclaimed. She wanted to clap but she couldn't; old her would have clapped and hugged Mary for choosing a good outfit but now that she was almost hanging off of a wheelchair custom made for her paralysed body, all she could do was smile to convey her gratefulness. 

The bath was set up, the water was warm and the bubbles smelled like British Rose. Old Vasilissa would have had a bottle of wine and a book to go along with the aesthetic while she soaked. Though now, she had a helper to wash her fingers and the corners of her eyes.

"Tell me a story, Mary," Vasilissa stated as the caretaker gently washed every part of her body like it was her own. 

"Of course Madam," Mary replied and began narrating a love story. A story which Vasilissa could have turned into reality if she were her former self, playing the violin at the Grand Theatre and married to the love of her life. Though, the only romance now left in her life was Mary's unbridled kindness.

After the bath, Mary helped Vasilissa get dressed and set her up for breakfast. 

"Why'd do you always treat me so nicely even when I am nothing now. All my staff left after the accident, Mary, you're the only one who keeps coming back," Vasilissa sighed as Mary fed her a spoonful of cereal. 

"You're like my own," Mary replied simply, having seen Vasilissa grow up more than her own son. She gently wiped the corners of Vasilissa's mouth and fed her another spoon. 

"I should have paid you much better when I had the chance to." 

Mary wheeled the wheelchair to the living room and left Vasilissa alone with her guest. From her line of sight, Vasilissa could only see Ahsen if he were crouching or kneeling in front of her. Old Vasilissa would have pierced people's eyes if they witnessed the love of her life kneeling on the ground but this Vasilissa was pathetic enough to bring fall to him.

"G'day sunshine," Ahsen greeted her with a kiss pressed to her lips. "I've missed you," he said as he held her head in his hands and straightened its droopiness to meet his eye. "You've lost weight?" He frowned when he couldn't feel the former squishiness of her cheeks. "I was gone for a week and that maid was being lazy?! I'll just—"

"Shhh, calm down Ahsen, it's not their fault. I had a bad stomach recently," Vasilissa said. Her instincts urged to run a hand through her lover's lush hair but all she could do was stare in his eyes and convey her love. 

"Bad stomach?" Worry laced his tone and his hand reached her stomach, "Are you okay? What happened? Why didn't you tell me? Did you take meds?" 

Vasilissa wanted to laugh, throw her head back at his cuteness and hug him so tight that she could hear his heartbeat against her ear. Old Vasilissa would have done so but this one could only pinch her cheeks up.

"Of course, it wasn't anything bad, it overate noodles again," she stated. 

Ashen and Vasilissa caught up after he picked her up from the wheelchair and laid her on the sofa with her head resting in his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair as they reminisced their past. When it was time to leave, Ahsen settled Vasilissa back in her bed and pressed a kiss against her forehead.

"I'll see you soon, okay? Miss me," he kissed her cheeks and stood up.

"I always do," Vasilissa replied with the same love in her eyes that she used to have. Something tightened in Ahsen's chest as he locked the door behind him and walked through the darkened hallways of a once shining mansion. 

Tears whelmed his eyes at the thought of what his beloved was going through. She used to be the brightest shining star of the high society and now that she had stopped burning, everyone who used to clamour around her had disappeared. His love was treated so wrongly by the world but his love never complained about the mistreatment.

Why was his love so good?

Ahsen pressed a hand against his heart and settled on the entry footsteps of the mansion. Visiting Vasilissa every week crumbled his spirit. He wanted peace but he couldn't let his beloved be abandoned yet again, not when he was alive and breathing after all that happened.

Ahsen pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and opened up the Webstory app. Every week, visiting Vasilissa, he is reminded to publish a new chapter of, 'I was sold off to the Demon King and Now He is Obsessed with Me!' Vasilissa loved the escapism it provided her and if that was the only thing he could do for his beloved after getting married behind her back, then so be it.

The You in Me: 6 - Trust.

 

CHAPTER 5

In her dream, the world was simpler. She was a teenager living at the periphery like all humans, trying to make ends meet, trying to find value in life. She was plain yet dreamed of fame every night she went to bed. Though, when the morning sun would dawn on her window the dream would dissipate and she would come to a realisation, “I am good for nothing.”

The sun was bright and its rays were scorching, burning holes through the tree leaves guarding her window pane. Cicadas were set to world domination with the sheer collective force of their chorusing. The rays were getting hotter by the second when she sat up in her bed and held her face in her hands, unable to face herself. Then, the might of a singular sunbeam melted the window glass only to penetrate inside and light her house on fire.

Flames engulfed her.

She was outside, suddenly, running and screaming for her parents.

“Ma! Papa! Where are you?”

Her vision was red and her senses hot, tall skyscrapers crumbled to dust before her. She climbed the debris, desperate in her efforts to dig into it and find something…or was it someone? In her subconscious, she knew the rest of the neighbourhood would be safe. Still, her hands clawed into the broken glass, sharp iron beams and chalky cement – where were her parents? They were nowhere to be found. She screamed and screamed her mother’s name as the flames took down her town and memories. They drew closer with every breath she took, lusting for the oxygen within her. The fire was there to burn her, but somehow, it wasn’t touching her.

“What is the cost of one kind deed?”

The sentence echoed in her head, over and over. Suddenly, there was a mirror in front of her and she couldn’t avoid facing herself this time. Seraphina Dysis. The skin was melting off her face and body, leaving a bony skeleton and piercing grey eyes bleeding in the consequence of kindness.

“If you continue like this, it’ll only bring your ruination.”

It was her mother’s voice this time, echoing through the fire. Suddenly, the flames were smoke and the smoke clustered in the sky as clouds and a new day dawned.

An electric current shot through her body and Seraphina was jolted awake.

“Ah, Dread Dysis,” the matron called, flipped through the many pages on her notepad, and scratched her name off. “You will find your items inside your drawer. The classes commence in ten so I’d recommend you make haste.” The old lady, tall and skeletal, white as bone itself, passed a smile to Seraphina and walked away to zap the student on the next bed.

The ravenette, still in the midst of deciphering dream from reality couldn’t help but gasp at the heavenly white aesthetic of the infirmary. “Am I dead?” she whispered to herself as she scrutinized her arms and legs for burn scars. She found none. She flipped her head to the bedside table and shoved her face in the mirror. It reflected a perfect glass skin, sharp scarlet eyes and shiny raven hair. Seraphina pinched her cheeks and ruffled her hair to confirm reality from illusion again.

“You’re not gone yet? You could miss your chance if someone steals your seat, Dread Dysis,” the bony matron commented, voice nasally and crisp.

Ah, yes, the Choosing Ceremony. She was going to hug Ahren…only to be tasered in the back?

Et tu, Ahren?

Seraphina shook her head in exasperation. Her trust, yet again, was too easily earned with simple acts of kindness. Maybe this was what her dream was alluding to.

She pulled the bedside drawer open and found a glossy black bag inside. Its handles were intricately carved as golden vines spreading into the bag’s fabric on the front. Her jaw dropped in awe as she carefully picked up the bag and placed it on the bed, handling it with only her index fingers and thumbs to avoid leaving any dirty fingerprints of her hands.

Seraphina searched high and low to find a zip or a buckle on the bag but to no avail. Instead, she just sat straight for a good minute and stared at its glossy finish, then realising that time was running out, she cradled the bag in her arms like a million-dollar child and jumped off the bed. She had seven minutes to navigate her way to the first class – whatever it may be, she wondered as she shoved her feet in her shoes, careful not to crush the heels.

There must be someone around, Seraphina thought, who could help her.

The ravenette circled the bed and pulled away the white curtains separating her from the person beside. The fluid motion of her hand led to reveal a face likely to help her with her demise instead. Soft dark hair ruffled out of their style and piercing golden eyes narrowed at her with obvious grudge, greeted her sight. Instantly, Seraphina pulled the curtain back in its place.

“You saw nothing,” she said and fled out of her curtain containment. She may not know where to go, but she did know not to interact with a true Astherian without magic constraints around him. No matter how appealing even as a dread.

Just as Seraphina was about to step out of the infirmary, a hand grabbed her by the shoulder and twisted her to face its owner. The said owner had the curtsey to lower his neck from the clouds to meet her eyes; pinned against the infirmary wall, caged in between Kaizer’s arms, the ravenette gulped.

“That would be impossible, I see everything. I have six eyes,” Kaizer deadpanned. On cue, the tiny iridescent crystals embedded above his brows blinked open and golden irises meandered in the small space they were provided with.

“That’s…” Seraphina sucked in a breath, “truly creepy,” she breathed out and bent under his arm to walk out of his armed-cage. Only for him to push his palm against her forehead and bring her back in, against the wall.

“I can see things before they happen,” he stated, pointing at his eyes, looking dead on the inside.

“Well then, can your eyes see how late we will be if we don’t get going right this instant?!” Seraphina exhaled, frowning at his dead-faced persistence.

“But I cannot see why I don’t want to kill you…” his words dragged to a whisper.

Seraphina raised her brows in exasperation, “Why thank you? For being a decent hero?!”

“It goes against my basic principles…” he leaned in, close enough for their noses to be inches apart.

“I t-think the professor c-can refresh that when he’s, uh, dishing out our punishment!” Seraphina pressed a hand against his chest and pushed him away.

Kaizer sucked in a sharp breath and took several steps away from her; his brows joined together in a frown, as if repulsed. Though, his words seemed to betray his actions as he whispered, “Our sounds nice.”

Blood rushed to Seraphina’s face as she kicked the infirmary door open and stormed into the hallway. “What the heck is his deal?! If he doesn’t want to kill me, he’ll jump me instead?! Can’t he just stay away?!” she fanned her face with both her hands, consequently her bag fell to the marbled floor. “Dammit!” she cursed and bent down to pick it up, instinctively, by its golden handle.

The bag clicked open upon her touch.

“Ah, you figured it out,” a dead gasp birthed itself above her ear, warm breath fanned her nape. Seraphina felt an overwhelming presence shadow over her, so close to her back that she could feel the warmth trapped in between their bodies.

“What is wrong with you?! Are you following me?” Seraphina snapped and jumped several steps away from Kaizer, lest she’d do something unreasonable as lean into the warmth. Oh, the horror!

“Being choked by a microphone wire does things to you,” he shrugged, nonchalant.

Though, before Seraphina could fathom a response, a string of violin notes resonated through the wooden walls, slowly but aggressively building up into a crescendo.

“That’d be the warning music,” Kaizer pointed his finger at the sky-high ceilings vibrating the music through the ancient castle.

“You folks surely have a thing for dramatics,” Seraphina rolled her eyes and pulled out a map from the bag. The sheer thickness of its folds indicated her probable failure, so, taking a hint, she tucked it back inside her bag and faced Kaizer.

His lower lip curved into the tiniest of smiles as he held out a hand for her to take. The music was building up faster, every note louder than the last. Hesitantly, Seraphina placed her hand over his, avoiding eye contact.

“I meant the bag; it’d have your teleportation device…but this is okay as well,” Kaizer winked. Flustered, Seraphina was about to snatch her hand away when his slender fingers held onto her hand, encasing it.

The last memory Seraphina held of someone holding her hand with such firmness was her with mother, when Seraphina was a toddler in human kindergarten and was being bullied for crying too much. She missed her home, her dolls, her story books and her puzzle pieces that she had to leave behind in order to attend school – a place feted with snobbish kids who never asked her to play with. The loneliness led to tears, the tears were an excuse for the mockeries and the bullies – a symbol of weakness which she wielding everyday until her mother would come to pick her up, at the end of the day. She’d hold her hand with firmness and reaffirmation; and she wouldn’t let go until they were home.

There was a warm attachment Seraphina associated with handholding and to share such a moment with an Astherian who should hate her mere existence was appalling.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

Seraphina did not know where, but she followed anyway. It’s almost as if she was compelled to. One step turned into golden leap and suddenly the hallways around them phased away and she found herself at the foot of what seemed like an empty battle ground. Surprised, Seraphina turned to look for Kaizer only to find him no one behind her.

So much for trusting a person again.

The Lucielle Box - 3 : The Secret !

CHAPTER TWO

Outside the window, the world always seemed loud and pleasant. On a stony piece of land outside the walls of the Orphanage, street kids would holler around with a ball in hand, bickering over potential teams and points scored in the last match. Their basket was a worn-out plastic bowl balanced on the edge of the wall, always withering, when left empty, with the gusts of wind. Anyone standing on the inside could spot about five different bowls scattered on the ground, having succumbed to the fate of abandonment and the recipient of no human making retrieving attempts.

Isadora would stay at her seat’s edge as the match would grow more intense by the second, everyone’s homework on the line as loser’s weight to bear. The notes of Vivaldi’s winter warmed the tension in the air, involuntarily breathless, Isadora would just stare. The ball would dribble and be passed, sometimes a catch was missed, sometimes a basket was scored. She would exclaim and swear with great mirth and disappointment, mumbling to herself about all the ways she could have avoided the other team’s defeat. Though, her fate was one of a great observer but never an intervener, a helpless god overseeing the fate of people with great detail but possessing no ability to undo it.

The best Isadora could do was look away.

Her eyes fluttered open and the extravagant jewels etched in the dome shaped ceiling caught her attention. She swung up and the delicate engravings on the wall in front made her squirm back, into the cushiest pillows to have ever touched her undeserving back. “What in the…?” the words left her hoarse throat as her eyes scrutinized the lavishness around. Gold walls, shiny blackwood furniture engraved with precious stones, the mere spaciousness of a playground and overwhelming grandeur of paintings staring down on her.

“Was I kidnapped again…? Sold off to some rich sleazy bastard…? No, no, no, that would not be cannon appropriate,” she mumbled to herself; the words came out raspy, owing to her parched throat, yet skipping the covered glass of water placed on the bedside table, she got up and wobbled over to the desk and chair placed in front of an imperial window. The large table was littered with papers, documents and she shuffled around until she spotted a seal placed over a bunch of manila envelopes.

“Runa…me, I should have been dead…did the,” she picked up the seal and turned it over to reveal the golden crest of a sword with wings. “Fuck, did he really…” she grabbed the letters and all of them were addressed to, ‘Arizel Delmore, the thirteenth of Isdarien.’

“Of all people…why him?” she bit her lower lip as she pondered over the misfortune of the thirteenth prince, “He’s the first to die…tsk.”

She placed the letters and the seal back in the place and meandered around the room, only to stop in front of the full-length mirror encased in gold engravings. It was her appearance that caught her off guard and made her stand and stare. She used to be a simple girl with dark hair and dark eyes, no distinguishing features to set her apart from the common populace but here…here she was Runa Don Russet, petite and pale with curly ringlets of burgundy hair flowing to her waist and eyes as clear as morning dew. Though out of all miracles, the fact that she had hands was the most blessed one. She raised her hands in front of the mirror and gazed at them with much love. They were pale and slender attached to dainty wrists and long fingers, certainly made for a character who wasn’t a survivor. Nonetheless, her heart swelled with gratefulness.

“Woah…” she touched her small face and felt her dainty features, “It couldn’t get more fictional, could it?” she snorted as she tugged at her hair and genuinely felt the sensation in her scalp. Then, she realised that she was clad in a loose silk shirt and lacey shorts – did someone change her clothes? Of course, they would have gotten rid of her bloody dress but…her line of thought was interrupted by a sudden thud.

She flinched and instinctively turned to face the sound. On the window, perched like a wounded bird, was the thirteenth prince staring at her with an amused smile. His dark hair flowed with the wind, freely, a stark contrast to the bloodied white shirt stuck to his torso. Was it his blood or hers?

“Oh! You’re up, I could get used to this,” he smiled as he jumped inside the room and instantly started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Woah, woah woah, what do you think you’re doing?” she uttered, nostrils flared and brows scrunched with exasperation.

The man stopped mid-unbuttoning and looked up with a smirk, “Commonly, in a situation like this, someone would wail, ‘who are you?! Where am I?! what do you want with me?!’  but you said none of that!”

She frowned.

His dark eyes held her light ones, piercing with interest. All the while his nimble fingers worked their way through the buttons. He got rid of the sticky shirt and it was cue enough for her to yelp and turn on her heel.

“Have some shame, you pervert!” she gasped, only to realise that she was now facing a high-definition mirror with him being perfectly reflected in it.

“So, it looks like you can see far into the future but the immediate second, got it,” he chuckled as he caught her eye again, through the mirror.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she gasped and looked away, “What are you yapping about?!”

“Ya-yapping? What is that? Nonetheless, you do not have to be on guard with me, I know your secret and—”

“—Wait, what, how the heck?” she cut him, brows afrown, as she turned to face him and immediately regretted it. She placed her hand strategically ahead to over his muscular torso from her vision.

“You did not even ask, ‘what secret’ tsk…you’re suck a horrible liar.” As if to test her patience, he walked towards her and with every step he took, his torso would get clearer in her vision so she would bring her hand closer and closer to her eyes until the only thing in her vision was the back of her hand.

“Wh-what secret do you kno—” her words were cut off as she felt a hand gently caress her head. Her body stiffened upon his touch and chilly words escaped her lips, “What do you think you’re doing…?”

The man hesitated for a mere second upon receiving the chill question, looked at her narrowed clear eyes and immediately retreated his hand. “Why,” he scoffed awkwardly, “I was trying the little witch to like me so that she can heal me, ha ha…”

“Heal you…?” she frowned.

“Ah-ha! So you accept that you’re a witch!” the man exclaimed.

“What!? No! Oh holy—oh my, no, I am not a witch dude, what the heck?!”

“Do not dude me, Lady, and do not lie—” he stopped mid-sentence as he stared at the look of genuine confusion on her face. Her wide eyes stared into his with equal scandal. “Oh,” he uttered.

“Duh,” she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet.

“Lady, I LITERALLY,” he turned to expose his bruised and bloodied back in her face, “THREATENED MY LIFE AND STATUS TO SAVE YOU!”

He turned back to face her. She merely stared, stunned beyond speech.

“I am not trying to guilt-trip you, obviously,” he seethed, “But you insinuated that you were a witch!”

“Accusations! I did not!” she snapped.

“Holy Sael!” he exclaimed and shoved his head in his hands while pacing back and forth.

“Were you always this imaginative and gullible…?” she asked, partially amused, partially horrified and wholly exasperated.

“Oh, you don’t know what I have done,” he turned to face her, eyes blown wide and forehead bunched with frowny stress, “You don’t know!”

She hesitated to ask, jaw clenching, but the curious words escaped out of her mouth without permission from thought or consideration, “What did you do…?”

“So,” he licked his lips and pressed his hands over her small shoulders, as if to ground her in case she would recoil upon hearing the news and jump off the open windows. The pervious shyness of having his bare chest in such close proximity was veiled by the uncertainty their future held. “You see, lady, I thought you were a witch and you would get us out of the pinch, so, so I well, announced, claimed? No, no, announced, ah-declared! In front of the entire family, oh did I mention that we were royalty? Yes, I said that you will be my wife.”

There was a moment of silence that rained down upon them like piercing swords.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” she questioned, frowning.

“I got hit for it but they—well, I got it to work somehow…” he gulped and removed his hands from her shoulders to scratch his neck.

“There is no way you got the entire royal family involved, dude—”

“—your royal highness,” he corrected.

“—Does it really matter?! WHAT DID YOU EVEN THINK I COULD DO?!”

“WELL, I DO NOT KNOW HOW WITCHES WORK BUT A MEMORY ERASING SPELL WAS MY FIRST CONSIDERATION!”

“oh my,” whispered, holding her head in her hands, “DID YOU NOT, FOR A MOMENT, CONSDIER THE FACT THAT IF I WAS A NIFTY WITCH THEN WHY WAS I IN A PICKLE IN THE FIRST PLACE?! WOULDN’T I HAVE SAVED MYSELF.”

The shouting forced her into a violent coughing fit.

He paced across the room and fetched her a glass of water from the bedside table. While she sat and drank the water, crouched onto the floor, beside her feet and mumbled like a dejected child, “Wow, I really did not think this through.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she snapped, voice hoarse again.

“It’s Arizel, that’s my name.”

“Mine’s Runa.”

“What now?” he looked up and asked.

She shrugged before saying, “Thank you though, you did save the world and your family by saving me. It was a good decision so I hope you don’t—”

“You’re doing it again,” he snapped, frowning.

“Doing what?!” she all but cried.

“This enigmatic old wise witch woman thing,” he snapped.

She rolled her eyes at that, realising that she was, indeed to be partially blamed for this blunder.

“What now?” he asked again, eyes narrowed at her.

From her height, she could see the bruises on his back. They seemed deep and letting them remain open and untreated for too long would encourage all sorts of infection. She shrugged again, “I don’t know…let’s get you fixed first,” she sighed.

“You cannot fix it,” he sighed.

“Why?”

“They’re poisoned blades. I already feel my head growing foggy.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SITTING ON THE FLOOR, BEING SO CHILL ABOUT IT, YOU MADMAN?!”

He laughed at that.

“At first, I was hoping you would save me – you know? I sort of wagered my survival against these so that they would let you marry me. Dumb idea, is it not? It seemed brilliant then. Do not worry though, m’lady, I was being poisoned way before this, I am quite resilient…maybe I will make it. Don’t miss me too much though.”

Though, she knew, he wouldn’t make it.

All the paths lead to you — 1: Met a Grandpa and with an agenda!

The wall clock flashed 9:00 P.M. The dim lighting poorly reflected off a nametag reading: Larissa J. 

As the isolated office neared closing time, Larissa stretched out her hands while she stood in front of the air conditioner, in a desperate attempt to absorb as much as air as she could before the flap would shut close. 

A contended smile was wrapped over her thin lips, eyes closed to cue pretenses of standing in the middle of a rainforest rather than the city center, clad in a blue and gray cleaning lady uniform with a mop leaning against her chest. 

She inhaled the cool wind like a woman starved, feasting over the last clean gust until it was too late. The swing flap of the air conditioner swung close and with dejected shoulders, Larissa too stepped away. 

She grabbed the mop again and began sliding it against the marble flooring. Her hands moved fast while her eyes kept glancing at the clocking. 

'In twenty minutes, the office would heat up like a portal to hell,' her brain reminded. Her bushy brows banded in determination as worked her way through the wide expanse of an entire office and the adjoining hallway. 

Her head bopped to a popular song, body swaying to-and-fro with the mop as she lost herself to the beat while mopping. So, it was consider her surprise only human when she opened her eyes and spotted an old man standing on the end of the hallway. Under dim lights. Clad in all black. Awaiting her like an angel of death.

Larissa let out a startled scream and let go of the mop. It fell with a loud thud, eliciting a similar response from the man. With one hand, he seemingly clutched his chest and gasped, with the other, he pointed an accusatory finger at Larissa.

"You— you!!"

"I—I, uh, I am sorry!" Larissa immediately bent into a ninety degree bow. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to startle you!" She called out and walked towards the man. 

"I'm good, you're good," the old man replied with a gruff voice. 

"Let me fetch you some water, come sit," Larissa said as she grabbed the old man by his arm and led him inside the office. "Do you work here?" She asked as she seated him on one of the cubicle chairs and speed-walked towards the pantry.

"I suppose I do," the man replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Put a slice of lemon in my water dear, it elevates the taste," he called out to Larissa shuffling inside the pantry. "Do you work here as well?" He asked, while Larissa replied affirmative to both.

"I just part-time, you know, I'm a college student so this is one of the many jobs I do," Larissa clarified as she jogged out with a glass of water and a singular slice of lemon in hand. "I didn't know how you'd want it...eh, should I just put it in? Wedge it to the brim? Squeeze it?" She asked, side-eying the lemon slice. 

"Just put it in," the man sighed.

Larissa did. He thanked her and took a sip of the refreshing drink. Larissa looked up at the clock and panicked. The heat was already beginning to consume the closed space and in a matter of moments the walls would start emanating all the heat they consumed.

"Do you work for security? The office closed an hour ago, there's no other reason a person like you would be here." Larissa asked as she fetched her mop from the hallway. 

The old man replied something but it was muffled owing to the distance between them. Larissa picked up the mop from the end of the hallway and ran back to the office. 

"Don't you want to go back home? To the familiar warmth of your wife, a table filled with food and everything nice?" Larissa asked as she walked back inside.

"I don't anyone to go back to," the man shrugged. 

"Oh— I, uh, I am sorry! Again!" Larissa bent into another apologetic bow. 

"No, no, I mean, my wife is angry at me...for something, yes," the man confessed. 

Larissa let out a giggle. "Bring her some flowers and apologise. I'm sure she's working her best," Larissa advised with a smile. 

Even under the dim light, the old man exuded an otherworldly glow through his wrinkled skin, beady eyes and crisp black suit. His lips were pushed up in a smile as he followed Larissa's movements with his crinkled eyes. 

"Don't you want to go home? It's quite late for a young girl like you," he pointed out. 

"Oh don't mind me!" Larissa waved a hand in his face, "You know how it is like to earn money, don't you? I have a sick aunt at home. She's a teacher. She leaves me copies to correct each day and sometimes I make the report cards as well. She has a lot of allergies — not a sickness for a poor soul, am I right?" Larissa snorted.

"Mhm, my wife is mad at me because our grandson is in love with a wrong person and I'm not doing anything about it," the old man revealed.

"Oh?" Larissa's dark eyes twinkled and her head perked up, "Is it a man?" 

"No," the old man replied promptly.

"Then what? Is it a child? A convict? A prostitute?" 

"You're making her sound like a saint now," the man sighed.

"I don't understand," Larissa confessed.

"Fancy a drink?" The man asked.

Larissa made a face and took two steps backward, "Grandpa, the best I can do is help you sit in a bus." 

The man let out a laugh and Larissa did not understand what in her words was so amusing. Heat had begun emanating off the walls and boiling the floor up. Larissa could feel it in the clogged air and her sweaty armpits.

"What's your major, in college, that is?" The old man asked.

"I cannot tell you that, for privacy concerns," Larissa replied. "We should get going though, this place is going to boil soon."

"Oh? You can turn on the air conditioning if you want to," the man pointed at the the remote place beside the air conditioner, drilled with a stand on the wall. 

"Oh-ho ho! How can I? A mere cleaning lady? Ha! You're so funny! They're going to have me killed and hang me at the community center to make an example out of how people like me should stay in their lane!" Larissa bellowed in between exasperated dry laughs. 

"You've got a vivid imagination," the old man scoffed, "Do you fancy easy money?" His words immediately stilled Larissa.

"Who doesn't?" She scoffed back.

"How far would you go for it?" 

Larissa crossed her arms over her chest and threw a deepened frown at the old man. "I didn't imagine you to be sleazy, wow, there's no place for kindness in this society anymore," she scoffed, throwing disgusted glances at him.

"What! No! What even— How could you!" The man struggled for words and stood up in his defence. Larissa considered it as him making a move and took three steps back. 

"I'm telling you, I will hit you!" She exclaimed, welding the map as a lance. 

"Oh please," the man rolled his eyes, "I love my wife very much, thank you, but what I was suggesting is— would you fancy a wedding to my grandson?"

"A'ight, too much out time for me today, I'm going home, old man, who even are you?!" Larissa scoffed and walked into the hallway to complete the cleaning and leave as soon as possible. 'Surely, if not senile, he must be a human trafficker,' Larissa concluded, very wisely, in her head and made a mental note to report him first thing tomorrow morning. 

"I understand it sounds ridiculous —" the man started as soon as he stepped out of the office, "But my wife is just so mad at me and I cannot think of any other way to get out of this. Surely, if I get him to fall in love with another person, surely he would leave that girl and marry a decent one. I am willing to pay as much as you desire. I am quite well off, you see—"

"I think you need medication!" Larissa cut him off with a shout from the end of the hallway. 

"Opportunities like these never knock twice! How does 50 million dollars sound to you?" The old man shouted back from the other end of the hallway.

"Like the price of my organs that you're gonna illegally harvest!" Larissa shouted back, clearly alarmed, she threw the mop in the janitor's closet and beelined towards the stairway exit. 

"No— hear me out! He's a very dashing young man! His name is Nikolai and he likes dar—"

"Hello? 110? This is an emergency! At Hurain Corp, yes, there is an old who might be trafficking girls, yes he is coming after me, please help— oh my—"

"— Here me out lady, this is actually a great deal, looking at you, you're absolutely his type—"

"—Can you hear that?! He keeps forcing me to marry his grandson?! Yes please —Help!" 

Suddenly, the stairway exit door burst open and Larissa screamed with all her might. 

A flash of light made Larissa look away. They were in the Police Station, bustling with cops and operators handling finncky civilians and criminals. The man flashed light into Larissa's left eye. Again, she looked away.

"You don' seem blind, you quite al'ight, lass then why can't you recognise the big boss o' your workplace? Hurain Kairos? The founder and maker of Hurain Corp? Whatchu some kinda Patrick Star?" Her assigned cop chided as he looked at Hurain and Larissa, simultaneously, giving an apologetic look to one and a pointed look to another. 

"I am sorry..." Larissa sighed, properly slouched in the chair with her shoulders slumped, head bent and back curved into a shameful C. 

"My husband was treating you with kindness and here you are calling the cops on him," an old woman tsked. She stood behind Hurain's chair with a hand on either of his shoulder. Her persona exuded the same otherworldly glow that her husband possessed. Her curly silver hair, sharp blue eyes and unblemished wrinkled skin qualified her as the richest woman in the entirety of the nation. 

"I am sorry ma'am," Larissa slouched further than humanly possible, "Please do not sue me," she all but begged. 

"They gon' do what they like. You can't jus' offend the Kairos' yaknow," the cop snorted, excitedly exchanging glances between the duo. 

"We won't press charges, of course, as long as you co-operate with us," the old man, Hurain Kairos, said ever so kindly.

His soothing tone instinctively urged Larissa to glare at him through a side-eye. "You should have started with your name, old man," she grumbled, unapologetically. 

"It's all the same, all the same," Hurain let out a hearty laugh and patted Larissa's slouched back. "How about we discuss this in the presence of my beloved — or do you wish to be sued instead?" 

Larissa spotted an evil glint in his eye and groaned internally. What she wished was to go home, not be wedded off on the whims of an old rich couple. Surely — it must trespass some of her fundamental rights. Right?! 

Nonetheless, Larissa willed herself to get up and launch into a flurry of apologetic bows for wasting a government official's time and closely followed the old rich couple out of the prison.

The old woman glanced at Larissa twice before patting a hand on her shoulder. "Go home for now, let Arnold take you. We will continue this in the morning. Know that we are only trying to do the best for everyone, okay?" She smiled at Larissa. A dimple birthed on each cheek and her lips pursed into absence while she smiled.

Her touch was warm against Larissa's cold shoulder.

She wished she had grandparents...or parents... Larissa sighed as she walked inside the small one bedroom apartment and locked the door behind her. Aunt Nora was sleeping on the sofa with her glasses still on. Her nose was puffed and red, clearly indicating that her allergies flared up again. A pile of books was placed by the foot of a sofa and a red pen gently swayed (owing to the tall standing fan placed behind the sofa) on top of them. 

The table in front was laden with covered dishes and more notebooks. To the right, by the window, laid a mattress with a folded sheet on top of it. Larissa smiled gratefully.

She took off her shoes at the small shoe cabinet behind the door and tip-toed her way to the bathroom on the left. She washed her face and took her phone out to google the name of the man for whom her life was being ruined.

Her bangs were standing up and as soon as the face of the man popped in the image results, all of Larissa's body hair sprang up.

What awful fate she had.

What fucking awfully hilarious and random fate she had to have for Nikolai Rudbrek Kairos to be the same man she detested with more passion than her hopes to drop dead.