Night fell, bringing a chill wind.
The sky over Sun Son City was starless and dark, choked by low-hanging storm clouds.
In the living room of the manor, an oil lamp burned dimly.
Alicia sat in a wooden chair, her eyes glued to the front door.
Beside her, a clean towel and a basin of warm water were already prepared. Thin wisps of steam rose from the water, the only movement in the quiet room.
She was anxious.
This anxiety was different from when she was at the slave market. Back then, she feared for her own fate—whether she would be beaten, whether she would be thrown away.
Now, her chest tightened at the thought of her master.
The man had left without a weapon. He had gone seeking danger as casually as he smoked his daily cigarettes.
What if he was hurt?
Who would treat his wounds?
Alicia's hands clutched the fabric of her skirt.
Click.
The sound of a key turning.
Alicia stood up instantly. Her heart raced.
The door swung open.
The night wind blew in, carrying a stench that made Alicia hold her breath.
Gamey. Rusted iron. Mud.
The figure stepped inside.
Scorpion stood at the threshold.
His expensive white shirt was no longer white. The fabric was soaked, sticky, dyed a deep crimson that was beginning to blacken. The maroon of his vest was entirely indistinguishable from the blood that coated it.
His face was splattered with dark stains. His hair lay flat and wet.
Yet his expression... was flat.
There was no pain. There was no anger. His eyes were blank, like a placid pool after a storm had passed. A lit cigarette rested between his lips, a tiny orange dot amidst the darkness of his appearance.
"Master..." Alicia's voice caught in her throat.
She didn't scream. She didn't faint.
She saw the blood, and her new instincts took over.
Her master was home. Her master was dirty. Her master needed her.
Alicia moved quickly. She grabbed the basin of warm water and the towel, then knelt near the door, right at Scorpion's feet.
"Are you injured?" she asked, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the hem of her master's muddy trousers.
I stared down at the crown of the girl's head.
"It's not my blood."
The answer was short. Concise.
Hundreds of Goblins. Dozens of Giant Rats.
I had crushed them with my bare hands. Ripped off their heads, snapped their spines.
I had bathed in their bodily fluids.
It felt... refreshing. Disgusting, but refreshing. Like unclogging a blocked drain.
"Even so... it needs to be cleaned before it dries," Alicia whispered.
She stood up slowly.
"Allow me, Master."
She didn't wait for an order. She began unbuttoning my wet, sticky vest.
Her small, pale fingers were stained red the moment they touched the fabric. The color contrast was painful to the eye.
I let her.
The energy in my body had settled. The adrenaline had receded, leaving behind a pleasant exhaustion.
Alicia removed the vest, letting it drop to the floor. Then the shirt.
The wet fabric peeled away from my skin with a soft squelching sound.
My upper half was bare. Dense muscles, littered with old scars, were now covered in a layer of dried blood and sweat.
Alicia took the towel, dipped it into the warm water, and wrung it out.
Hot steam rose.
She began to wipe my chest.
Her touch was gentle, hesitant, yet meticulous.
The warm water dissolved the blood, turning the white towel pink, then a deep crimson.
She cleaned my shoulders. My arms.
Then she stopped at my hands.
Both my right and left hands.
The knuckles were scraped and red. The skin, usually pale, was now stained dark red up to the elbows. Blood had crusted beneath my fingernails and deep into the creases of my palms.
These were hands that had just crushed hundreds of skulls.
Hands that tore through flesh without hesitation.
A killer's hands.
Alicia stared at them.
She remembered these hands. The same hands that, just the other day, had held hers and told her, "You are real."
She took my right hand. Lifted it.
She wasn't disgusted.
She dipped the towel again and began cleaning every single finger with the patience of a saint washing away sins.
"So rough..." she murmured softly, barely audible.
"And?"
Alicia didn't look up. She kept scrubbing the bloodstains off my palm.
"Master's hands... look tired."
I fell silent.
Tired?
My muscles weren't tired. My stamina wasn't depleted.
But... perhaps she was right.
These hands were tired of destroying. Tired of seeking the sensation of life through the deaths of other creatures.
Alicia set the soiled towel aside.
Then, with both of her small, clean hands, she held my right hand.
She began to massage it.
Pressing onto the pressure points in my palm, kneading my stiff fingers.
Her touch was warm. Alive.
A stark contrast to the cold monster blood I had just bathed in.
A contrast to the cold shaft of a spear.
"Here..." she whispered, pressing the base of my thumb. "It's so tense here."
I watched her.
The girl who used to tremble in terror just from my gaze, now holding my "monstrous" hands, trying to ease a burden I hadn't even realized I was carrying.
This contrast.
Blood and warm water.
The violence out there, and the gentleness in here.
I exhaled a long breath. The last wisp of cigarette smoke slipped from my lips, thinner than usual.
My shoulders dropped. The muscles in my neck relaxed.
"That's enough, Alicia."
She stopped, but didn't let go of my hand. She looked at my palm one last time, then met my gaze.
There was a small smile on her lips—sad, yet entirely sincere.
"Welcome back, Master."
"Hm. I'm home."
That night, the water in the basin turned a thick crimson.
But I slept without nightmares.
There was only a lingering warmth in my right hand, the imprinted touch of someone who had welcomed a monster into her home.