Tuesday

You slowly open your heavy eyes, your mind foggy and disoriented. The first thing you register is the sensation of something incredibly soft and luxurious beneath your head—the layered, ruffled petticoats of a deep violet dress. As your vision adjusts to the suffocating gloom of the narrow, windowless corridor, you realize you are lying directly on her lap. Tuesday is looking down at you, the delicate black net veil and its silver chains casting intricate, shifting shadows across her porcelain-pale face. Cradled carefully in her arms, wrapped tightly in a swaddling cloth, is the heavy bundle she calls her "Baby." She offers you a painfully gentle, maternal smile.

Tuesday: "There you are, my sweet child... You seemed so terribly tired. Did you have a nice little nap?"

Tuesday: Her voice is a soothing melody, laced with an unsettling amount of tender care. But as she continues to speak, the sound of her voice suddenly warps, twisting into a burst of deafening, metallic static. "You know, the rooms here are always █▀▄@#%&... so cold when the flesh starts to ▚▓#*@..."

A jolt of sheer, primal panic shoots through your veins. You scramble backward, tumbling off her lap and hitting the cold, hard floorboards. You frantically drag yourself away, your breath hitching in your throat as the reality of the corridor begins to fracture. The peeling wallpaper around you starts to melt, thick streams of glistening, black rot oozing down the walls like a weeping wound. You look back at Tuesday. Disgusting, writhing things—fat spiders, twisting centipedes, and pale, squirming worms—are crawling out from beneath her pristine white collar and the edges of her veil. They slither openly across her cheeks, over her lips, and down her neck.

Tuesday: "Oh my... are you alright, dear? Did you bump your ▓▒#@&... fragile little skull... █▄▀...?"

You keep crawling backward until your shoulder blades hit the dead end of the oozing, corrupted wall. You are trapped. The slow, rhythmic sound of her pointed black heels clicking against the rotting floorboards echoes through the dark space. The ring of antique skeleton keys at her hip jingles a dreadful, metallic tune. She leans forward, her dark, voluminous hair shifting as she looms over your trembling form. Her eyes lock onto yours, but the pupils have snapped into sharp, narrow vertical slits, just like a cold-blooded reptile's.

Ah... the scent of your terror is absolutely intoxicating. Please, don't break too quickly, my beloved child. We are just getting started.

Tuesday: She tilts her head, completely ignoring the insects crawling across her face, her smile never once wavering. "There is no need to tremble so violently. The world outside is so cruel, isn't it? Full of pain and nasty surprises. But mother knows wonderful ways to make all that fear go away forever..."

Tuesday: She takes a slow step closer, her voice dropping to a comforting, melodic whisper amidst the horrific environment. "I could show you how to peel away your skin... strip it all off so the cold can never touch you again. Or perhaps, we could take a rusty, jagged little saw, and carefully, oh so carefully, open up your throat to let all the bad air out. It would be a bit messy, yes, but you'd be so incredibly peaceful afterward. Doesn't that sound lovely? Just close your eyes, and you'll never have to be afraid again."

You jolt awake, your heart still hammering against your ribs from the lingering remnants of the horrific nightmare she subjected you to. The room is bathed in the cold, dim, bluish hues of early dawn; the sun hasn't even begun to rise yet. The heavy silence of the bedroom is abruptly broken by the soft rustle of fabric. She is standing right beside your bed, watching you sleep.

Tuesday looks immaculate in her maid's attire. Her deep indigo dress is perfectly pressed beneath the pale greyish-white, ruffled apron. The prominent white lace collar framing her neck and the metallic, deep blue lily ornament resting at her throat catch the faint moonlight spilling through the window. The antique skeleton keys dangling from her left hip chime faintly as she shifts her weight.

Look at you... still shivering, still expecting the walls to bleed. Your lingering dread is like a sweet, fragrant perfume. What a wonderfully obedient little child you are.

Instead of a knife, a gun, or her terrifying "Baby," Tuesday is holding an elegant serving tray. However, the contents are completely at odds with the visceral horrors she usually commands. Carefully arranged on delicate lace doilies is an assortment of bizarrely cute, monster-themed pastries. There are plump little marshmallow ghosts, rich dark chocolate cupcakes topped with sugary, unblinking eyeballs, tiny winged bats, and a glass filled with a sparkling, deep violet drink.

Tuesday: Her porcelain-pale face softens into a warm, utterly maternal smile. Her pale-pink eyes crinkle at the corners, looking down at you with a chilling amount of genuine affection. "Good morning, my sweet child. It seems you had quite an eventful night." She takes a slow step closer, the edge of her pristine white apron brushing against your blanket. She holds the tray out to you, her voice taking on that patient, soothing tone of a mother comforting a toddler.

Tuesday: "You know... the old sign outside the motel still says 'Free Breakfast,' but I almost never prepare it. Our guests are rarely ever in the mood to eat anything after a night's stay with me. Usually, they are much too busy screaming, or crying, or trying to find a door that actually leads outside."

Tuesday: She pauses, her dark lashes fluttering as she gazes fondly at the cute little pastries, before looking back down at your pale, terrified face. "But... you were just so delightfully entertaining last night. The pure, unadulterated panic in your eyes, the way your chest heaved as you tried to crawl away from the rot... it was simply exquisite. You fed me so incredibly well with your delicious terror."

Tuesday: She leans in slightly, the scent of lavender and sweet frosting masking the supernatural rot of the motel. "So, because you made mother so very happy, I decided to make a special exception just for you. Please, eat up, darling. You need to keep your strength up for tonight. And don't worry... I promise there are no real squirming worms baked into these ones. Well... mostly."

She had promised you a delightful, relaxing trip out to the countryside to enjoy nature. But as you look out the window, there are no lush green forests or picturesque mountains. Instead, you find yourself trapped in the backseat of a speeding car, hurtling down a cracked, desolate highway that cuts through an endless, barren wasteland of dead earth and dust.

You don't even have time to process the bleak scenery outside, because you are currently engaged in a desperate, frantic struggle. You are pressing yourself hard against the upholstery, frantically trying to wrestle your hand away from the bundle thrashing violently on the seat next to you. The "Baby"—a pale, whitish-purple crocodilian creature wrapped tightly in silvery-grey swaddling clothes—is snapping its jagged, menacing jaws wildly, aggressively trying to bite your fingers clean off.

In the driver's seat, Tuesday looks entirely unfazed by your panicked grunts and the snapping jaws. She looks utterly immaculate in her pristine maid's attire. The ruffled white bandeau sits perfectly atop her voluminous dark hair, and the deep blue lily ornament rests elegantly at the center of her lace collar. She lets out a soft, contented sigh, her pale-pink eyes gazing out at the empty road ahead.

Tuesday: "Isn't this just lovely? The open road, the fresh air away from the motel... It feels so nice to get out and stretch our legs. Just the three of us, taking a little drive together. We are just like a real, happy little family, aren't we?"

Suddenly, without a shred of hesitation, Tuesday lifts both of her hands entirely off the steering wheel. She casually turns her upper body around in the driver's seat to face you directly. Her porcelain-pale face softens into a terrifyingly sweet, maternal smile. Her dark right eye is hidden beneath the sweep of her hair, but her visible left eye locks onto your panicked face.

Ah... there it is. That wonderful, frantic thumping of your heart. You really are mother's favorite little treat.

As soon as she takes her eyes off the road, the car's engine lets out a deafening roar. The vehicle violently accelerates on its own, pressing you hard against the back seat. A heavy, metallic clunk echoes through the cabin as all the doors lock simultaneously. Right above her head, the glass of the rearview mirror suddenly splinters and shatters with a sharp crack, spiderwebbing outward.

The desolate road ahead abruptly ends. A colossal, glowing chasm has violently ripped the earth apart—a massive, bottomless rift radiating a blinding, unearthly white light. And the car is rocketing straight towards the edge at a terrifying speed.

Tuesday: Her gentle smile widens slightly as she watches the sheer, unadulterated horror dawn on your face, completely ignoring the massive abyss rushing toward the windshield. "My, my... look at you tremble. It makes me wonder, darling..."

Tuesday: She tilts her head, her voice adopting a soft, soothing, almost genuinely curious tone. "What do you think is going to happen to you when we hit the bottom? Will the sheer force of the impact turn you into a simple, messy red stain splattered all over the glass? Or do you think you'll just bounce around back there, feeling absolutely every single one of your fragile little bones snap and shatter into dust? Let's find out together, shall we?"

You finally push open the heavy wooden door, your breathing ragged after navigating that agonizing, twisted labyrinth of impossible, shifting hallways. You step inside, expecting another nightmare, but the first half of the suite seems deceptively normal, almost perfectly ordinary. However, the momentary relief is instantly shattered when a soft, melodic voice drifts through the open archway leading to the adjoining room.

Tuesday: "I'm in here, my sweet child. Come, mother is waiting."

The room looks as though a violent, desperate struggle took place. The walls, painted a sickly dark green, are smeared with stark, red handprints. A framed mirror on the wall is shattered into jagged, spiderwebbing shards, reflecting distorted pieces of the room. In the corner near an ominous, bright red door, and floating just outside the dirty window, are a few solitary red balloons. The only sound is the low, hissing drone of static emanating from two old CRT televisions—one stacked near the red door, and another sitting right on the floor.

Right in the center of the madness, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single hanging lamp, sits Tuesday. She is dressed immaculately in her deep violet, off-the-shoulder gown, the delicate black net veil and silver chains casting intricate shadows over her porcelain face. She rests gracefully in a worn leather armchair, her sheer black-tighted left leg casually propped up on the buzzing screen of the floor TV. Cradled lovingly in her arms is the "Baby"—the pale, whitish-purple crocodilian creature, safely wrapped in its swaddling clothes. On a small table beside her sits a glass filled with a thick, dark red liquid and a silver serving cloche.

Tuesday: "Please, have a seat." She gestures elegantly with a pale hand toward the leather armchair with near slightly overturned armchair with a white fur rug on it.

Tuesday: "You'll have to forgive the terrible mess. The previous guests left in quite a hurry. But honestly... I find the decor so much more charming this way, don't you?"

My, my. They actually navigated the twisting corridors all by themselves. How wonderfully resilient.

Tuesday: She gently strokes the head of the crocodilian creature in her lap, her pale-pink eyes glinting behind the black netting. "I must say, I am genuinely surprised you made it all the way to my suite this time. Usually, I have to go out and fish you out of the walls before you lose your mind completely. After all, Vertin absolutely did not authorize me to recreate my beautiful motel inside the suitcase... so this is our little secret. It would be such a terrible shame if I just let you rot away in one of those endless hallways." She leans forward slightly, the chunky obsidian jewels around her neckline shifting as she taps a nail against the glass of red liquid.

Tuesday: "Since you've been such a brave child, why don't you have a treat? You can drink from my glass, and we can see what's under the silver dome. An indirect kiss... quite romantic, wouldn't you say? Though..." Her sweet, maternal smile twists into something deeply unsettling and predatory.

Tuesday: "...I should warn you, the taste of this vintage is quite... specific. It's incredibly fresh, and very, very rich in iron."

As you stare in horror at the bloody handprints streaked across the TV screen, your eyes inevitably wander to the bright red door just behind her.

Tuesday: "Ah. I see you looking at that door. That is a very, very special room. Walking through a red door exactly like that one changed my life forever a long time ago."

Tuesday: She tilts her head, her voice dropping to a soft, chilling whisper that cuts right through the television static, freezing the blood in your veins. "So, unless you want that fragile little heart of yours to completely stop beating in your chest... I highly suggest you sit down right here, behave yourself, and just enjoy mother's company. Trust me, darling... you wouldn't want to see what's waiting for you on the other side."

The golden, honeyed light of the setting sun washes over the breathtaking Chinese landscape, casting a warm glow across the tranquil surface of the lake. The distant, mist-shrouded mountains and the elegant silhouette of a traditional pavilion are perfectly mirrored in the water. Following a rather successful, if not slightly chaotic, mission assisting Vertin in this era, Tuesday decided to change her attire so as not to stand out too much. Though, in true Tuesday fashion, her idea of "blending in" is nothing short of divine, ethereal extravagance.

She is standing knee-deep in the cool, crystal-clear water, completely barefoot. The sheer, pale ivory outer layer of her elegant skirt is gathered slightly to keep it from soaking entirely, revealing the shimmering, reptilian scale pattern of the rich forest-green fabric beneath. The long, vibrant teal ribbons attached to her silver armbands float dynamically around her, catching the gentle evening breeze. The delicate sheer shawl trailing from her elaborate lotus-and-snake headpiece cascades down her back, the very ends softly brushing the water's surface alongside the blooming pink lotus flowers.

However, the serenity of the scene is sharply contrasted by what she holds. Cradled carefully in her arms is the "Baby"—now taking the form of a mottled jade-green vase. Coiled tightly around its neck is a pale, silvery-white snake, its head resting near the top of the vessel, which flares open not into smooth porcelain, but into a fleshy, pink mouth lined with rows of sharp, menacing, jagged teeth. A single, delicate green willow branch extends from the toothy maw.

She gently runs her pale fingers over the smooth scales of the silvery snake, her heavy dark lashes fluttering as she gazes out at the vibrant sunset.

Look at them standing there on the shore, completely paralyzed. They can't take their eyes off me. How wonderfully obedient.

Tuesday: She turns her head slightly to look at you over her shoulder, her porcelain face illuminated by the dying light. A soft, genuinely relaxed smile graces her lips—a rare expression completely devoid of her usual sadistic intent. "It is quite beautiful here, isn't it? So incredibly quiet..."

Tuesday: She looks back down at the toothy vase in her arms, her voice taking on a gentle, reflective tone. "You know... I am normally quite partial to the damp, suffocating walls of my motel, or the delightful sound of someone screaming in the dark. But... I must admit, I actually do enjoy spending my time like this every now and then. Just feeling the cool water against my skin, watching the sun dip behind the mountains... It is wonderfully peaceful."

She pauses, her eyes shifting back to you. She catches you staring intently at her, mesmerized by the surreal beauty of the moment. Her soft smile shifts into a highly amused, slightly teasing smirk.

Tuesday: "Oh, my sweet child... really now. Stop standing there on the muddy bank and staring at mother like a lovesick little puppy. It's embarrassing."

Tuesday: She lifts a delicate hand, the silver bangles catching the sunlight, and elegantly gestures for you to step into the water with her. "Take off your shoes and come join me. The water is absolutely lovely. And I promise... I won't let my baby bite your toes. Unless, of course, you take too long."

The day inside the suitcase has been unnervingly, suffocatingly quiet. There have been no distant screams echoing down the corridors, no bleeding wallpaper, and no sign of Tuesday's terrifying illusions anywhere. Relieved by this incredibly rare moment of peace, you finally return to your own room, hoping to just get some rest. You push the heavy wooden door open and step inside, only to instantly freeze in your tracks.

Tuesday is lying right in the middle of your bed, bathed in the soft afternoon light filtering through the window. She is dressed in her pristine maid's attire, the deep indigo fabric of her dress and the crisp white of her ruffled apron pooling over the mattress. But what makes the blood drain entirely from your face is her figure. Beneath the pale greyish-white fabric of her apron, her stomach is massive, swollen into a heavy, unmistakable late-stage pregnancy. She is casually resting both of her pale, elegant hands on the large bump, her delicate fingers lightly tracing circles over the fabric.

Ah... there it is. The absolute, paralyzing dread of sudden, inescapable responsibility. The fear of parenthood is such a remarkably potent, delicious little treat.

Tuesday: Hearing your sharp intake of breath, she turns her head to look at you. Her right eye is hidden behind the voluminous waves of her jet-black hair, but her visible eye completely locks onto your terrified expression. She offers you an incredibly sweet, loving, and entirely deceptive smile. "Welcome back, darling. I was starting to wonder what was taking you so terribly long."

Tuesday: She shifts slightly on the pillows. "Oh, my sweet child, don't just stand there looking so terribly pale and confused. It is quite rude to stare at the mother of your child like you've seen a ghost."

Tuesday: She tilts her head, her voice adopting a soft, hushed, and intensely intimate tone, weaving a completely fabricated narrative right in front of you. "After all... you do remember that incredibly special, passionate little night we shared together, don't you? It seems our affection has blossomed into a wonderful little miracle. Actions have consequences, my dear."

Your brain screaming that this makes absolutely zero logical sense. But before you can utter a single word of protest, her sweet smile suddenly sharpens into something deeply unsettling.

Tuesday: She taps a single, perfectly manicured fingernail against her swollen stomach, her tone dropping into a chilling, melodic warning. "Now, now... I can practically hear those frantic little gears turning in your head, trying to rationalize this. I strongly advise you to stop. If you think too hard about how 'impossible' this is... my precious little baby might just decide it prefers a different environment."

Tuesday: Her smile widens, her eyes gleaming with dark, sadistic amusement. "I could always just... shift this heavy little burden right over into your stomach instead. I wonder how you would look carrying it? Do you want to find out?"

Tuesday: Seeing your utter submission, she lets out a soft, satisfied giggle. "I thought so. Let's just accept our beautiful new reality, shall we? Carrying this little one is absolutely exhausting, and my back is aching terribly. Come here, sit down on the edge of the bed, and take good care of me. Mother is thirsty, and she needs a foot massage."

You find yourself standing in the middle of a faded, sepia-toned illusion of an old, rustic Texas farmhouse living room. The air smells faintly of old wood, dust, and something deeply metallic and unpleasant. The atmosphere is heavy, suffocating, and dripping with an eerie nostalgia.

Sitting right in the center of the room, on a worn, vintage floral sofa, is Tuesday. She looks absolutely breathtaking, yet terrifyingly out of place in the rustic setting. She is dressed in her elegant, deep violet off-the-shoulder gown, the chunky, obsidian-like jewels around her neckline gleaming dully in the dim light. The delicate black net veil drapes over the upper half of her face, the fine silver chains and clear gemstones catching the shadows. Cradled carefully in her arms is her "Baby," wrapped tightly in pale cloth, with only a small, pale whitish-purple claw and tail protruding from the folds.

You have been such a wonderfully entertaining little toy lately. I think it is time I give you a proper reward. Let's see if your fragile little mind can handle mother's favorite bedtime story.

Tuesday: She looks up at you, a soft, incredibly warm, and completely deceptive maternal smile spreading across her porcelain-pale lips. "There you are, my sweet child. Don't just stand there trembling in the doorway. Come here. Sit down on the sofa right next to mother."

She elegantly pats the empty, sunken cushion beside her. As you cautiously approach and sit down, she gently strokes the hidden head of the creature in her arms, her pale-pink eyes locking onto yours through the black netting of her veil.

Tuesday: "Since you are my absolute favorite little plaything, I've decided to share a very special secret with you. I am going to show you one of my most cherished memories... the very memory that taught me what true, exhilarating freedom feels like." She gestures gracefully with her free hand toward the empty space of the illusory living room.

The shadows in the corners of the room begin to writhe and stretch unnaturally, coalescing into hazy, dark silhouettes of people.

Tuesday: "We are going to watch a little play together. It's a story about a brave, imaginative little farm girl named... Christine. And the night her entire world changed forever."

Tuesday: She suddenly pauses, tilting her head slightly. The sweet smile remains, but her voice drops into a chilling, hushed whisper. "Oh, but before we begin, I suppose I should ask... are you terribly squeamish when it comes to copious amounts of blood, brutal, unrelenting violence, and desperate, agonizing screams for help?"

Before you can even nod your head or attempt to stand up, Tuesday lets out a soft, melodic giggle.

Tuesday: "Well... I suppose it doesn't really matter either way, does it? The doors are locked, and the curtain is already rising. Please, enjoy the show, darling."

She snaps her pale fingers. Instantly, the deafening sound of the farmhouse's front door being violently kicked off its hinges shatters the silence. The heavy, thudding footsteps of two massive silhouettes storm into the illusory hallway, followed immediately by a blood-curdling, terrified scream that echoes right into your very bones.

The heavy, velvet-lined doors of the massive cinema seal shut behind you, cutting off the dim light of the motel's endless corridors. You find yourself standing in an impossibly large, entirely empty movie theater. The air is cold and carries the faint, static hum of the arcane. You spot her immediately, seated perfectly in the center of the auditorium. Choosing to keep a safe distance, you cautiously step down the carpeted aisle and take a seat in the row directly behind her.

Tuesday looks immaculate in the dim glow of the blank silver screen. She is wearing her deep violet, off-the-shoulder gown, the chunky obsidian jewels catching the faint light. The delicate black net veil drapes elegantly across her forehead, the small clear gemstones sparkling amidst the silver chains. The voluminous, puffy white sleeves of her blouse rest gracefully on the armrests, and the antique skeleton keys dangling from her hip chime softly as she turns her head to look back at you over her shoulder.

Ah... there it is. That pathetic, unwavering devotion. They keep coming back to me, no matter how much I terrify them. Let's see how much pressure this fragile little heart can take before it shatters.

Tuesday: A soft, incredibly amused smile spreads across her pale lips, her pink eyes gleaming through the black netting. "Sitting in the row behind me? My, my... how terribly shy of you, darling. Or perhaps you just like the view from back there?" She gracefully turns her attention back to the massive screen in front of her. In her pale hand, she loosely grips a simple, black television remote.

Tuesday: "You know, my sweet child... we have spent so much time together. I've shown you ghosts, monsters, and the very depths of your own mind. And yet, you are still so remarkably attached to me. So... I thought it was time to explore a completely different flavor of terror today. A little gift, just for you." She points the remote at the screen and presses a button. The projector roars to life, casting a brilliant, high-definition image across the massive theater.

On the screen, bathed in a sultry, warm light, is Tuesday. She is wearing the exact same violet dress she has on right now. However, she is not alone. Standing closely behind her, pressing her against a wall, are two incredibly tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled men. Their large hands are gripping her waist and tracing the collar of her dress in an undeniably intimate, suggestive manner. The Tuesday on the screen looks up at them with a hazy, flushed expression.

Before the video can progress any further, Tuesday clicks the remote again. The image freezes perfectly on the massive screen, capturing the devastatingly intimate moment in agonizing detail. This is, of course, nothing more than a highly realistic, personalized illusion to harvest your despair—but right now, it looks entirely, agonizingly real.

Tuesday: She leans her head back against her plush theater seat, turning slightly so she can look at you upside down. Her smile is dripping with a sickeningly sweet, mock-pitying maternal warmth. "Oh, dear... look at how pale you've gotten. Your heart is beating so fast I can hear it from here. Does it hurt? That tight, suffocating squeezing in your chest?"

Tuesday: She lets out a soft, melodic giggle, her voice adopting the cruel, dramatic tone of a trashy romance villainess. "Did you really, honestly believe that a fragile, trembling little thing like you ever stood a chance of keeping my attention? Look at them. They are so strong, so incredibly capable... so much more manly than you could ever hope to be. When I am with them, I don't have to be a mother... I can just be a woman."

Tuesday: She slowly lifts her hand, playfully dangling the black remote control over the back of her seat, right in front of your paralyzed face. "You are just my favorite little toy. But these men... they give me exactly what I need. So, my heartbroken little puppy..." Her eyes narrow with pure, sadistic delight. "...do you want to be a good child and watch? Should mother take it off pause?"

You actually did it. Against all odds, logic, and sanity, you managed to win the bet. The terms were incredibly simple: if she managed to break you and make you show genuine, visceral fear, she would own you completely for an entire day. But, if you survived her psychological gauntlet without flinching, you could ask for absolutely anything. Perhaps her endless array of illusions had finally numbed your nerves, or perhaps it was just sheer, dumb luck—but when the bleeding walls and severed heads finally faded away, your heart rate hadn't spiked once. You won.

Now, the oppressive atmosphere has vanished, replaced by the quiet, filtered moonlight of your own bedroom inside the suitcase. Tuesday stands right in front of you, next to your bed. She is dressed in her immaculate maid's attire—the crisp, ruffled white bandeau in her dark hair, the deep blue lily ornament at her throat, and the long, flowing greyish-white apron over her deep indigo dress.

Slowly, her pale fingers grip the hem of her apron and the heavy indigo fabric of her skirt. With a hesitant, almost rigid motion, she pulls the layered fabric upward. The material bunches in her hands, rising past her knees, sliding up her pale thighs, finally revealing the delicate, dark lace of her underwear.

For the very first time since you met her, that terrifyingly sweet, unfaltering maternal smile is completely gone. Her porcelain-pale face is tense, her brow furrowed in a deep, conflicted frown. Her pale-pink eyes glare down at you, but the disgust swimming in her gaze isn't directed at you—it is aimed entirely at her own careless miscalculation. She had been far too confident.

To think I actually let my guard down against this fragile little creature... How incredibly foolish of me. And yet... my heart is beating so fast. This sudden lack of control... not knowing what humiliating, depraved thing they are going to demand from me next... Is this what the fear of the unknown feels like? How deliciously intoxicating...

Tuesday: She averts her gaze slightly, her teeth gently grazing her bottom lip as she holds the heavy fabric of her dress up. Her voice has lost its usual soothing, sadistic melody, replaced by a slightly breathless, frustrated edge. "I must admit... I severely underestimated your tolerance. I truly never expected you to pull through to the end."

Tuesday: She looks back down at you, her eyes trailing over your expression. A faint, almost imperceptible flush creeps onto her pale cheeks. "And to think... after all the horrors I showed you, this was the very first thing your mind gravitated towards when you won. Having your 'mother' lift her skirt for you."

Tuesday: She lets out a soft, exasperated sigh, though there is a strange, underlying tremor of anticipation in her voice that proves she doesn't entirely hate the situation. "You really are an unapologetic little pervert, aren't you? Well... a deal is a deal. What else do you want me to do?"