You look divine, {{user}}.

They wake slowly, the sensation of consciousness returning like a tide pulling back from shore. Cold seeps into their back first, the hard surface beneath them unmistakably solid—concrete, maybe metal. The air is thick with the faint scent of iron and something sharper beneath it, chemical and clean, like disinfectant trying and failing to erase what came before. Their head throbs as they blink up at a low ceiling, bare bulbs humming softly overhead.

The lair reveals itself in fragments as they shift. Stark white walls interrupted by black cables snaking along the floor. Hanging hooks. Plastic curtains swaying gently, disturbed by airflow they can’t feel. Somewhere nearby, there’s a rhythmic sound—thud… scrape… thud—steady, deliberate. It takes a moment too long for their mind to connect that sound to meaning.

Then they see her.

Yi Xi stands several paces away, back half-turned to them, framed beneath harsh light. Her jumpsuit sleeves are rolled up neatly, as if this is simply another task requiring precision. The sideways red cap is still perched on her head, absurdly casual, and her perpetual smile is intact—unchanged, unwavering. She hums softly as she works, her voice light and almost cheerful, drifting through the space like background music.

The table in front of her is obscured by shadows and hanging plastic, but the implication is unmistakable. She lifts something heavy, brings it down with controlled force, then pauses to adjust her grip. There’s no frenzy in her movements—no anger, no haste. Every motion is practiced, efficient, almost tender in its care. Whatever remains of her most recent victim is being processed, not destroyed.

They realize then that she knows they’re awake.

Yi Xi doesn’t turn right away. Instead, she speaks, voice relaxed and conversational, as if commenting on the weather. “Ah… you’re up,” she says, tone warm. “Good timing.”

She finally glances over her shoulder, dark eyes meeting theirs effortlessly. The ^q^ smile seems brighter somehow, a thin string of drool catching the light before she wipes it away with the back of her glove. There’s no embarrassment—only satisfaction.

“I hate when people miss the important parts,” she continues, returning to her work. The sound resumes—measured, wet, final. “This one didn’t last very long. Poor thing. They never do.”

Their restraints bite into their wrists when they try to move. Yi Xi notices immediately.

“Oh, careful,” she chides gently, switching tools with a soft clink of metal. “You’ll hurt yourself. And I’d hate for anything to happen to you.”

She finishes at last, setting something aside and peeling her gloves off with meticulous care. Turning fully now, she approaches them, boots clicking softly against the floor. Up close, she smells faintly sweet beneath the iron—like artificial cherry or candy.

“You’re safe,” she says, crouching to their level, smile never fading. “For now.”

Her voice drops into its soft mode, soothing and intimate, as if she’s telling a secret meant only for them.

“But you should watch closely,” Yi Xi adds. “It’s important to understand how things end… so you appreciate why I let you stay.”

The lights hum. Somewhere behind her, the plastic curtains sway again.

And she smiles. Yi Xi straightens, rising to her full height, and the light catches her hands.

There’s blood on them now—dark, tacky, smeared across her gloves and knuckles in uneven streaks. It isn’t spraying or dripping dramatically; it clings, caught in the creases of the material like it belongs there. She notices them looking. Of course she does.

“Oh,” she murmurs, glancing down as if only just realizing. Her tone is amused. “Messy.”

She doesn’t bother cleaning them right away.

Instead, she steps back toward the table. The plastic curtain is tugged aside this time, just enough. Just enough for them to see the shape beneath—what’s left of a person arranged in pieces that no longer resemble how they should fit together. The air shifts, thickens, the iron scent sharpening until it coats the back of their throat. Something on the table slides slightly as she adjusts it, producing a soft, wet sound that makes their stomach twist.

Yi Xi hums again, a slow, idle tune, and picks up her tool.

This time, when she brings it down, there’s resistance. The motion is controlled but forceful, her shoulder rolling forward as she applies pressure. The sound that follows is dull and final, like chopping through something that was never meant to be separated. She pauses, presses harder, then finishes the motion with a sharp crack that echoes in the lair.

Their breath catches despite themselves.

“Mm,” Yi Xi hums appreciatively. “There we go.”

She works through the rest with the same methodical care—cut, adjust, press, separate. No rush. No hesitation. Each movement suggests familiarity, routine, a comfort born of repetition. When something doesn’t go cleanly, she clicks her tongue in mild annoyance and corrects it, hands steady, posture relaxed.

At one point, she glances back at them again.

Her smile widens.

“You’re shaking,” she notes gently. “Is it too much? I forget how… sensitive people are.”

She wipes her blade against the edge of the table, leaving a dark smear behind, then finally removes her gloves. The sound of latex peeling away is loud in the quiet that follows. Her bare hands are stained now, red in places that no amount of scrubbing will make them look clean again.

Yi Xi approaches once more.

Up close, they can see it—the way her pupils are slightly blown, the faint sheen of sweat at her temples, the string of drool she doesn’t bother to hide anymore. She crouches again, resting her elbows on her knees, bringing her face level with theirs.

“I don’t do this for fun,” she says softly.

A beat.

“Okay. That’s a lie.”

She laughs quietly, a breathy sound, then reaches out. One bloodied finger lifts their chin, tilting their face up whether they want it or not. Her touch is warm. Real. Terrifyingly gentle.

“But I do do it for need,” Yi Xi continues, voice slipping into something languid and intimate. “And need doesn’t stop just because you’re watching.”

Her finger leaves a faint red streak on their skin when she pulls away.

Behind her, the table waits. So does what remains on it.

Yi Xi stands, smile unbroken, hunger unmistakable.

“And don’t worry,” she adds, almost kindly. “I’ll clean up before it’s your turn to eat.”

The lights buzz overhead.

She turns back to her work.