This room reeks of cigarettes, booze, and sex. My whole body aches in the darkness; last night just seems like a haze. I open my eyes, but the darkness remains. Typical, I think to myself, trying to get my body into a sitting position. My head spins, and I feel nauseous. No matter how many times I swear to never get drunk again I fall right back into bad habits. But how else am I supposed to get through this?

The bed squeaks as I move closer to the edge. The moment I place my feet on the cold wooden floor, a sense of clarity comes back. This is not my room, not even my home. I need a minute to collect myself before I bend over and search through the clothes scattered on the floor just within reach.

There, something that feels like a sleeve. I pull it closer, pause, then groan. What a miserable being I am, sleeping away my nights with a man I don’t even care about just to stay safe. But how safe am I really in this world, with my profession? I’m living so close to the edge I have become numb to the things I don’t like, and barely feel joy about the things I do like.

This man – The Bear, they call him, but I know better – has no sense for romance, nor does he know how to care about anyone, not even me. I’m nothing more than a priced possession, I’m only there to fill his lonely nights, and I’ve gotten used to it. I can’t help but groan once more. I’m an idiot; my hurting body is proof enough, no need crying about it.

Time to pull myself together. Whatever shirt I pulled closer in this darkness becomes the only thing covering me as I finally manage to get up. This room reeks so badly, even if I weren’t hungover I’d probably feel like it. I hesitate for a moment, then I pull back the heavy, black curtains. It’s raining. Again.

With the early daylight filling the room, the chaos of last night becomes apparent. He has long since left, the bed is as empty as can be. The door is shut close but there is liquid leaking through the small gap under the door. Not my problem. My eyes wander. Torn bedsheets, a ripped pillow, feathers covering the floor and surfaces in close proximity, a red alcohol puddle on the floor, too watered down to resemble blood. Wine? Did I get drunk on wine? I doubt it.

A picture has fallen from the wall, the glass probably shattered. The artificial, potted plant right next to the door is tipped over, a small trail of equally artificial dirt is covering the floor. The room seems foggy from all the cigarette smoke and incense. Time to open the window and let in some fresh air. It feels nice, the cold autumn breeze on my face, brushing my bruises, the deep blue marks of an eventful night. And yet… I feel nothing.

Nothing besides the pain, that is. I take another deep breath of cold, fresh air before I turn around and make my way to the bedside table. Opening the little drawer, I can’t help but swear, “Thayer Godwin, you goddamn madman.“

While I feel like swearing and cursing this man over and over again, I can’t really bother with the emptiness of this little drawer. He dragged me all the way here into his bedroom, intoxicated and helpless, yet he couldn’t even care to refill the painkillers. I have a job to do this evening. Fucking good-for-nothing. “The Bear” my ass.

A chuckle deprived from any sense of joy escapes my lips. If anyone could hear me, my thoughts, my way of speaking not just about him but to him… They’d consider me dead in an instant. But I know better. I know he needs me. He may be a danger to his surroundings, the means of this city to keep order, but despite the pain he puts me through, despite the punishments – as he likes to call such nights – he can’t help but want me.

When did it get so far? At what point did our relationship change from a purely professional one to… whatever the fuck it is now? When did we both become so dependent on each other? There is no love lost between us. I respect his position, but that’s about it. If he was ever overthrown my respect would lay with the new head, not with him. The moment he loses the one thing that keeps me safe, he will lose me.

It’s an ‘eat or get eaten’ kind of world. A lot of people are not aware of it, but I know. I see it daily at work. All the bodies I have to attend to, all the crime scenes I have to clean, all the evidence I have to hide and destroy. All the mighty asses I have to save while working in the shadows. So many dirty secrets. So many hollow promises. So many betrayals and affairs. So much blackmailing and backstabbing. I’ve seen it all. I know how this world works. And I decided to stay alive. No matter what.

So what are some bruises? What is a little pain? As long as I am still breathing I am alive, and I would like to keep it that way. And I won’t if I start to blindly obey the power of a madman. He needs me because I don’t fear him. When everyone bowed their heads and tried to appease him, I ignored him. When he wielded his power to gain loyalty I couldn’t care less for all the threats he threw my way. And then, when he realized I couldn’t be bought with power, he tried to buy me with money. And he failed again.

The only reason I started to work for him was because he made me an offer I couldn’t decline. He offered to protect me. To point his guns at those who point their knives at me. I know the moment they call me to clean yet another mess, one of his goons will be hiding out, with a clear line of shots, decimating whoever poses a danger to me, ensuring I can get away if shit hits the fan.

He tried so hard to impress me, yet it was so easy. But not for a man like him. Not for a person used to power and money. All I needed was a little security, a little backup in my mind. An additional, well-funded voice that tells me that I’ll get home safe tonight. That I’ll get to see another day. And slowly but surely we spiraled down.

Down.

Down.

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Down.

Now the only thing I really have to fear is not waking up again because of him. Maybe, one fine day, I’ll get shot while attending another crime scene. Maybe someone will walk in on me, hand me over to the wrong people. Maybe someone will rat me out. Maybe someone will plant a bomb and blow it up as soon as I get there. These are all well-calculated possibilities. But sleeping with Thayer is anything but well-calculated. It’s a well-calculated risk, but the outcome is nothing anyone could ever foresee.

Would he cry? When he wakes up one fine day and realizes that he choked me for the last time? Will he feel anything when all he feels is a cold body next to his? Will he regret his anger? Or will he just replace me the same way I would replace him? Am I replaceable? Probably. Would it change anything if not? Not for me, that’s for sure. But would it change something for this goddamn city? Could my own demise bring him down from his throne?

I can’t help but shake my head; the alcohol sure did its thing. What an idiot am I, spiraling down again. If I ever die by his hands, there’s nothing else that matters. Not for me, so why should I care? It’s not like there is anyone else out there I’d care about.

I open the door and do my best to avoid the puddle that seeped into the bedroom beneath the door. It has a tint of yellow. Whiskey, maybe? I must admit, it does look a little gross on the white, tiled floor. No matter how many times I wake up here, I can’t help but feel some sort of displacement discomfort. The lower city could never imagine the height of these walls, nor the space every single room embodies.

I belong to the simple folk, we’re used to small spaces, cramped rooms, warm, or even dirty colors. But this apartment… It’s huge, it’s sterile, it’s intimidating. White walls, golden decor – so much wasted money. Every time I leave this bedroom I feel small, insignificant, vulnerable. But it won’t ever stop me on my way to the kitchen. I need my coffee. The painkillers might be out, but the coffee sure isn’t.

While I’m making my way dressed in nothing more but a shirt that is way too big, one of the maids crosses my way. She looks absolutely overworked, exhausted to no end. And still, she smiles at me hastily, averting her eyes. They never look at me, the staff of this home. The only time they ever pay attention to anything is when they are cleaning said thing. It’s as if they were forbidden to lay eyes on anything belonging to their master. Including myself. Oh, what a beautiful trophy I am to have. Not.

I mean, I do consider myself good-looking, but by no means am I a trophy. Not in my understanding. He may view me as one, treat me like a possession, a thing he owns, but I’m not. I’m my own goddamn person. But I gave up making contact with anyone working and living in this house. He may only claim one apartment as his own to live in, but he owns the whole damn complex, his staff is everywhere, I can’t avoid them, and they can’t avoid me.

So we came to the mutual understanding to not pay too much attention to each other. They send a smile my way if we cross each other, and I’ll acknowledge it with a nod, but that’s it. And by now that’s all I really need. My first time here… I was lost. And no one even dared to look at me, don’t even mention to speak to me. I asked, they scurried off to fetch someone brave enough to at least show me around. I asked their names, they scattered like scared chickens. So now we just co-exist. I don’t bother them, and they pretend I’m not here.

The only pain this causes is probably that I have to make my coffee all by myself. It’s not as easy as it is at my home. I buy my coffee pre-grinded, throw it into the filter machine, and wait for my coffee. Here? It’s like goddamn alchemy thanks to the archists. The first time I came face to face with the coffee maker I was afraid to blow up the kitchen. It’s still a pain in the ass but it’s one I’m used to. Fill the beans into this cylinder, give it a shake, insert it in the contraption, flip the switch, wait for it to grind, pour the ground coffee from the cylinder into another cylinder, place it in the other contraption, fill up the damn water, press a button and finally watch the coffee maker do its magic.

Honestly, I have no fucking clue how all this magic technical stuff works. I don’t complain as long as it works but this is just kind of like… 4 extra steps. For something that’s just coffee. “Oh, it tastes so good”, “It’s so high quality”, “You’ll taste the difference”, “Everything else will taste like pisswater”, - yeah no. Still tastes just like coffee. I glance at a shadow in the corner of my eye while preparing my coffee and rambling along, and the moment I turn my head I see the maid fleeing the scene.

Typical. Maybe she was considering helping me out, but I probably didn’t make the best impression. I’m barely dressed, I’m blue and black all over my body, I’m severely hungover and I’m rambling to myself like an angry idiot. And I probably smell awful. My nose is kind of numb to bad smells, it comes with the job, but I can imagine how bad this mixture of booze, cigarettes, sex, sweat, and incense must reek. I’d flee the scenes as well. The problem is: I am the scene. So there’s that.

It takes way too long for this coffee to be made. I guess the thing about having money is that days are just less… stressful? At home I would never have the time to stand in front of my coffee maker for that long, it’s a waste of time, really. And it’s not like I’m functioning correctly before I had my coffee after getting out of bed. So there isn’t really anything I could do to pass the time in a meaningful way. I’d just have to wait it out. But here? I guess I do have the time. There’s nothing I can do, is there? Despite maybe getting dressed and gathering my belongings.

Today is a slow day. Almost as slow as this goddamn coffee. The weather is as it usually is; gray, rainy, cold, breezy. And I certainly move slower due to the pain. This brute forced every centimeter of his aroused aggression into my body without a care for the damage he may cause. Good thing I don’t remember much – last time I tried to stay sober it came back in the morning to haunt me. Not even coffee can help cover the awful taste of something you really don’t want to taste at all.

A little sound makes me aware that my coffee is finally ready. There’s nothing more to do here but enjoy this cup of deep, dark refreshment, and then it’s time to head out. After taking a shower, getting dressed, and collecting my belongings. Which isn’t much, to be fair. And if I’m lucky my clothes aren’t too damaged; otherwise I may have to borrow something from the tailor on the ground floor. Not that he could be bothered about it. He probably already has a set of clothes ready for my next visit so he doesn't have to deal with me. He’s a good old man. He just tries to get by. I guess something about the tailor caught Thayer’s eye, so now he’s working for him, dressing his whole staff and whoever else needs clothes – like me, for example.

I wonder if this old champ knows The Bear’s real name though. Probably not. I mean, even his mail is addressed to The Bear, “Okay, stop it, Eon… You start to look like you totally lost it,” I mumble to myself. I can’t keep standing here, sipping on my coffee and making weird noises, rambling to myself and grimacing along. This has to stop. Now. With a sigh, I ex the rest of my coffee and finally head back to the bedroom. I need a shower, like, yesterday. And then home awaits.