Prologue:

The loud tapping of keyboard and the continuous ringing of telephones was slowly ripping her apart, piece by piece; without much effort, her mind started becoming numb due to the endless sounds she's heard for the past six hours. In a cramped desk with her throat dry again, she pondered on how many seconds had passed since her last check; it sickened her, actually—how her mind refused to accept the fact that she still worked as an editor's assistant in some big time company.

For two years, she has tolerated the endless torture everyone called 'work'. But honest to God, making a living and earning money for it reminded her of high school. A twisted one at that, with threatening co-workers who mostly spent all their time flirting with their bosses and surfing the internet for porn. See, there's not much of a difference there. She doesn't really remember much of the details, but that's what really they do during the day. Everything was always normal.

In fact, it wasn't surprising at all when after a few hours of running around doing different kinds of errands, her feet felt sore. Especially since she was wearing the stilettos her fiancée gave to her as her 24th birthday gift. At that moment, her chair was her trusty friend; it made an end to her feet problem. With a sigh, she stared at the stack of papers in front of her, grabbed her pen and started working.

"Hey, Ruth!"A voice, whom she had known so well, called her, stopping her languid movements as she was about to start writing something. Ruth looked up to see a beautiful woman in mid-twenties standing in front of her, smiling, signifying that this woman had another errand for her. She doesn't really know it, but Ruth had always felt that she was going to die through excessive work. "I've been looking all over for you! Here, could you be kind enough to bring these to Mr. Hamilton?" she handed Ruth another stack of papers.

Her only response was a frustrated sigh.

"Oh come on, Ruth! You're just gonna hand it over to him! Please, he's already murdering me with another teen article!" sometimes, she was amazed on Addie Stinson's way of persuading people; A little pink pout with puppy blue eyes, added by a feminine squeaky voice, and she would have everyone wrapped around her finger.

"About what?" she snorted. Fortunately though, Ruth wasn't everyone.

"Low self-esteem and suicidal thoughts—the usual thing," said Addie as she tucked a piece of blonde hair behind her ear.

"You do realize that you're going to owe me lunch later, right? Seeing that instead of eating my delicious Caesar salad, I'm doing this…this thing. What the hell am I doing anyway?!"

She grimaced at her friend's distressed tone, "Yes. I know lunch is needed; I have spare lasagna—your favorite—so please just give it to your boss as I willingly murder myself in front of the computer screen. Oh, and I think that's Becky's latest article," Addie silently hoped that Ruth would ease up after mentioning the word 'lasagna'.

"Becky? The stylist?" Ruth asked, lips frowned, her face confused. Apparently, lasagna wasn't enough, Addie nodded at the question.

"Then what the hell is this thing doing on my desk?" she stared at her blonde friend in hopes she would receive some kind of explanation, but that hope instantly deflated when Addie simply shrugged. "Beats me," she said.

"Oh forget it. Just go with your next article while I give these to Mr. Hamilton," Standing up, Ruth carried the stacks and smiled when Addie hugged her, saying words running along the lines of 'you're a life-saver' and 'I owe you another one' before disappearing at the hallway.

Soon enough though, as she walked closer and closer to her boss' office, she remembered why she sat down in the first place. Ruth's feet stung. And it hurt. Oh, it hurt badly. Next time, she thought, no more heels for work. Balancing the papers with one hand, she knocked once. But there was no answer, which was odd considering Charles Hamilton was always in his office.

Twice.

Thrice. This was starting to scare her; was it just her or was the door…more ominous than usual?

And just when she thought that her boss was dead, his faint voice told her to come in. Just seeing his office made Ruth envious; how many times had she dreamt of having an office like that, complete with a successful job as an editor and not just an assistant? Ruth lost count—Mahogany desk, expensive carpet flooring and, of course, spectacular view.

His conceited laughter stopped her thoughts. Oh so he was talking to someone on the phone, she thought, well that makes sense. "Sir?" Ruth called, trying to get her boss's attention to drive away from that damn phone. Alas, her first attempt failed.

One of the reasons why she was close to quitting the job was mainly because of Charles Hamilton or Mr. Hamilton, as he loved to address himself; the man was just reeking of self-obsession that he would put the story of Narcissus down to shame. But since the company paid well, and that she was getting married on fall, Ruth took the risk of bearing another year at the damn job. Guess that was a mistake, Ruth thought.

"Sir?" she called again, slightly irritated that he won't even do his job seriously.

"Huh? No, it's not you. Hang on. Yeah, just leave those articles on my desk, Rachel."

"It's Ruth," instead of slapping the man for his rudeness, she stared at her ring, hoping that it would help in controlling her temper.

"Also, on your way out, could you be a sweetheart and make me a cup of coffee. Hmm? Thanks, Rachel. You're a doll,"

The second she was out of the luxurious office, she muttered one word and one word alone under her breath:

"Dick."

* * *

Moments later, after making him a cup of coffee, as he requested, Ruth was walking back to the office with self-loathing distaste. And like what she had done before, she knocked and waited for an answer. Ruth wasn't surprised at all when he didn't answer again. More or less, her boss was still probably talking to the phone, oblivious to the outside world. So she decided to let herself in.

About three things she noticed when she entered the office again.

One was that it wasn't the wooden glory Ruth had first thought when she entered earlier; saying that it was a large mess would be an understatement. Walking slowly with her heart beating fast, she took in the scene; Papers scattered everywhere, broken glass and furniture all around, flickering lights—it looked like Mr. Hamilton had a nervous breakdown. But he wasn't there. Where was he? She's going to handle another fit if he sees all of this. Or worse—lose her job.

Two was that the place had a weird stench; it was supposed to smell like fresh pine and lemon but now…it smelled awful. And honest to God, it made her skin crawl. It wasn't the usual 'dead rat' smell—It smelled more like something alive was literally rotting; just meat chunks falling off in clumps. Her heart rate increased. Ruth was not afraid of dying of cardiac arrest. She was afraid of the sick feeling in her gut that yelled for her to run.

Her heel stepped on something, and whatever it was, it was liquid. It was slippery and it made a tiny splashing sound when she stepped on it.

Dark red liquid.

Blood.

"Oh my God…" Ruth gasped. And when things couldn't get any worse, something dripped on her nose. Something red. She looked up, and quickly regretted that decision.

Because third, she didn't expect to see a bloody body pinned at the office's ceiling.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

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