It was the tattoo above your left eye: a pentacle and a crooked segment that tore down to your cheek in scratchy venetian red. Your gloves were rough, and the mandatory uniform on your back was dusked with tints of ochre. You had a head full of snow white, and you reeked of ice cream on Sundays and charity work; of afternoon tea and neat napkins. In a ruin like this, you stood out more than you should have.

You were punctuated with every crunch: you walked as if stepping on snow didn't matter; but then again, maybe it didn't, really. After all, sooner or later, slush always did come after the snow... and it was already starting to get dirty, anyways.

You stopped; pivoted slightly.

The syllables fell slow from your mouth. "Akuma."

You wore your curse well. Most people would have found ways to mask scars as ugly as yours, but the glassy clockwork mechanics spun to existence and spiraled around your eye, adamant. You looked like you were ready to move in for the kill at any given moment. But maybe that was all the value there was to your existence. Pitiful.

You raised your arm; I stepped from the shadows.

"You," you started. "You're an Akuma, aren't you?"

I laughed; smiled. "Human," I said blithely.

The red in your eye pulsated. You took a step back—hesitated.

You were so painfully human.

I pulled at my cheek, bared my teeth again. "Human skin over internal organs. Ectodermic tissues," I purred. "A skeletal system to support my body upright. Cheekbones. Hair. Teeth. Fingernails. Aren't these all things humans have? You have them. Look, look—don't I have them too? Wouldn't that make me just as human as you?"

A slight pause. A tone of self-assurance. "You're not human."

"Really now?" I inclined my head. "But aren't we the same? Do you really go around killing people just like that?" I took a light step back. "That's not very nice of you, you know."

You lifted your arm again.

A faint green glow.

"Or maybe you're not human either," I said slyly. "Your arm," I indicated, "it's the ugliest thing I've ever seen—" (and trust me, I've seen a lot of ugly things in this lifetime and the last) "- you're not god-blessed at all, you know."

"Shut up!"

There was a tragedy underneath you begging to be extracted; a secret just waiting to be exploited. I couldn't wait to tear you apart. I wanted to scratch the (pure) silver rose cross off your coat and crush it to fragments with my own mechanisms. I wanted to rip you out of your flimsy skin and cut across your striated muscles; I wanted to map your circulation with pentagrams and bullet bites. I wanted you to dangle off a string like someone helpless. A puppet. Your existence didn't have any meaning or significance behind it; mine did.

I peeled the skin off and let the matter inside assume its natural shape.

I shot purple from my fingertips in razor lines. "I fucking hate Exorcists."

I was given a second chance—a concept that someone, something, as self-righteous as an Exorcist wouldn't be able to understand (darling, I've been to death and back; you haven't seen a thing yet). I was a soul, a mind, a body, handpicked by the duke himself. I was chosen to exist again. People like Exorcists didn't know what living like this really meant. It was a rebirth. No one said anything about wanting to be saved; only a fool would want to go through dying again.

I sneered.

"Innocence," you said, and white light clustered around your left arm. "Activate."

(—an opportunity to grow, evolve, and feel alive again, said the duke. You'll achieve this by working for me.)

(and the place was so alive – brimming with people and ringing with their laughter)

(and if you kill them all, said the duke, I'll make it worth your while)

(the sound of mechanics clicking)

(you'll be alive again. no – you'll be more alive than you've ever been)