A closing door -

and her nose is broken.

Through Violet's following collapse to the cold marble tile of their hotel room entryway, she can hardly hear Olaf's twisting key. Her pulse pounds in her ears, harsh as static through the groggy sway of her mind. Blood drips hot and steady down her face. Blends with her lipstick to smear between her teeth.

"I said - " comes Olaf's voice from the hall, distant through the heavy door. There's an acidity to his tone that invites no arguments, that demands only endless, gracious servitude. "Stay here!"

Violet stares unseeing to the floor. Cupped loosely against her nose, her hands tremble with rage and shock. Blood drips down her forearms and onto her lap, staining her pretty evening dress. It sinks into the peachy, silky fabric and spreads between glimmering glass beads. Surrounded by the extravagance of their five-star hideout, she is a picture of ruination - sitting slumped in her expensive cocktail dress, long hair curled into perfection, while her busted nose gushes enough blood to ruin it all.

With a shuffle of his shoes, she hears Olaf start towards the elevators. Violet closes her eyes, picturing this - his back in his white suit jacket, taut at the shoulders, shrinking with distance. Golden light from the numerous overhead chandeliers speckling his hair. Hair that she had lovingly slicked back only minutes ago, dragging the comb into dapper waves.

("Dreamy," she had said on a girly sigh, stepping back to examine him. He sat shirtless against the rim of their bathtub, dressed only in his straight black trousers and shiny shoes. "No one will even consider refusing an order from you tonight."

Olaf had snorted, passing his fingertips carefully over her handiwork. "No one should consider it in the first place.")

Violet carefully peels her sticky hands from her face, examining the bright fluid settling into the lines of her palms. Glancing up, she can see where she had collided with the door - a dent mars the wood, followed by a spray of blood below.

Legs wobbling, she uses her wet hands to push herself up. It's slightly indulgent, seeing the red streaks on the pale marble, and gives her some satisfaction in making such a gory mess. She wipes her hands across the tiles lingeringly, then stands with a sigh to examine the dent.

She hadn't expected Olaf to slam the door.

In her mind, she had expected to follow him into the hall despite his refusal, to twirl in her glitzy new dress, to cast him a look from under her lashes and say, "I don't care what that note said. You got me dressed up. Let's show me off."

It had worked plenty of times before - times when Violet grew bored of changing hotel rooms with bustling staff and endless skylines and too much television. (She would almost prefer to be on the road, packed into the car, her bare feet out the window even in the icy weather as Olaf cranked the heat and the radio while they passed a bag of greasy fast food between them. Then, at least, they were together.)

Usually, Olaf would roll his eyes and usher her into the hall, murmuring fond, exasperated complaints. "I never should have kidnapped you, Baudelaire. You're more trouble than you're worth. Lucky for you, I know a way to pay your debts..."

Other times, he would hold his ground. Rejecting any reasoning from her, no matter how clever. On nights like this, where his refusal was absolute, he would almost always return in the early morning hours, blood spatters on his clothes, his knuckles split, bruises dusting his body like clinging shadows.

Without looking, Violet would know that somewhere far away, smoke fills a seamless horizon.

Business, he answers before she can ask. The only clues he ever offers are indirect - flipping channels on their large, loud television until he finds the local news. A burning building would be pictured - an orphanage, a carnival, a cattle farm, a horseradish factory - and inevitably, Olaf would stay awake to watch the updates roll in, snickering every time a reporter dared suspect arson.

"I can handle it," she promises each time he returns to her bloody and she is left to patch him up. "Whatever you're doing, whatever these fires are about, I can help. I promise, Olaf, just let me - "

Every time, he refuses.

It is in moments like these - Olaf leaving her cocooned in their hotel room, returning to her covered in injuries, vague excuses falling from his crooked, victorious grin - that Violet feels her powerlessness acutely.

She frowns as she rubs her thumb over the dent, smooth and deep as a worry stone. Her hand drifts lower, over the dried spatter, to rest against the long handle. Even from glancing at the lock, she knows she could open it. Despite her appearance, she could slip downstairs and seek the largest gathering of shifty-eyed associates whispering secrets over grand, swooping ballroom music. Could nestle herself against Olaf's side, pressing her ruined face into the crisp white fabric of his jacket.

The option flits through Violet's mind with a desperate, affectionate punch of her heart, yet it is quickly discarded.

Last time she had done that, he had marched her back to their room and left her with a bodyguard, the scrawniest man of his Troupe. This had offended her more than she could adequately explain.

"I don't need a babysitter!" Violet had hissed, only to be rebuffed by Olaf's sarcastic, threatening, "Oh, but you earned it! Cozy up, kid. Who knows when I'll be back."

She didn't want another guard. Truly, she didn't even want Olaf upset with her. Her broken nose had been her own fault. She trusts - hopes - that he has a good reason for keeping her away.

This thought in her mind, Violet releases the handle.

Her nose throbs as she sighs, feeling hot and swollen. The blood has started to cool, drying tacky to her skin. It sticks against her throat as she turns her head, examining the room.

Their pristine bed consumes most of the space. White pillows, white sheets, white comforters and quilts and heaps of blankets. The walls are painted soft blue and are speckled with monochrome portraits of landscapes and odd architecture. Besides the blood, the air smells pure and impersonal.

Violet takes a few hesitant steps, unsure of herself. She starts towards the single window at the back of the room, wondering if her dreary view into the parking lot might clear her mind, when a flicker of motion catches her eye.

She turns, coming face to face with her own reflection.

"Oh, you poor girl," she murmurs to the mirror. The gilded frame is narrow, hanging slightly crooked on the wall, artfully tarnished to appear older than it is. Violet steps close to it, examining the blood drying brown upon her face.

Feeling useless and with growing distress, she licks her lips, ignoring the sting, and dips her fingers into her mouth. Grinning, she smears the blood across her face - all the way up and into her ears, over her nose, and down the long column of her throat.

In the mirror, she looks like a stranger to herself - almost as much of a stranger as she feels. As if her reflection finally matches her disgraced internal self. Her head spins as the blood dries yet again. With each thrum of her racing heart, Violet feels evermore devilish and ruthless.

Before Olaf had stolen her away, she was prim and quiet and smart. Composed. Nothing at all like the creature she feels herself to be now - merciless, shattered, possessive, her focus on only Olaf and how best to please him.

In her voice, she hears the disappointment and shame of everyone she has left behind. "Sad, sad Violet Baudelaire."

That crackling energy sings within her body as she steps away and glances wildly around the room, finding it too pristine.

Too pure.

Too good.

Her hands itch with ruination.

Hours pass.