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The Captain had not shifted once in her chair since sitting down, one leg crossed over the other and both arms tightly folded across her chest in an intimidating display of control. Her expression, as equally unchanging, could only be described as impassive bordering on disapproving.

"I will speak with your supervisors," she said at last, in a tone that made Mineko fear the worst. As if a judge and jury of one wasn't telling enough. "I appreciate your cooperation, and hope you will continue to cooperate with us throughout the remainder of this investigation. Until I return, you are to remain in this room under supervision, for security reasons. This matter is going to be settled today."

It's three in the morning. Mineko couldn't think of anything better to say, so she kept the comment to herself. The cracked leather huffed beneath her as she readjusted herself in the chair and crossed her ankles.

A polite knock beat against the door separating them from the rest of the manor. The older woman glanced at her before standing, adjusting the hem of her uniform as she turned and strode to the door. As soon as she opened it, the man on the other side bent down towards her ear, his narrow shoulders bunching forwards like a gargoyle's, and began speaking quickly in a hushed tone. The Captain stepped out of the room, partially closing the door behind her so that Mineko could not hear their discussion.

Suppressing a sigh, Mineko hugged herself and let her eyelids shut for a few seconds. She was tired, wary, and—still dressed in only a borrowed nightgown and light robe—cold. Based on the Captain's response to her account, she could now add 'anxious' to the list.

With no witnesses to corroborate her summary of events before setting foot in the guest suite, it would be difficult to prove that she had no ulterior motives. Maria obviously had no idea why she was in the suite, and of all the eyes that glanced her way, not one pair showed a trace of understanding. Furthermore, she received no explanation as to why locking herself in the guest room when she believed her life was in danger merited punishment. No one was willing to share what had happened while she was barricaded in the guest suite, and so she had no way of knowing if the one chasing her—the 'intruder,' she called it in her statement—had been apprehended. Even the Captain evaded her questions with the shrewdness of a spokeswoman.

Something sounded softly and she opened her eyes, turning towards the door.

The Captain stood with one black-clad hand wrapped around the handle, her arm stiff and shoulders square. "He wants to speak with you." She released the door handle and the brass clacked back into its original position.

He's going to fire me. The cold sunk deeper, into the pit of her stomach, and Mineko felt bile rise with her as she pushed herself off of the cushions. Studiously avoiding the woman's analytical gaze, she stepped into the hall.

The man in black, who had not departed after delivering his message, simply said, "Follow me," and started away, as if she needed guiding through the manor that she knew like the back of her hand.

The Captain fell into step beside her. She still didn't know any names aside from Nakamura; not that it would probably matter soon.

There appeared to be a stain on the hardwood just shy of the first guest suite that she had not noticed before, the dark spots only now evident thanks to the bright tape boxing the area like a crime scene. The splintered door at the end of the hall had also been sectioned off, the tarp hiding the damage doing little to stop the draft sneaking in from the porch, the material crinkling inward with every breath of wind.

When the black suit knocked, Nakamura answered the door with his usual frown. "In private. He wants to speak to her alone."

This bit of information must have been new, because the woman let out a terse, "What?"

"He says," Nakamura raised his voice, meeting the expression that Mineko had been avoiding, "that he wants to speak with her alone."

"After what happened there can be no guarantee of his safety. Allowing him to converse alone, in his current condition, would be irresponsible and unwise."

Nakamura opened the door a little farther but did not remove himself from their path. "Would you like to speak with him yourself?" His voice was even-tempered.

Am I…not speaking with Sakata-san?

"You have fifteen minutes." Mineko turned when she realized she was being addressed, but the Captain had already returned her attention to Nakamura.

"He needs to rest. Fifteen minutes should be plenty of time." The doorman said nothing, but opened the door wide enough for someone to step inside.

"Go," the Captain instructed with a hint of impatience when no one moved.

Mineko detached herself from the small escort, almost glad to join Nakamura's company. Her steps slowed to a stand-still as she entered the suite, unsure where to settle despite her options. The armchairs had been returned to their original places, the dresser was no longer in danger of being nicked by the door, and the abundance of uniformed men and women had disappeared without a trace.

Nakamura brushed past her and stopped at the head of the bed, addressing the man lying in it in a low voice.

Risking a glance at the open door, she saw the Captain watching and averted her gaze again.

"She has fifteen minutes alone with him." Nakamura spoke to the nurse as he straightened, smoothing the front of his suit until it was pressed to his liking. "We'll return when her time is up." The nurse blinked and nodded. He looked at Mineko, then put his clipboard face-down on the nightstand. Nakamura turned to the door and the nurse made to follow him.

The lanky physician paused, briefly, at the foot of the bed, his head swinging from the bedridden man to her. "If…" He spun around as if he'd lost something, and then pointed to a moveable cart with a collection of miscellaneous items. "There are tissues, if you need any," he offered in his calming baritone. "Please call if you need assistance." Mineko managed a nod, her expression blank as she watched him slip out the door and close it gently behind him.

Silence fell with the softness of a spring shower.

Opening the window above the desk had done the bedroom air some good; the stench had receded, overpowered by the scent of damp wood and wet grass. It would have served as a pleasant distraction if not for the memory of her previous experience already stealing her focus.

The Captain's words had not eased her troubled mind in the slightest. If anything, they confirmed that whoever—or whatever—was in the mansion, uninvited, had escaped. Her eyes wandered to the window and found the view obstructed by the curtains. The horrible smell might return, but for the safety of everyone, she hoped the window, and every other in the manor, were never opened again.

A memory from the day before, brief, like a photograph rather than a video clip, inserted itself into her line of thought: the cool breeze from the open window filling the washroom, the hair on the back of her neck rising to attention as she separated the stained laundry.

Insulated with the help of a functioning door, the temperature in the suite was considerably warmer than that of the hall, but Mineko pulled the robe tighter across her chest. Her hands abruptly ceased fidgeting over the trim of the garment in the middle of their task, and with some color on her cheeks, she glanced up at the bed, realizing she had been neglecting the one who called for her.

Were his eyes open? Could he even speak with the mask covering his nose and mouth? Lowering her hands to her sides before bringing them around her front to clasp together at her naval, she approached the foot of the bed. If he did speak, would she be able to hear him this far away? How strong was his voice?

She edged closer to his side.

Green eyes—the only spots of color on a tapestry of white—settled over her from between cracked eyelids. Swallowing her embarrassment, she returned his gaze and spoke first. "You wished to speak with me? Sir." The title sounded strange, but she did not know what else to call him.

A thought crossed her: he might not know what she was called either. But he asked for me… She was trying to think of a way to slip in a proper introduction when he laid his wrapped cheek against the pillow.

"What did you…say earlier?" His voice was a rasp, hollowed behind the mask, and, had Mineko had more tact, she wouldn't have immediately asked if he wanted something drink. He ignored her concern and pressed. "What about Bethlehem?"

The inquiry and the fact that he could speak properly hit her like a splash of ice water, and she could not tell whether she blushed or blanched. "I-it's just poetry. I don't kno-w-w anything about Bethlehem. I ramble sometimes, um, when I'm nervous." Her smile was strained. "Helps me thi-ink."

She blinked and let her eyes slide down his neck to his shoulder. Maybe he was burned.

"I w-w-wasn't being very professional. Everything was happening so fast. I w-wasn't ready… I've never bee-en in a situation with, where…like that."

The man shifted under the covers, grunting quietly beneath the mask as he tried working himself into a more upright position. His breathing grew heavier, and Mineko swayed slightly, uncertain, her robe brushing her shins. Did she have the authority to tell him what to do? To offer suggestions?

Please stop moving.

As if reading her mind, he stilled, tensed, and let loose a coughing fit that rapidly changed from dry to wet, gradually increasing in volume until Mineko feared he would vomit with each heave of his upper body.

"Please." She moved to the edge of the mattress but no further, afraid to touch him. He didn't sound well, but if she tried to help, and someone burst into the room, would they point a finger at her? Her hands separated, hovering just above the blankets and curling around nothing but air. "Please."

He sunk back down, the fit subsiding, slouching against the pillows. One wiry arm slid up his chest as he wheezed, fingers scratching at the bandages over his clavicle before inching up further to prod at his mask.

Acting on a hunch, Mineko grabbed the box of tissues and returned to his side. When she tried to offer a tissue, he continued to work on the mask, his covered fingers struggling to find purchase under the plastic lip. His chin tucked forward with the effort.

"Let me help," she intervened at last, visibly bothered by the sight. The tissue fluttered into his lap as she carefully pulled the mask down and to the side. A dark crescent of blood glistened behind his chapped lower lip.

Retrieving the tissue she had dropped, Mineko raised it towards his face, grateful when he plucked it from her hand. He held the napkin flush to his mouth and sighed, the fingers of his one hand twitching to keep it in place. Behind the bandaged digits she could see crimson spreading, threatening to overwhelm the light fabric as it sagged in his grip.

"Y-you need another," her voice cracked. Out of courtesy, she intended to phrase it as a question—not as the statement she heard herself utter. She thrust three tissues at him, white fabric blossoming from her hand like a crumpled flower. "Um…" Bending at the waist, legs pressing against the side of the mattress, she leaned farther in, trying to replace the tissue in his hand before the next drops of blood fell. He pulled the soiled tissue from his lips and she held her other hand out, asking for an exchange. She did her best to keep her expression under control when the wet tissue dampened her palm.

He's not dying. This is not hospice. He's not dying. Maria-san said so. She chucked the tissue into the trash bin by the bed, catching sight of but not lingering too long on the smaller bin labeled 'sharps.'

The man squeezed the used tissues in his fist and brought his hand down to rest against his chest, his eyelids beginning to shut.

"I'm sorry abo-o-out what happened earlier." The quiet of the room seemed to amplify her tiny voice to the volume of a shout, but it did not startle her companion. His eyes remained closed as his breathing evened. If he heard her apology he did not think it worth the time or energy to respond.

Mineko retreated into silence.

She wanted to leave the manor—not forever—and return when all the guests had gone, when the mansion settled back into a comfortable silence and the biggest concern was whether Sakata would call at the last minute to say he was coming home and needed dinner.

Her thumb worked against a red smudge on the opposite palm that wasn't going away. I should have stayed at home. Then I wouldn't be up at this hour taking care of someone I don't know how to take care of, trying to explain things I can't explain, worrying about losing my job…

Her thoughts took a sudden turn. If the intruder got away, is he going to come back? Did the messenger have anything to do with it? Is someone trying to chase me away? What if he wants to hurt me? I live alone… If I get fired, and whoever—whatever—follows me home, attacks me… She had ceased rubbing at the blood on her palm, instead clutched her hand tightly.

Her fifteen minutes would probably be up soon. I need to go. She looked up and found a weary gaze on her. The self-dismissal died on her lips.

"I can take those tissues for you." She lifted the corners of her mouth a fraction and moved her hand towards his. He did not relinquish his grip.

"Tell me about Bethlehem… One more time." Her hand stopped short, and her dark eyes flickered to his face. Their gazes remained connected for some while, each additional second filling Mineko with something like trepidation as she brought her hand back to her side. She forced herself to look away, to the fistful of red and white tissues slumped against his chest, and only then could she remember the words.

"And w-wh-what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" The tips of his bandaged fingers, dyed red by his blood, loosened their grip on the wad of tissues. His eyes held a far-off look, as though he was remembering something that was neither good nor bad.

"When you return…will you start the poem…from the beginning...? I want…to hear about the beast." He lifted his wrist, and Mineko numbly accepted the tissues from his trembling hand. Their gazes met again, and she could discern neither the emotion in his eyes nor whether or not he knew what was on her mind.

"I…" What should she tell him? "I don't know i-if I'll be coming back, sir. I mean… I like w-w-working here, and I don't want to leave, but…due to circumstances…" She didn't really want to share her suspicions with someone of his age for fear of receiving a labored, long-winded recollection of his youth, or being branded with the words 'dramatic' or 'gossip.' Her private life was none of his concern, anyway. "I might not return, sir, but I'm sure anyone could find the poem for you. I'll write the author and title dow-wn if you like."

The way he was looking at her made her uncomfortable. Not that it was intense or perverse; if anything, it was apathetic. And it took in too much of her.

"Let me throw this away, and then I'll find somethi-ing to write w-w-with." The dirty tissues plopped into the trash, and she washed her hands before returning to the bedside. Thinking of the nurse, she turned to the nightstand where the clipboard rest and picked up the pen lying next to it. She was just about to look for a scrap of paper when someone knocked on the door.

"Fifteen minutes are up." No sooner was the last muffled syllable called that the door swung open, the Captain letting herself in with Nakamura and the nurse trailing behind.

The man in the bed peered around Mineko and gave a barely perceptible nod to the spectacled woman when she took her place by his side. "Thank you, Captain."

"You need to keep your mask on," was her stern reply. Still, her hands were gentle as they lifted his head from the pillows and repositioned the mask over his face.

Mineko turned to the nurse, imagining she would have more luck with him than any other occupant. "I-is there paper I can borrow in here? Just a scrap?" The Captain twisted her head around. "I w-want to write something down for him." It took all of her self-control to keep her eyes on the nurse. She did not miss the quick glance he sent towards the older woman before shuffling through the papers on his clip board.

"Here," he tore off a piece from a sheet towards the back. "Will this do?"

"Yes, thank you." Perching the strip of paper on the corner of the nightstand, she scribbled the poem's title and paused to remember the author. Recollection proved a troublesome exercise with people staring at you.

"I'll leave this here, sir, if you w-w-would like to read it later." She looked up to make sure the man in the bed was still awake and paying attention, pointing at the nightstand when she saw that he was. Offering a quiet, "Good-night," and a stiff little bow in his direction, she waited for the Captain to direct her out into the hall.

It was only after an hour of dozing in an armchair under the bored expression of a black suit, that she realized she should have said, "Good morning."