A/N: Thank you to everyone who was kind enough to leave me a comment. Spoomed, Evelink, Silewolf, I have read your comments over and over, they really are the lifeblood for any tiny author and I thank you so so much for them.

Chapter Three

The proprietress slid open one of the many shoji within the long hall to reveal a simple six tatami room, the space clean and barren save for a small table and cushion within. She smiled up at him to enter so that she may follow, her steps soundless as she trailed behind.

As Douma made for the screens of the single window in order to gaze at the expanse of the city below, the innkeeper veered to the panel of his closet, sliding the door smoothly to the left to reveal a folded futon beneath undecorated bedding and a wooden box that appeared to contain cloth and the flash of something metallic lain within.

It caught his attention before he could even attend to the business of the window, shifting his direction to sit down, near her, his knees folded beneath him as he watched her procure the box from the closet, setting it between them, the space small and almost seemingly intimate.

She didn't wait for him to broach her of its contents as she slid the fabric out of its container, the way in which her fingers slipped over the cloth delicately only adding to the allure of the material.

It was blacker than black, a color that voraciously ate everything and gave back nothing. She shook it out and laid it across her lap, the pleats crisp and neat, much as he was accustomed to.

"Hakama," he spoke simply, the childlike way in which he said it garnering a pleased smile from the woman across from him as she gave a small inclination of her head, her keen eyes crinkling in the corner, obviously warming to him.

She pulled out a matching haori, flipping the material at the seam to show him the deep crimson lining that made up the entirety of the inside of the coat, her eyes flicking to him in anticipated appreciation and his open grin in turn matched her expectations on the mark.

"This is your uniform to execute your assignments as a Sin-Eater. If you will be needed in the human realm, and undoubtedly you will, your attire will be changed to accommodate you accordingly."

"How so?" he queried, the interest in his voice made up of undisguised wonder and delight. Everything around him was a new curio and it was holding him captive in fascination that contrasted so vastly to the mundane century of his former unvarying every day.

"I will leave that facet of your job to your own revelation. Now! Your secondary uniform is also stored within and it is those garments that you shall wear when I am in need of your assistance. Oh, lest I forget, child. They may not be what you might have been hoping for but they'll aid you in every respect in regards to your demon arts."

She gestured for him to lay his palm open and he did, unsure of her meaning yet quite certain it had everything to do with the flash of hardware he had glimpsed within the box.

Her smile was un-secreted and yet it had knowledge that she did not impart him with. Not until he glanced down within his hand.

His fingers curled around the handles lest they fall. Looking down, he stilled at the fans tucked within his grasp.

The kizuki had yet to open them yet the carmine tassel that hung from the heavy black bamboo that made up the handles was so very familiar that he paused before revealing what he knew would be etched on the paper within them.

The woman watched his demeanor change within the span of a thought as his posture realigned elegantly and with a practiced flourish of the wrist, he sent one of the tools of his trade unfurling to reveal vermillion dragonflies sailing across the screens so starkly against the obsidian black of their backdrop.

These were not his golden lotus' made from his flesh, but rather the fans of the former leader of Eternal Paradise.

"How appropriate," she all but sighed, reaching over to stroke the edges with seeming adoration.

"Dragonflies represent reincarnation, opportunity, and reform. I truly hope you will not let yourself down, child."

He closed his father's fan, turning to the woman as she began to rise, making her way to the door.

"Okami-dono, how many Sin-Eaters are here now?"

She paused, smiling at him in a way that felt doting, her hand stroking the end of the shoji.

"There are always about a hundred of you at all times, give or take. Yet there is a high turnover. Not many of you can hold fast to the possibility of another chance."

His chest tightened in a little dread, his thick brows pulling down above his eyes to match his grim expression.

"Is hell a better alternative then?"

"You're asking the wrong question, boy. What you should be considering is if a missed opportunity is worse than hell."

Her grin deepened and she bowed impeccably, sliding the door closed behind her.

His eyes snapped open as he could feel the undeniable pull of being beckoned to lucidity. He looked about the unfamiliar vicinity before reorienting himself, recognizing the tiny room as his own. He palmed his blanket away from himself as he rose, his spine straightening into a trained posture, wondering quietly at the strange compulsion that had overtaken him to break his slumber.

He had been acquainted with sleeping ever since he had perished yet he was still finding the experience novel. His body had been a fine tuned wire at all times for over a century and suddenly now, due to no command of his own, it shut down of its own volition, darkening every sight, sound, and thought to utter stillness, as if frozen, until like a locomotive, it stirred once more.

Get dressed.

He didn't hear it so much as felt it, as there had been no voice.

He folded his bedding efficiently, tucking the futon into the closet before pulling out the wooden box that contained his new possessions. His hand hovered momentarily over the intricate haori before settling on the simple black kimono and secondary hakama with white tasuki laid across, knowing unmistakably that his orders had been from the Okami rather than the Shinigami.

Dressing himself proved to be a little daunting, more so with the realization that he lacked common knowledge of such a simple task rather than the unfamiliarity of it. Such things had always been done for him; it had been unheard of for someone of his elevated station to take on such a menial chore.

The more he fumbled and discovered, the more his appreciation grew for the deft hands that had always quickly clothed him in faultless refinement. His incompetence really began to shine as he struggled with the tasuki, the door to his room sliding open without a knock in warning.

"What could possibly be taking so long, you weren't even washing in the baths?"

His head snapped up to meet the puzzled gaze of another man dressed exactly so, albeit less rumpled, standing in the threshold of the room.

Dark, short cropped hair hovered over dark, unremarkable eyes yet his posture was inflexible, his body hardened in a way that was familiar.

Douma smiled sheepishly, schooling his features into an expression of slight embarrassment to appeal to the man who had entered his room, despite not actually feeling remotely self-conscious.

"Would you mind showing me how it's done?"

He held out the tasuki, certain the other man would leave him to figure it out on his own. To his astonishment the young man stepped forward, pulling the ties from his grasp.

"Hold out your hands."

Douma blinked, doing as he was bid, wondering as to the step in tying that this would entail.

"Figures. Your hands are softer than an oiran's. Turn around, I'll take care of it today and show you tomorrow, we're falling behind."

"Behind in what?"

"Our chores, what else? Who do you think keeps this place spotless?"

It made sense to utilize them if they were not tasked with anything from Saburo but did the Okami not have staff for her establishment, he couldn't help but wonder aloud.

"Sin-Eater's are naturals at purification. Any kind of contaminants we find, we absorb. We take care of her as she takes care of us, it's simple recompense."

Douma craned his neck with an overt perplexed expression.

"Okami or the bathhouse?"

"The Okami is the bathhouse," the man stressed, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Her presence is constant, even if you don't see her. Can you not sense it?"

"I'm still unaccustomed to the act of sleeping entirely, much less waking," Douma supplied, mulling over the new information curiously.

He could sense the man shaking his head, even though he couldn't see him.

"When she tells us to wake, we head down to the baths, cleanse, and then change into our uniforms. We drain the tubs, scrub them out, clean the floors, and refill with hot water. Any maintenace or repair, we also handle. We have to be quick and we have to be thourough. Not everyone's civil nor keen on doing their part, so find your rhythm in the routine and stick with it. We've all got something we want out if this, so just stay focused."

"What do you mean, not everyone's civil?"

"Some will try to sabotage your work, discourage you, or just lash out for the hell of it. Don't immerse yourself within it. And whatever you do, don't let anyone in on where you hide your Marker. If they get a hold of it, any progress you've made is as good as gone."

"And this is permissible?"

The idea was unfathomable to him. Muzan would not have stood for any of his kizuki to step out of line. They all worked toward a common goal, his goal.

"Niceties are not owed to us here. And our sins are such that the concept of "fair" is more than we can ever ask for."

Douma could not help but concur with the notion and deduce for himself that as long as none of them caused any trouble for the Okami or Saburo, any misdeeds were not punishable as long as they were acted out against each other.

He couldn't help but appreciate the small retribution of it.

He felt the fastenings on his sleeves tighten, his arms exposed and free to work.

"I'm Douma," he introduced himself affably while turning, hand extended, his grin ever-wide.

There had always been an elevated space between himself and his congregation. They were drawn to the pedestal they placed him on and he knew when to lower himself, to entreat them with his understanding, his sympathy, his unwavering and all-accepting love. He knew when he did so, when he made them believe they were worth his adoration, that they would supplicate themselves before him in all manner of things. He had acquired masks for almost all situations where they were concerned.

Yet with his master and one of his fellow kizuki, he had found himself amiss as to which personality would serve him best. The adoration he made to mimic from his flock did not elicit the desired reaction from his creator. And the jovial attitude he had witnessed among friends that he had replicated to grow closer to Akaza was met with tumultuous irritation. His most damning fault that had always eluded him, no matter how many decades he had spent trying to decipher it's secrets and make them his own.

There was no title to be had here and his station was such that he was at the whims of others that had just as much to lose as himself. He didn't know if he could muster anything within himself that might diffuse any would be enemies.

Yet the man took his hand back firmly, seemingly un-begrudging of the broach of cordiality extended before him.

"Ozomashi."

He didn't smile but he didn't pull back and Douma felt a miniscule amount of confidence from his steadfast attitude.

The stoic inflections of his voice fit his exterior and Douma couldn't help but marvel once more how familiar it seemed.

"Let's go," the man said, his words not a command but still held the precense of one. Douma followed, eyeing his empty room thoughtfully before sliding the door closed behind them.

It wasn't back breaking work by any means, not for things such as themselves.

They were in the largest communal bath within the house, the room inset with eight empty pools, the entirety of the space inlaid with white-washed, smooth stones.

Ozomashi was scrupulous and uncompromising in his expectations.

"You're fast. That's good," he threw over his shoulder as he raked a large brush over a wall, his movements speaking of practice and routine.

"What does it matter, you've made me wash the same floor four times," Douma asked curiously, cocking his head.

"Because you suck at it. In time, you'll be good as well as fast."

Douma was unsure if there was a compliment to be had but it had little consequence to him either way, so he merely shrugged it off and continued to work in earnest.

He imagined he would have improved a little faster if he stopped casting curious glances to the other's working around him yet he could not prevent himself from doing so. The work was dull and there were all manner of creatures around, performing the same tasks as himself yet they looked like nothing he had ever seen before. How had all these souls escaped his notice in over a century? He had been fortunate enough to sequester himself among humanity, living as one of them, yet several of these folk would not have had the same benefit, not without a means to disguise some of their more prominent features.

There were men made up of something other than just flesh carrying pails of water as they carried on about their business, twisted, gnarled things not unlike a mountainside forest and haunting embodied mists that seemed to constantly reconstruct themselves in all manner of ways to adapt to any task at hand.

"Stop gawking and focus up."

Douma didn't bother looking over at Ozomashi but he couldn't contain the mischievous grin that tore open the lower half of his face as he added more force into the cloth within his hands as he continued to work across the floor.

"The closer you are to humanity, the less impressive you are, that's all there is to it," the man added, as if reading his thoughts.

The ashen haired man didn't pause in his labor yet his desire to hear more would overcome his attention if he allowed it. It was hard to repress himself as his world was shifting and revolving on an entirely new axis.

It wasn't until after his sixth attempt that his companion had deemed the job worthy of approval. With each effort, his awareness grew as he was drawn to old mistakes, things he had missed in his prior run through, understanding that even such simple jobs required detailed attention in their own rights. Such undertakings had always been beneath his station yet he could not help appreciate an endeavor that produced just as much as you put into it.

"It's good," Ozomoshi nodded, his fists on his hips as he jerked his head in a gesture signaling for Douma to get out of the large, empty communal bath. The firm, confident stance struck him once again at the familiarity of it.

Akaza.

He reminded him of Akaza. The attitude within his words was lacking and their facial features were entirely dissimilar yet the schooled and practice posture coupled with the meticulous dedication to detail and execution was so very alike.

Even though they were not the same, he felt a small pool of excitement fill him. Despite all his malicious teasing and prodding, he had admired Akaza. He had been over-emotional, dyed in a hue that Douma could never seem to make his own. And he had used that endless well to draw from in the pursuit of strength and dominance. What must his humanity had been like to constantly feel everything so vividly and vibrantly and sometimes even violently?

And yet Douma had sat aloft, cast beneath a dull-colored shadow, seemingly lifeless within. He had surpassed Akaza in rank in record time despite the differences in their ages. And yet, he wondered if it was simply because he cared for nothing and no one that he was able to consume in the manner that he had, whereas Akaza held himself to certain principles that he would not yield to. And if so, it truly was a testament of strength that he had become the third, despite holding himself back. What a fearsome thing indeed he might have become had he had it within him to let go of those reigns.

Despite his disciplined demeanor, Akaza had been overflowing riotously with feeling whereas Douma had tried to mimic just a small fraction of that collective on the outside. He wondered if his fellow kizuki had sensed it too and that it wasn't their positions alone that had drawn his ire.

"There's not much more we can do in here so let's move on."

Ozomashi's voice broke through his inner thoughts, dispelling the gloom and regrets that had encompassed his state of mind.

"How long has everyone else been here?" Douma asked calmly, unable to remain somber for too long, lest his thoughts traverse further down darker terrain.

"Some have been here ages before you were even a thought. Most leave in under a decade."

That revelation filled Douma with unease. He had massive doubts as to so many individuals quickly redeeming themselves in such a short span of time. He would bet his beloved fans on it.

"Do the majority of them simply give up?"

Ozomashi nodded in response, solidifying the demon's damning assumption.

"Some people are naturally weak-hearted. We're not chosen for our resolve nor any redeeming qualities we may think we have. We are useful. Sin-Eaters are chosen from those with exceptional skill sets, attributes, and resourcefulness, nothing more."

"Have any Sin-Eater's been successful?"

"Define success. We're only given an opportunity, whatever that may mean to any of us. It is still our job to make the most of it if we manage to obtain it."

Ozomashi didn't pause in his steady stride, Douma easily able to keep up pace with his much longer legs.

"And don't think about using a job given by Saburo as a means of escape. He sets the limitations on our abilities depending on the task and he only alots enough time to complete it. You're summoned back when he calls for you and there's no escaping the shadows when they seek you out."

Douma glanced at the man's face but he didn't detect any hostility. He was merely disclosing facts.

"How long have you been here?"

Douma didn't bother with a smile. He didn't know how the man guiding him would take it.

"Too long."

And the painful ache in his response was telling enough.

He found everything to be much too quiet when he was alone.

It made him wonder if his dulled emotions were due to the wealth of it around him, as being surrounded by a mass of others had been his constant. And he couldn't help but to think he missed the din. He had rolled out his futon but had yet to slip within, sitting atop the tatami and leaning back with one arm propping him up from behind, rolling his Marker within the palm of his opposite hand.

He thought of his parish. Or at least those left within it. He concluded that it was unlikely that his congregation were made aware of his nature, rather, it was probable that the select few that had aided his predilection of feminine flesh had taken his absence as an advantageous means of succession, and had taken his place as messiah. He would expect nothing less.

There was nothing about it for him to miss and he reflected on whether that was unusual and if it was a situation that would typically illicit misgivings. Unbothered by either prospect, he settled on one that had.

Douma recalled his conversation with the Okami an hour prior, when he had thoughtlessly marveled at the scope of Remnant in comparison to human cities.

"How can you look down on humanity when it was humans that fed you and made you as powerful as you are," she had smiled at him, her words a lustrous chime of blades.

"When it was humans who beheaded you and broke you down from the inside out?"

His displeasure at the reminder of his demise must have shown, for she had encircled an arm within one of his own, her voice cajoling in tone while severe in execution.

"Humans are such divine creatures. They live so much louder, so much more vibrantly than those secreted within the shadows."

He was reminded of his earlier musings of Akaza, having thought the very same of his fellow kizuki.

"They're delicious, joyous, uproarious things. And you whom used to be one of them. Perhaps you were so suited to becoming a demon as you were already so unlike a human from the very beginning."

The words had hit their intended target as he had no rebuttal for her discerning observation.

He continued to mull over the prospect now, sequestered within his room, deducing for himself the strong evidence of truth within her assertion.

How was he ever to obtain any reaction or sensation of emotions that were not negative in nature when he was further from humanity than he had ever been?

He could understand the why of it all, but he could not empathize. If he could only garner the experiences necessary to pierce the veil that would allow him to just feel…

The conflicted man secreted his Marker away and slid under the bedding at his side, sighing into the quiet of nothingness that surrounded him. He didn't look forward to that which was to come within his bed. He felt he didn't like the act of sleeping. To succumb to something within him that he had no control over nor could predict the outcome. And dreaming. What a fanciful notion. He couldn't recall a time in any of his human memories where he had done so. The demon had yet to experience it and the idea that they may come, unbidden, was a worrisome prospect.

Gritting his teeth unknowingly, he slid his eyes shut, waiting for what may come.

A/N: I've been referring to Ozomashi as "Prison Mike" in my head. Next chapter, it's time for our boy to finally do something productive!