The moment they saw the Black Rose in the hospital, they thought to themselves for quite some long time.

They asked each other the same questions over and over again, kept wondering what they should do during times like this, kept pondering on whether or not they should tell the mistress. Sometimes, they talked, other times they argued, and even still, sometimes they just said nothing at all, having upset themselves because of some past misdeeds the other did. Of course, they did make up only seconds later, but all the same, the audacity! The horror! The sins kept piling up! They were going to have to remedy this somehow. Yes, remedy this so very very much, like there'd be no other remedies left in the world to remedy. They were going to save the world with remedies!

And then they remembered the witch, and they ceased their courageous ambitions.

They remembered him, ever since he announced that game. Yes, the game everyone wanted to participate in. Everyone wanted the title, but no one dared challenge him. No one wanted to; after all, if anyone should lose, not only would they be stripped of their ranks, but they'd be forced into a position lower than a pawn. No, much much much lower. What was that called again? Do you know? Because they've absolutely no idea.

Well, anyways.

So they've pondered on the idea for a while. They never told their mistress about the game, knowing full well the entire coven would label them as traitors, before publicly humiliating and executing them. But they wanted the title for themselves too, though they'd no idea how to share it. Which one of them would be Black? Which one of them Rose? And the 'The'? Who would get that one? There were three letters in that word, and they couldn't just have half an 'h'. Besides, neither wanted the 't' or even the 'e'. Those letters were just too cliche; they saw it everyday. But the 'h' ah, that 'h' was what they wanted. But they couldn't decide who got to have it, and even if they played for it, the other always cheated. No, it was hopeless, but they didn't want to throw out the 'h'. Never the 'h'.

Then they decided to let the 'h' worry about itself.

One thing was certain though; if they killed the witch, then they'd claim the title. The mistress wouldn't have to worry about him anymore, and neither would Fallen. They could have whatever reward they desired, could do everything they possibly ever wanted, without getting too ahead of themselves. No one would ever make fun of them again, not even Ophelia, who always had that stupid, prissy attitude of hers. They savored those nonexistent moments, and before long, decided to push through with the little project.

So, throughout the week, when the witch was staying here, they decided they'd be the ones to kill him. No, they didn't want to poison him; poisoning was too boring. They were going to let him wake up. Yes, wake up, after everyone's left, after all his eyes and ears have returned to their sweet, comforting beds. Then, when he's barely awake, that's when one of them will strike. Gorge out his eyes, before he can react, remove his organs, butcher every little vein in his body. Should they strap him to the table during that night? No anesthesia; they wanted to savor his screams.

It wasn't because he was a bad leader. In fact, he was good, great even. A bit aloof, but he put the other nobles into their places. He protected the regions he was supposed to protect, all the while maintaining his distance. Why he disappeared though, they still had no idea. Why he resurfaced, they didn't know either. Maybe Ophelia knows, but they didn't want to ask her. Salem too, but he was too creepy to ask. Or she; they could never tell with it.

Yet, in regards to everyone else, if anyone ever knew about them, they'd be in so much trouble.

Still, the Black Rose did say anyone could enter. Lie, cheat, murder, steal, do whatever it takes to win. And if he's still reigning on top, if he's still alive, then for everyone who participated, for everyone who attempted to kill the king…

"I'll end you," they repeated happily.

But first things first; they needed to get the mistress's lapdog away from the scene. Make it so that he doesn't see anything. Wait, that girl wants to see the witch, right? Ah, another witness. She could distract the dog, but that in itself was risky. What if she knows the mutt and the witch look nothing anything alike? What would happen if the lapdog tries calling for the mistress too? They wanted it to be a surprise, but he'd ruin everything if he tells the mistress. But that girl looks familiar, so familiar it's scary.

Can't worry about that now though, can they?

As they watched their fearless leader, their rabid eyes gazing at his empty ones, they couldn't help but wonder what kinds of dreams he's having. Dreams upon nightmares upon dreams upon nightmares. Once, they had a dream like that, but they couldn't remember what it was. Maybe if the witch was dead, he'd help them with that. But wait; he's dead, isn't he? How could he help with anything?

That's right; he didn't have to help with anything. Anything at all! He can just keep having those dreams over and over and over and over again, trapped in the same delusions they had for the last century. That must be so wonderful, so much so they were almost jealous of them. But then again, they got the title, so it was an even trade.

And who knows? Maybe his ghost will come back and thank them for killing him. What a happy day that would be! Should they brag about it to the others. The look on Ophelia's face though; it'd be so very very amazing. Jealousy, anger, brimming from those beady eyes of hers, the obsession tearing her apart bit by bit, sparing nothing for her when it came to her soul. And if they promised that she could see him, maybe she'd do whatever they said.

What a wonderful sight that would be.

Then they placed their fingers on their lips.

The witch will wake up soon.

In her dream, she was in a room.

A simple white wall shrouded her surroundings, the paint already eroding away. The golden, melancholic light shined down upon the old cracks, illuminating the minuscule shadows with its own, forsaken warmth. Old, wooden floorboards threatened to give way to her weight, though in the end, she managed to ignore them. Two wooden windows were settled on either side of the room, the glass shards lying beneath the frames a testament to the underlying insanity nestled somewhere nearby. If she looked outside, she could see gray waters quietly drifting by, the yellowish sand washing away from the beaches. Tiny rays of sunlight peeked out from the sickly pale clouds, the hopelessness of the atmospheres chained down by storms just beyond the horizon. She gazed at the outside world for a while, before turning her attention toward the back of the room. She saw three portraits leaning against the wall.

Painted faces coated the ruined surfaces, though when she walked toward them, she could still see their perfect details. The faces were so very intricate, reflecting back every emotion, both real and imagined, the shading carried. Every meticulous detail was laid out, every color splattered together to form an array of sophisticated elegance. They were so lifelike too; she could almost touch them, just to see if they'd react. However, she decided not to, so, without further delay, she planted herself in front of them, and examined them. She could feel the faintest traces of nostalgia settling in her chest, an unpleasant feeling she couldn't help but beg that it disappear.

The first canvas was that of a young woman, just a few years older than she. She was standing there, arms neatly in front of her, the picture of absolute perfection. She had long, raven hair, and elegant, ivory skin. Warm, brown eyes stared back at her, along with a playful little smile that made her laugh a bit. She wore a long, red dress, and her hair was neatly tied back. The skirts descended from her legs, emphasizing her slender body. A large, black ribbon was strapped to her throat, and dangling in the middle was a wooden cross. In her hands, she held a tiny cattail, though her fingers loosely gripped it, which allowed the tiny plant to fall from her grasp.

The second was of a boy this time. A boy who stood there, attentive and alert, without the slightest hints of hesitation on his face. Unlike the woman, there was a lifeless gleam in his disposition, something she couldn't help but ponder about. Tiny highlights toward the top, he was wearing a black tunic, with black pants to go with it. His hands were placed behind his back, and from the way he held himself, it seemed he was incredibly obedient. Yes, if memory serves, he did whatever she told him to, or anyone else, for that matter. He was capable, fearless, though submissive all the same, and if not for the bloody bandages wrapped around his eyes, perhaps she would stare at him for a bit longer.

The last canvas, however, was a bit abnormal. More than abnormal; she couldn't make out who was standing there, in that portrait. Some of the paint had already peeled away, and even if she repainted the entire thing, claw marks tore the painting apart, the surface scratched viscously, so viscously she wondered if an animal had come in and ripped it apart.

Still, she stroked the painting. It's funny; she stared at this one the longest, even more so than the others. The nostalgia kept growing and growing, and yet, for some reason, she couldn't turn away, couldn't even begin to understand why she felt this way.

Ah, she remembered now.

She painted all of them, didn't she?

But she only destroyed this one.

Why?

Angela woke up then.

The back of her hand was on her forehead, her other hand against her side. Slowly, she surveyed her office, before finally sitting up, strands of blond hair falling over her forehead. The same pictures were laid out for her, and when she looked to her side, she could see the medical files stashed away in that same, obnoxious file. She scrutinized them, before closing her eyes, and sighing, as she sat up from her brief nap. She yawned tiredly, then lifted one of the photos to her face.

Jaden and Alexis, huh?

They were both here, but she could only focus on Jaden. And that dream too…though the boy's eyes were bandaged, she could still see his face, his familiar face. It was the one thing she wouldn't allow slip from her, despite all her other failures. And then a certain thought occurred to her, a memory she hadn't even known she had.

She painted his face, on that canvas.

She crafted his portrait, spending years just to capture his likeliness. Hours upon hours of simply trying to get all of his features right, perfect the shades which aligned his emotionless expression. She mixed those colors together, and pictured his image in her mind so many times over. The process was the same for the other two, though one of the portraits were ruined. And yet, even though she'd woken up, though she knew it was a dream, that nostalgia still remained with her. She did consider the possibility that she was going crazy once. Perhaps she was working too hard, and now she's having a nervous breakdown.

And yet, those photos, and the stories behind it, were the only things she could concentrate on. As of now, she might as well let Jaden and his friend take over the murder assignment. She didn't want to do anything else for the time being, didn't want to spend her energy on following celebrities, or uncovering secret scandals, or even belittling her own peers, who, begrudgingly, she respected. She didn't want to dwell on her shattered pride either, since, no matter what she did, Goodwin would never acknowledge her. A waste of time, waste of effort, if only to chase for some fleeting approval, and from a man who kept disappearing from her sight.

Carefully, she stood. She had to go back to that hospital, and ask the hospital director about this. She's already got the records memorized, and since nearly every visitor is headed home, she wouldn't have to waste her time interviewing dead ends for answers she already knows. Besides, the hospital was open 24 hours a day, right? It won't be hard to get information. As for her sources, she could just say they were anonymous or something.

She grabbed the photos and placed them back into the file. She then stuffed the folder into a drawer beneath her desk, grabbed her notepad and pen, and walked out the door.

Sayer stared up at the white ceiling, a tiny frown tugging the edge of his lips. His empty eyes took in the blinding fluorescent lights, never once looking away from them, no matter how much his pupils hurt. His red hair was splayed all over his forehead, and though the nurses sometimes try and shift it away, in the end, it simply dangled there, right in front of him. He'd gotten paler, a lot thinner, considering the fact he refused to eat much of anything. Apparently, he wasn't ready for solid foods yet.

Bruises wrapped delicately around his neck. Both his hands were neatly lined against his side, with a big, ugly cast attached to the right arm. Stitches upon stitches covered both legs, and just beneath his hospital gown, yellowish scars adorned his torso, a testament to the emergency surgeries undertaken, just to leave him here, humiliated beyond belief. Next to him was a clear IV, and just after that, a blood bag, both of which possessing needles that were jammed into his arm. He didn't particularly mind them; in fact, he thought they were appropriate for such an occasion. Aside from those two things, along with the empty bookshelf sitting in front of him, there was nothing else in the room.

In his mind, it looked a bit like a prison.

Thoughts kept pounding against his head, along with those bloody memories he'd rather forget. Ever since he'd gotten out of surgery, he'd call that woman every moment of every day, trying to pry the answers out from her. At first, it seemed it was working; she was cooperative, and whenever he asked, she answered straightforwardly, as if there was nothing else to hide now that Sayer knew what Yusei was capable of. But then, only a few days after that, she stopped answering altogether, and instead, gave his call to someone else. He could see her flipping him off, with that same, stupid smirk on her face. It'd gotten so bad that even now, it seems she decided not to work with him, though of course, she'd paid for his medical bills, as well as the rest of his living expenses.

It was then he closed his eyes, the fatigue slowly spreading throughout his body. Hah, of course she'd act that way; he knew he sounded crazy. Some of the doctors and nurses even came up to the surgeon, and asked if Sayer could be put in the emergency psych ward.

Humiliating indeed.

Why did Amrbosine ask him to do this anyways? Was it because of that picture? Was it because she knew Sayer was desperate enough to actually go and attack Yusei, despite what limited evidence he had against him? What was she after anyways? And how'd Sayer fit into her plans? As of this point, that small, insignificant aspect was perhaps the only thing he could use against her. And even then it was risky; she had far more power, as she so helpfully demonstrated, and more information. She could send him away, if she wanted to, back to prison, with four consecutive life sentences dangling over his head.

There was a soft knock on the door.

Slowly, he looked over, and saw a tiny creak in the entrance. A nurse. What? Time to change the bandages again? Didn't she already do that?

And yet, he couldn't help but notice the young woman standing just behind her.

"Here you are Ms. Izinski," the nurse stated, as she stepped sideways, allowing Akiza inside.

She seemed more mature the last time he saw her, more in control of herself. Her hair had grown longer, and she was a bit taller too. But she still had the same, innocent eyes, the same eyes he made her follow him. That Gothic, Victorian getup, the way she took everything in the world through her own perceptions, her fists clenching and unclenching as they did…

It was shocking, to say the least.

"I'll leave the two of you alone." The nurse said quietly, as she scurried out of the door without another word. Akiza's eyes widened, but before she could protest, the door slammed behind her, leaving she and Sayer together.

Slowly, Sayer sat up. He didn't know what to think, when he saw the girl. He'd been so absorbed with this whole Yusei affair, had spent so long in jail, he couldn't even begin to imagine meeting her. And yet, after all this time, to him, she was still a former soldier, one of his prized duelists. A tool he could've used to destroy society. A fellow sinner.

It seemed those chains vanished, from the moment she turned around, the unquestionable confusion slowly embracing her eyes.

He took a deep breath then, ignoring the sharp pang against his lungs. "I didn't expect…to see you here."

She stopped her struggling then. Carefully, she turned to him, the innocence gone from her eyes almost instantly. "So," she began, "you're going by Yusei now?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I asked the nurses if I could see Yusei," she whispered quietly, unable to move from her spot.

Sayer's lips parted.

Yusei was here too.

And Akiza was here to see him.

He clutched the folds of the blanket tightly. "Akiza-"

"Why?"

Sayer froze.

"Why'd you do it?" she pressed, as she took one tiny step forward. Determination settled against her delicate features, as she stood there, in front of him, her eyes staring him down. "No, first of all, how are you even here right now? You were-"

"I was saved by a monster," he answered calmly.

She regarded him evenly. "A monster, huh?"

"But never mind that," he hastily continued, coming back to Akiza, the memory still vivid in his mind. There were so many things he didn't know, so many things he didn't want to know. He couldn't help but wonder if he could just avoid them all, as he did over and over again, though in the end, he knew his efforts would be worthless. And yet, he knew he needed an ally. He needed someone to stay by him.

He needed Akiza.

"Listen," he said then. "Yusei isn't who you think he is."

She stared at him for the longest time, before turning away.

"Akiza, look at me."

She remained silent.

He gritted his teeth. He was losing her; he could recognize that face anywhere. "Trust me," he said, not even bothering to hide the desperation in his eyes, "when I'm telling you; you need to stay away from him. He's…he's-"

"My friend," she finally said.

"This isn't about him saving you anymore-"

"He treated me like a normal person," she continued calmly, taking another step toward Sayer. "He didn't care about my powers He showed me how to live, to really live Sayer-"

"Who do you think did this?!" he suddenly snapped, causing Akiza to flinch. When the quiet reigned, it was then Sayer looked down. He was living proof of what he was, of what that bastard is.

"Look at me Akiza," he pleaded. "Internal bleeding, broken arms and legs; if it wasn't for the anesthesia I'd probably die of the pain."

She shook her head. "Just…just stop-"

"I'm telling the truth," he stated.

"The Movement's gone Sayer-"

"If you don't believe me, then go to Yusei; make him tell you what'd happened."

And still, Akiza still had that expression. He could feel her turning away with each remark he made, each word a sharp reminder as to what he did to her.

But how else could he win over her, besides the truth? If she believed his lies, shouldn't she believe him now? He was telling the absolute, complete truth!

If only he could make Akiza realize that…

Suddenly, the lights came off.

And a piercing scream resounded from the hallways.

They both jolted at the sound, the cries suddenly pouring into the hallway. Footsteps pounded against the floors, chaotic noises echoing through the twilight air.

Akiza twisted back, the shock still coursing through her system. She raced back to the door and tried opening it.

Locked.