“You are alone, Ayden…. You have been alone since you were but a child, and you will remain alone until the day you die…miserable and alone! Now be marked…and go fourth into this world…completely and unequivocally alone!” A flash of black, talon-like fingernails, an echoing clap of thunder, and a young man sits bolt upright in his bed, breathing heavily. The only light in the room filters in from underneath the makeshift curtain adorning the small window, from outside, where forked tongues of lightning split the midnight-black sky at regular intervals. These minute flickers of light illuminate the sweat-streaked face of the young man, as he sits, panting; now slouched back slightly against the wall. Despite the humid warmth of the late night air, and the rooms poor ventilation (due in part to the closed window, which succeeds in blocking out, not only the rain, but also any ghost of breeze that may have ever existed) the young man shivers involuntarily and clutches his arms around his chest, as if in an effort to get warm. After several minutes of silence (broken only be the distant rumblings, or occasional crash of thunder, as well as his own shallow breathing) the young man peers around the small room and gets cautiously to his feet, his shivers having seemingly subsided.

Walking deftly across the room to a tiny chest-of -drawers (the only other piece of furniture, aside from the lumpy mattress-and-box springs combo, in the room) the young man stops half way, to look back over his shoulder; studying the silence behind him. Once he is certain that he is alone in the indeterminate darkness, he turns his gaze back in front of him, and continues his short trek to the chest-of-drawers. On top of the chest-of-drawers sits a dusty, and ancient-looking oil lamp...for use in “emergencies;” in other words, whenever the inn’s tired old generator would inevitably run out of juice…leaving the patrons of said inn to find their way to the solitary bathroom in the dark, should nature call at an inconvenient hour. Well, this was certainly inconvenient for the young man, although the hour had very little to do with any of it. Blowing dust from the globe of the lamp, the young man pulls a lighter from the pocket of his jeans (which he has worn to bed) and holds its flame against the oil-lamp’s already blackened wick. With the now-burning lamp held out in front of him, the young man makes his way towards the door of the small room, and walks out into the hallway, as shadows jump in the flickering light.

He walks down the stairs of the split-level inn, and crosses the foyer to the centrally located bathroom. In the bathroom, he sets the lamp down on the counter top and gives a sidelong glance to the mirror mounted above the sink. Out of the corner of his eye, the young man sees a livid line of red, standing out against the pallor of his skin, just visible beneath his shaggy bangs (which hang down over his eyes, and end just above his the line of his cheek.) For a fleeting instant, he considers looking headlong into the mirror, in order to study the disconcerting mark closer; that is, until his full bladder reminds him why he came down to the bathroom (and inadvertently, the mirror) in the first place. After relieving himself, the young man washes his hands, and as he dries them on the faded towel hung on a nail jutting from the drywall beside the sink, he glances furtively back at the mirror. The red mark is still visible, though slightly less livid-looking than he thought it had been earlier.

Lifting his hair off of his face with his right hand, the young man looks at the red-tinged scar (a jagged, diagonal line, running from forehead to cheekbone) on the left side of his face. Gingerly, he prods the marred flesh with the first two fingers of his left hand; as he does this, the voice from his earlier nightmare echoes once more through his mind. “You are alone, Ayden….” At the sound of the voice, the young man’s skin erupts in gooseflesh, and he turns to look quickly over his shoulder, despite himself. Sighing, and feeling a little foolish, he looks back at the mirror. Much to his surprise, and horror, the image reflected is not his own, but rather that of a woman…apparently in her early thirties…her silvery-blonde curls stained crimson with her own drying blood, her shapely body bent in many awkward, and excruciating angles, her dying breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The young man stares, mortified, at the image in the looking glass, wanting desperately to turn away, but completely unable to move. “Ayden…help…me!” the woman croaks out hoarsely from her death-pose reflection. In front of the mirror, and still unable to avert his gaze, the young man begins to shake violently. “Ayden…why didn’t you help me…? I loved you like a son…. Why didn’t you save me?” the woman’s voice is hurt, her tone accusatory. The young man, standing transfixed before the looking glass, starts…. He remembers this lady, he remembers that horrible day…how could he ever forget…but that last part about him saving her…she had never, to his knowledge, said that. Perplexed, he stares on.

“It’s time you learned your lesson, Ayden Graves.” The young man flinches, as the woman’s voice, still quite beautiful, even in it’s dying faintness, is replaced by another, equally familiar voice; a high, cruel voice, with an almost untraceable gruffness behind it, saturated in undeniable malice…the voice from his nightmares. “You are now, always have been, and will be forevermore alone!” With each syllable the voice uttered, the woman in the mirror had writhed and twitched, as though the words were inflicting the utmost pain on her already battered and broken body; and with the last of these words, she had let fly an almost unearthly shriek, of the most incomprehensible pain and closed her eyes in what was no doubt, a death grimace, as a vast pool of her own blood spread from underneath her; turning her white, cotton sundress a satiny shade of red.

Tears streaming down his face, the young man places his hand gently over the image of the dead woman in the looking glass, and as he sobs, he repeats the same two words in a hectic whisper: “I’m sorry” “…. Oh, God…I’m so sorry.” As he cries he stares at his tattoo…the one starting at the base of his thumb, and stretching all the way up to his shoulder…a single thorny vine winding it’s way up his arm, culminating in a beautiful, solitary rose on top of his shoulder-blade. “I’m sorry, Rose!” he sobs. “It was all your fault, you know?” sneers the cold nightmarish voice, as the image of the dead beauty, covered by the young man’s hand, is replaced by one of a hooded figure, perched malevolently on a throne-like chair in front of a magnificent fireplace. Immediately, the young man drops his hand from the glass and takes a step back, in combined revulsion and apprehension. The figure in the mirror chuckles evilly. “I told you…you are and always will be, alone, Ayden.” “No!! Shut up!!” the young man screams at the hooded reflection. The hateful character in the looking glass chuckles again. Acting braver than he feels, the young man takes a step forward, places both hands on the edge of the basin, and stares fixedly at the shrouded man imprinted on the glass. As the fixture begins to vibrate, the hooded figure laughs malevolently, goading the young man. “What good do you think that’s going to do, Ayden…? You know that won’t have any effect at all on me…! While you, on the other hand-” “I…don’t…care…” speaking between gritted teeth, and shaking all over, the young man cuts the voice off. “I…don’t care…because…it’ll…get…you…OUT OF MY SIGHT!!!” he yells as the mirror shatters into thousands of tiny shards, and the figure upon it disappears, with a last defiant chortle; the air dousing the flame of the oil lamp.

The young man is vaguely aware of a feminine-sounding scream emanating from somewhere close by…but he doesn’t care. His head is spinning; images of the dying woman in the mirror keep flashing before his eyes, mixed with the voice of the hooded figure, a burning in the left side of his face, and a throbbing headache that pounds at the inside of his skull as if it is a base drum; finally, it is all too much…just in time, he whips around to where the dingy toilet sits, and vomits up his last meal (which hadn’t been all that appealing to him the first time around…and was certainly less-so now.) Before even wiping his mouth, the young man plops down on the rug in front of the toilet, shaking and exhausted. After a moment, he attempts to get up (intending to leave the restroom and return to his sleeping quarters) but as he does so, he is overcome by wave after wave of dizziness. Resignedly, he sits back down, and scoots over to the opposite wall, where he rests his head; gratefully giving in to a dreamless state of unconscious sleep, as it wraps around his mind.

As he groggily awakes the next morning, the young man has almost convinced himself that the events of the night had been another of his nightmares (arguably the most spectacular, but still, nothing more than a bad dream) until he sees the shattered mirror laying about his feet, and realizes that he is, in fact, still in the bathroom. Sighing, he gets to his feet, leaning on the wall for support, and gingerly tries his weight, bit by bit, until he can stand unsupported. His head is still throbbing, and he aches all over. He knows, instinctually, that he overdid it last night…and that had been exactly what that reflection-asshole had wanted. The young man shakes his head to clear it; and slowly, begins to focus on the remains of the shattered mirror…. With painstaking sluggishness, the mirror begins to regain its shape, and the glass melds back together. The young man detests moving this slowly, but he knows he can’t handle much more in his current, drained, state. After what seems like an eternity, the mirror resembles its old self once more, and the bathroom is no longer in shambles.

The young man begins to feel dizzy again, and is contemplating sitting back down, when there is a knock at the door. “Is anyone in there?” a young female voice asks. “Yeah…hold on, I’ll be right out.” The young man is shocked at his own hoarseness. He grabs the oil lamp off the countertop, and notices as he does so the first vestiges of gray morning light seeping in through the bathroom window. Yawning, he opens the door to find a pretty young woman (probably about his age, he assumes) in a cleaning apron holding a bucket of supplies. As they pass each other in the doorway, the young woman glances curiously at the oil lamp, which has obviously been extinguished for quite some time, although it’s just barely light out. The young man gives her a halfhearted shrug, and a tired smile, not much in the way of an answer to the oil lamp anomaly, but all he can muster, at present. “Are…are you alright, sir?” The woman asks in concern. “Fine...why?” Replies the young man, in a hoarse voice just above a whisper. “Nothing, I guess…. you just look a little…peckish, is all.” She says, with a slight frown. Smiling with a little more vigor now, the young man replies to the girls concern with a somewhat unconvincing laugh, and says: “Well, you know…it’s still a little early, doll.” The young woman smiles nervously. “Yeah, I guess so…. Well, you be sure to get some rest, sir.” “Will do, doll.” The young man replies, and heads back upstairs, where he falls asleep almost immediately after his head hits the pillow; and remains that way until that evening, when there is a knock at his door.

“Mommy, help me!” a child’s cry; then a scream rips through smoke-filled air.

The young man awakes with a start, and sits stiffly up in his bed. Staring blearily at the surroundings, he is confused, unsure of where he is. As the remnants of this latest nightmare echo through his head, the young man stares fixedly down at his hands, trying to regain his bearings. Another sharp rap at the door brings everything clearly into focus, the memories of the previous night are, once again, prevalent in the young man’s mind, and all at once he knows exactly where he is…and why he is there.

“Sir…Mr. Yates?” a familiar sounding voice calls through the locked door. After a few seconds, the young man realizes that it is the voice of the maid who had come to clean the bathroom this morning…. Another few seconds, and he realizes that the woman is addressing him…using the alias (Mr. Yates…Mr. Gary Yates, to be specific) that he has registered at the Inn under…. It is one of many names he gives whenever a name is required, and there are only a handful of people who know that it (as well as every other pseudonym given) is a lie. “Mr. Yates…are you in there?” the woman on the other side of the door calls out again; this time, there is a definite edge of concern to her voice. The young man gets to his feet, and crosses to the door. He pauses; hand on the doorknob, debating whether or not to open the door. Life experience has taught him to be cautious in his actions and sparing with his trust, however practicality tells him that his suspicion is, more than likely, unmerited in this particular case; after all, what threat could a housekeeper…this delicate and fragile-looking young woman pose…especially to someone like the young man himself, who has been trained to—well, trained? Reasonably, of course, the answer is none whatsoever; but, all the same, the young man feels an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, as turns the knob and finally opens the door.

There indeed, blocking the entrance into the hallway, stands the maid from earlier; her long strawberry-blond hair pulled into a messy bun, and an absurd expression of relief, annoyance, and concern reflected in her crystalline eyes. “Can I help you with something, doll?” the young man asks with a half-sideways grin, happy to hear that some of the hoarseness, at least, has gone from his voice. “Well, it’s about time you answered…I was beginning to wonder if you were all right in here!” the young woman sounds exasperated, curious, relieved…and somehow, fake…as though her reaction is practiced, only a perfunctory duty she must perform…almost as if her actions, and words themselves, are programmed. Well, that doesn’t surprise the young man, too terribly much; after all employers of every kind taught their workers how to be like that…how to be efficient, inquisitive, friendly, and convincing, among other things; all the while keeping your distance and not actually caring one way or the other about the clienteles’ well-being, as long as they paid whatever the required price to attain your services. Of course, some jobs taught you these things better than others; and some prices wound up being too steep to pay…but without steep prices, people like the young man would be out of work; he is, what he likes to think of as a bill collector of sorts…only the fees he reaps, are liable to be the last that his “customers” ever pay. “…And what with the mess you left in the bathroom this morning…I didn’t know what to think.” The housekeeper is speaking again, and the young man is jolted abruptly out of his musings. For a moment, he is honestly confused by her words…what mess had he left in the bathroom? Picturing the repaired mirror, and sterile-looking countertop of the bathroom, he tries to think what he could possibly have left any different than it had been upon his arrival there last night…then he is struck with a rather embarrassing revelation; the toilet…he had forgotten to flush the damned toilet after being sick, and had left his guts on display (or at least, the contents thereof) for the unsuspecting maid to have to deal with. “Ah…sorry about that…guess dinner just didn’t agree with me, or somethin’ doll-face…. But, for what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to…I mean I had every intent of….” He trails off and turns his back to the woman, in an attempt to hide the dull flush now spreading quickly across his cheeks, just visible beneath his shaggy bangs. “I’m sorry, sir…I really didn’t mean to embarrass you.” The young woman is talking quickly, clearly mortified by her own prior bluntness. The young man chuckles, and turns to face her again. “Hey, no problem, doll. Shit happens, am I right? And don’t call me sir…it’s Gary.” She gives a nervous smile in return. Grinning, the young man pulls a smashed pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, and after taking one for himself, offers it to the housekeeper in his doorway. The woman blinks at the considerably worn pack held under her nose, and shakes her head, smiling. “No thanks…Garry, I don’t smoke.” The young man gives a nonchalant shrug, and tucks the cigarettes back into his wrinkled shirt pocket.

“So, did you come up here just to check on me…or do you have some kind of…ulterior motivation?” he asks with a wink, and lights his cigarette. A minute flicker of some emotion flashes across the maid’s face…before the young man can ascertain what it is, however, it is gone; replaced by a stoic glare. “No,” the woman answers curtly. “I came up here, to tell you that dinner is just about to be served…and to ask you…” She pauses, seeming to stare intently at the smoldering cigarette clasped in the young man’s right hand. “That’s an interesting tattoo.” She says, indicating the thorny vine looped around the base of his thumb. “How far does it go up?” The young man shifts uncomfortably, attempting to hide his hand from view, without seeming too conspicuous. There’s no reason that a simple question should set him on edge like this, but despite his rational, that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach has returned. This woman seems to be studying him; no, more than studying, evaluating, prying, trying to figure out…what, exactly? Trying to shake this feeling, the young man smiles and attempts to sound casual. “All the way, doll. Pretty cool, huh?” A gleam of triumph is reflected in the housekeepers, blue-green eyes…and the young man feels his stomach drop even further. “So it is you…” she mutters, eyeing him with an unnerving hunger. Calculating the distance between them, the young man takes a step backwards, wanting to get as far away from this woman as possible. “You know…Gary,” she says advancing on the young man; that hungry triumphant look, now more evident than ever, giving her eyes a glazed look. “I did have…what was it you said? ‘Ulterior motivation’ in coming up here tonight…” The young man continues backing away from her, at an angle, until he bumps into the chest-of-drawers by the wall. “You see…I’m fascinated by you…” the woman’s voice is no more than a sultry whisper by now. Fumbling behind his back, reaching for the drawer (the one that currently holds his gun) the young man presses himself painfully against the ledge of the chest-of-drawers; but to no avail, for he is unable to reach the handle of the drawer. Grinning an evil-looking grin, the woman reaches forward and pins his arms behind his back with one of her small hands. It occurs to the young man, as he struggles to free himself, that she is far less delicate than she appears. “You’re just what I’ve been looking for…Gary…” she whispers, her piercing gaze inches from the young man’s own eyes. Startled, the young man starts to respond, but the housekeeper places her other hand gently over his lips and smiles coolly. “Shh…just listen. You’re the culmination of everything I’ve been doing over these last few years…. Honestly, I’m surprised to have found you, I would have thought…” Tuning out the woman’s seductive-sounding monologue, the young man closes his eyes and focuses fixedly on the drawer and, more specifically, the gun inside. He has no intent of shooting this woman, or even injuring her, if he can help it; he does, however, intend to get himself unpinned and procure some answers from his would-be captor. As the drawer slides open, the young man begins to gradually lift the gun, trying to remain unnoticed; just then, there is a stinging slap across his face and he snaps his eyes open, dropping the gun with a dull clunk. “It’s rude not to look at someone when they’re speaking to you, Gary…” The woman looks livid, and the young man is certain that she knows what he had been trying to do. “Or. Should I call you Ayden Graves?” Before the young man even has time to register his shock, he is on the floor; and in one graceful, liquid motion, the woman is on top of him, snapping a pair of handcuffs on his outstretched wrists.

The young man stares up at his beautiful assailant with a shocked expression on his face, at a loss for what his next course of action should be. “Ayden Graves, you are under arrest for suspicion of mercenary activity; and are hereby subject to up to 72 hours of captivity, during which you will be interrogated for your suspected crimes. If, at any time during these proceedings, you are found guilty of said crimes (whether by the collection of evidence, the overwhelming presence thereof, the testimony of one or more witnesses, any combination of these, or by your own admission) you will be further detained, subject to appear before a federal judge in an official hearing; and may subsequently be made too face incarceration in a federal detention center for an amount of time to be determined no later than one week after said court hearing. However, if by the end of 72 hours, you are found to be innocent of any criminal activity, you will be released. The proceeding as I have explained it, is in accordance with Article V, subsection B of the International Treaty for the Avoidance and Non-advocation of Civil Unrest; and has been found to be just and fair, in accordance with the governmental laws and policies established by this country. Do you understand these things as I have presented them to you?” the young woman finishes her monologue (which sounds to the young man as if she has read it directly from a law book) and whips a small leather wallet, containing a badge and an official-looking ID card, out of the pocket of her apron. Raising his head slightly, the young man glances at the ID, and has just enough time to read the name (Special Agent Kendal Byrnes) before his head is forced back onto the floor, with the woman looking down at him imploringly. “Do you understand these things as I have presented them to you?” she asks more forcefully.

The young man looks at her, nonplussed. He understands all too well the things that have been presented to him…but he is unsure of how to react. In this case, honesty will get him nowhere (at least nowhere he wants to be) but he doesn’t think this woman is the kind of person who can be easily manipulated by lies either; he has no particular inclination for this reasoning…just a feeling. Frowning slightly, the young man nods vaguely in response to the woman’s question, and pauses to think. He has been caught, and while it’s not the first time this has happened, he is still taken aback by the suddenness, the sheer unexpectedness of the whole ordeal. Moreover, the fact that he has been caught by a woman (and not just any woman, but this particular woman, with her frail wisp-like structure, and innocent demeanor) has injured his pride in some almost unfathomable way…a feeling not helped much by the fact that she just happens to be a federal agent, and he had somehow missed that point. Yes he is embarrassed, surprised (perhaps even shocked), and caught…. Caught, but not captured. Smiling an imperceptible little smile to himself, the young man decides that it will be best to play it cool, for the time being. He has, after all, talked, charmed, begged, bragged, and downright lied his way out of many a similar situation. (Once, he even attempted to bribe a federal official into releasing him from custody…the results of which would have been an even longer interment, had said official refused the bribe…which he hadn’t.) At any rate, no matter how unlikely it is that this young woman will be swayed, he might as well try.