The Head Maid's Shadow

The figure moved forward, every step ringing out sharply against the cold stone floor, slow and inexorable. The voice cut through the thick, strained air once more like a knife. "Now… who the hell are you?"

Heads turned toward the source. Shadows quivered on walls, writhing and spinning in the dim light of the torches, showing faces pale with fear, hearts pounding visibly behind wide, terrified eyes. The room seemed smaller, walls pressing in as a chill tension fell over all who stood within it.

Leon's arm involuntarily closed around Natasha, holding her close as if mere contact would protect her from whatever threat was in that voice. She shook in his arms, shivering not from chill but from the raw flood of fear that had held her. Her head came up slightly, dark eyes shining with unshed tears, lashes wet, streaks adhering to the soft curve of her cheeks. Her black hair, wet and unkempt, slumped over her face, a thin curtain she couldn't raise.

The noise had cut through her mourning, cutting into the fragile bubble of despair she had nurtured around her. For an instant, she stood there stock-still, breath caught between her lips, poised between shock and terror, unable to move, unable to speak. Even the air itself appeared to vibrate with tension, thick with waiting, the whiff of smoke and sweat combined with the acrid taste of fear.

Leon's eyes scanned the room, cutting and intelligent, muscles tensing under his skin, all the nerves at sharp attention. He could sense Natasha shaking against him, her petite body vibrating with naked exposure. The force of the moment, the dread of the hidden presence, weighed upon them both, and yet, hidden within the fear, a flame of determination ignited in his eyes—a promise unspoken that he would not permit anything to shatter her here.

Natasha's lips parted fractionally, a caught whisper trembling in her throat, her fingers grasping at his arm as if anchoring herself to something tangible, something substantial. The form did not hurry on, did not show more; it simply walked, its steps measured, thudding like a drumbeat of impending collision, and the voice sounded again, final and icy, cutting through the thick air.

There was a door open behind the stranger. A blast of night air rushed in, bringing with it the bite of blood combined with the wet sweetness of rain. The light from the hall poured across the door, cutting the shadows and setting the newcomer in a sharp, rigid silhouette. Slender and tall, inarguably feminine, every curve of her body rang with grace and mastery. The shadows hid her face, but the rise of her hips, the confident set of her shoulders, even the calculated relaxation of her stance, spoke of someone who was acutely conscious of her impact.

Leon's golden eyes narrowed, a faint thrill of his aura caressing the walls of the room. The woman's voice, when it arrived at last, was honeyed with confident, taunting arrogance, overlaid with laughter — an exasperating tune he knew not. No one did.

"Show yourself," Leon's deep voice growled, the word crisp, threatening, a challenge that hung heavy on the air.

The woman stepped forward, each footfall deliberate, her very presence requiring attention. As she entered, the darkness receded, and her face was revealed. Long gold-blonde hair cascaded like liquid sunlight, falling to either side of her shoulders in waves which captured the light in the hall with each delicate movement. Her eyes were golden, piercing and greedy, and they scanned the room with a patience that unsettled.

She had on a maid's uniform, black and immaculately cut, edged in white lace that clung to her as if it were meant to, each crease and angle highlighting her curves. Everything was deliberate — the swing of her hips, the set of her head, the subtle curl at the edge of her lips — an intentional performance that indicated someone who was very aware of the impression she needed to make.

Leon's jaw clenched. Nova and Tsubaki adjusted around him, subtle the reactions betrayed their heightened tension. The guards stood with their hands close to the weapons they wore, their muscles tense with anticipation. All of his instincts screamed to him to be careful, to strike before the threat could settle.

Her eyes finally came to rest on him. The subtle tilt of her lips was both a smirk and a challenge. "You're quite a picture," she said, her tone silky but laced with sarcasm. "Dark hair, gold eyes. not exactly the type of man I'd expect to see in a dump like this." Her gaze scanned the room, tangy and teasing, before dropping to the one person not moving, a ragged breath caught in her throat — Natasha.

For one beat, the world stood still, the air itself frozen as though even time did not dare move.

The blonde woman's eyes went wide, pupils flashing with a mixture of surprise and calculation. And then her calm mask cracked, a tiny fissure of disbelief, before she flashed into a faint recognition. "Natasha…?" she whispered, the single name rolling off her tongue in an uneasy combination of hesitation and amusement.

Natasha's chest constricted. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. Her muscles went tense as comprehension pierced the haze of sorrow and fury. That voice, that face… her sister's murderer. Every fiber of her body screamed, every pulse thundering like a drum signaling war. Her nails dug deep into her palms, white-knuckled and grasping.

"You…" Her words shook, broken and hoarse, each syllable drenched in pain and anger. "You killed my sister."

The woman blinked slowly, tilting her head with a languid curiosity, weighing the accusation with an air of careless detachment. "Ah," she said softly, as if the revelation were trivial. Her shrug carried the elegance of someone accustomed to having power over others, a casual cruelty that made the words sting all the more. "So you've figured that out."

The air grew thick, heavy and tense. Each breath was thick with the weight of so many unvoiced dangers. The heat of tension hummed from the air, the unseen beat of auras wrapping and pushing against the edges of the space. Leon's jaw clenched, hard with pent-up hunger, and Nova's fingers quivered close to her knife, poised but held back, each of them feeling the tempest on the verge of release.

"You're the head maid of King Gary's palace," Leon murmured, his voice low, analytical, connecting the pieces that had fallen into place. "Head maid."

Head maid's smile was wistful, poisonous, a slanting smile that spoke volumes of amusement and ill will. "At least one of you knows my name," she said, her eyes sweeping over Natasha with a cold calculation. "It's been a while, hasn't it? You look so much like her. Same eyes… though hers never had that miserable, tear-stained cast to them.

The words pierced Natasha like knives, each one a calculated blow aimed at her heart. She could feel it break, the raw pain of loss intertwined with blinding rage.

Advancing, she attempted to stand firm, though her frame betrayed her, shaking with anger and sorrow that caused her voice to tremble. "Why?" she asked, each syllable cut short but rough. "Why did you murder her? She never harmed you!"

"Nothing?" The head maid's smile was gentle