The first thing I woke up to was a smell.
It wasn't the smell of rain, or mud, or rotten fish guts.
It was the smell of light incense, old dust, and something clean, like harsh soap. And under all of it, a faint, metallic tang. The smell of my own dry blood.
I opened my eyes.
No alley. No rain.
I was staring at a low, stone ceiling, shadows from a single candle dancing across it. I was on a bed. The mattress was rough, the stuffing lumpy, but it was dry. And it was warm.
I turned my head slowly. The pain in my side was sharp, not a stab anymore, but a hot coal pressed against my skin.
The room was small. A cell, almost. Bare stone walls, a tiny window too high to show anything but gray sky, and a single wooden chair.
And my helmet.
My gleaming golden helmet was sitting on a small table next to the chair.
It was not on my head.
A sudden coldness hit my face. The air in the room, warm a second ago, felt sharp and cold. I instinctively raised a hand to my face.
Stubble. A small scar above my eyebrow. A... normal nose. A... normal mouth.
My "nothing" face was exposed to the world.
"You're awake."
The voice came from the chair.
It was her. Selina.
She was sitting there, perfectly still, hands clasped in her lap. She had been watching me. I had no idea for how long.
Her nun's habit was dry now, but no less profane. The thin black fabric clung to her, highlighting every curve. The single candle cast deep shadows in the hollows of her collarbones and at the massive cleavage between her breasts.
"Oh. Hi," I muttered. My voice sounded weird without the helmet's echo. "Did I die again? Is this 'Heaven 2.0'? Honestly, the decor is disappointing."
She didn't smile. Her sad eyes, which had been staring at my helmet, slowly shifted to meet mine. She saw my bare, average face.
There was no reaction. No shock, no disappointment, no lust. Nothing. It was like watching a rock.
`[Skill Acquired: 'Exposure (Emotional) - Beginner']`
`[Description: You have allowed someone to see your plain and disappointing face. Pride has been reduced by 1%.]`
"Shut up, System," I hissed.
I looked down.
My hoodie, and the shirt under it, were gone. I was bare-chested.
The stab wound in my side was... treated. The skin around it was clean, and the wound itself was stitched shut with thick, black thread. The stitches were harsh, uneven, and functional. Like someone had sewn up a potato sack.
"Don't move too much," she said, her voice that same quiet, silk whisper. "The stitches will tear. I used thread for embroidering vestments."
"You... sewed me up?" I tried to push myself up on an elbow. Pain exploded like a tiny star in my side, forcing me back down with a muffled groan. "Aren't nuns just supposed to pray? Or is 'sewing' part of your... holy services?"
"We pray. And we sew," she said simply. "And sometimes, we bury."
A silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of her faint breathing and the quickening patter of rain against the window glass. Utterly, tragically quiet.
"Why?" I finally asked.
"Why what?"
"Why help me?" I said, staring at the stone ceiling. "You could have left me. Let the mud suck me down. The guards would have thanked you. They might have even... helped you 'atone' some more."
Selina stood up.
The motion caught my eye immediately. It was slow, and graceful. As she rose, the slit in her habit fell open. The candlelight illuminated her entire long, white leg—from the slender ankle, past the rounded calf, all the way to the soft, expansive thigh. I could clearly see the black strap of her garter belt, and the delicate lace disappearing into the darkness of her upper thigh.
It was an obscene sight. It conjured images from "Lady Chatterley's Lover" or "Tropic of Cancer"; a raw, animalistic sexuality, veiled in a thin layer of false holiness.
She walked to a small table in the corner, her back to me. The thin black fabric was pulled taut over her full ass, and every step was a slow, deliberate motion. There was no conscious seduction. It was just her body, existing. And that made it all the more unsettling.
She returned, holding a clay cup.
"You are strange," she said, placing it on the stone floor next to my bed, just out of my reach. "They all want to touch me. The guards, the priests, even the beggars. Their eyes... they undress me."
"My eyes are doing the same thing, trust me," I muttered. "I'm just better at hiding it."
"But you didn't touch me," she continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "You looked at me, and then you looked at the trash. And you decided the trash was more interesting. You... ruined the scene."
"It was a cliché scene," I said, probing the rough stitches. "I've seen it a hundred times."
"I live it every day," she said softly. "You are the first one to throw the garbage."
"Oh, Jesus," I said to the Reader. "She saved me because I'm a weirdo. This is our 'unconventional romance' setup. Great."
"Where are we?" I asked, trying to ignore the cup I couldn't reach.
"The Convent of the Silent Sisterhood. This is my room. In the cellars."
"The cellars? Isn't that like bringing a steak into a wolf's den? The guards I killed..."
"Three of them are dead," she interrupted, her voice unchanging. "And the fourth ran away screaming. They are looking for a 'Golden Demon.' They said you killed them without a sword, with your bare hands."
"They were metal gauntlets. Details matter."
"You are very quiet for a demon," she said. She looked at my bare face again. A long, analyzing, emotionless look. "Your face. It's... nothing."
"Ouch," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Thanks. You're a real charmer. You almost hurt my feelings."
"That's good," she said. "Faces that 'mean something' are the ones that bring death. Your face... no one will remember it. It is a perfect face for hiding."
She turned toward the door.
"Hey!" I called out. "Where are you going? What about... you know, chicken soup? The post-trauma emotional bonding? I'm bleeding here!"
She paused, her hand on the wooden latch.
"I will get broth," she said, without turning around. "Do not move. And do not make a sound. The walls here... they listen. And if anyone sees you, I will say I found you for the 'Cleansing Ritual.'"
"Cleansing Ritual... that doesn't sound good."
"It isn't," she said, and opened the door a crack. "But it will keep you alive. Maybe."
She slipped out, and the door clicked shut behind her.
I was left alone. Bare-chested, wounded, in the room of a nun with nice feet (I'd noticed she was barefoot on the cold stone).
Her scent lingered in the room. Soap, incense, and a faint, light hint of female sweat.
`[Skill Acquired: 'Dirty Suture (Passive)']`
`[Description: You've been patched up like an old doll. 50% chance of infection.]`
`[New Quest Activated: 'Survive the Convent']`
`[Description: Don't die. And don't have inappropriate relations with the nuns. (Optional)]`
"Goddammit, System," I muttered to the ceiling. "Dammit for making me focus on the 'optional' part."
"Optional," I whispered to the damp stone ceiling. "That's the part that worries me. 'Optional' in this world usually means 'Mandatory but the System wants to make you feel guilty about it'."
Time passed.
I don't know how much. Ten minutes. An hour.
Time moves differently in cellars. It's thick and viscous, like cold blood.
All I had were the sounds of my own body: the slow pulse in my ears, the dry scrape of my skin against the coarse blanket, and the deep, aching hum from the wound in my side. The stitches were tight, and the skin under them was already starting to burn.
`[50% chance of infection]`
"Thanks for the reminder," I told the System.
I looked at my helmet. It lay on the table like a dead, gilded dog. I felt weak without it. I felt... average. My boring, plain face was exposed to the cold cellar air.
That was the real horror. Not the killing, not the blood. It was being seen. Being seen for what I was: just a guy with a "nothing" face.
The same face my mother used to look at with faint disdain. The same face no girl in high school ever noticed. And now, the same face Selina looked at and called "nothing."
Tragic? Yeah. It's laughably tragic.
I heard the latch. A faint click.
I froze.
The door opened slowly, with a low creak.
Selina entered.
She was carrying a clay bowl in both hands. Steam rose from it.
She shut the door behind her. There was no sound of a lock, just the thud of wood settling into its frame. Then, silence again.
She walked toward me. Barefoot on the cold stone. Her steps were silent, but I could see the movement. Her black habit swayed around her hips with every step. The side slit would open and close, like a slow eyelid, revealing her smooth white thigh in the faint candlelight.
It was hypnotic. Like watching a pendulum swing over a time bomb.
She stopped by the bed. She didn't look at my face this time. Her eyes were fixed on the bowl.
"Broth," she said.
"It smells... weird," I said honestly. It had a faint, herbal smell, but underneath, something greasy and almost metallic.
"It's from the kitchen bones. Drink it. It will help... clot the blood."
"Great."
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Not too close, but close enough.
I could feel the faint warmth coming off her body. Or maybe it was just the fever from the wound starting to set in.
"My arm hurts," I lied. "I don't think I can..."
She looked up at me. Those sad, blank eyes. She knew I was lying. I knew she knew.
After a long pause, she just said, "Fine."
She settled the bowl in her lap. She dipped a wooden spoon into the broth, and blew on it. A faint, almost inaudible puff of air. Then she brought the spoon to my mouth.
"Open."
I did.
The broth was hot, and it tasted bad. Greasy and oversalted. But it was something. I felt it slide down my throat, warm and heavy.
I swallowed slowly. My eyes were locked on her.
She was focused on the spoon. Her long lashes cast shadows on her pale cheeks. I could see the fine pores on her nose. I could smell her. Soap, incense, and underneath, a faint scent like honey and salt. The smell of her skin.
She got another spoonful. Blew on it. Brought it up.
This time, her fingers brushed my chin by accident as she steadied the spoon.
Her skin was cool. And surprisingly soft. Not the calloused hands of a working nun. The hands of someone... preserved.
At the touch, she paused.
She froze.
Her hand stayed on my chin. The spoon hovered in front of my mouth.
She didn't pull away.
I saw her eyes move, very slowly, from the spoon to my lips.
"No one... touches me like this," she whispered. It was so quiet I almost thought I'd imagined it.
"Like what?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "Like a sick kid?"
"No," she said. Her eyes met mine. They were blank, but behind the blankness, there was something like pure, cold curiosity. "They touch me... to take. To squeeze. To leave marks."
Her fingers, still on my chin, moved.
Very slowly, her thumb brushed across my lower lip.
It was a dry, cool, curious touch. Like a biologist examining a strange insect.
"Is this... is this what it feels like?" she asked, not to me, but to herself. "To touch something... and not want it to die?"
My god, Reader.
This woman wasn't just "tragic." She was broken. Beautifully, terrifyingly broken.
"You're hurting me," I said quietly. It wasn't her. It was the wound.
She snatched her hand back like she'd been burned. A little of the hot broth spilled from the spoon onto my bare chest.
"Ah," I hissed at the sudden pain.
"Sorry. Sorry." She put the spoon and bowl aside on the floor. Before I could think, she leaned over and wiped the hot broth off my chest with her bare hand.
Now her whole hand was on my chest. Cool against my feverish skin. Her fingers were long and slender. I felt the chill of her skin against the heat of my body.
Her hand stayed there. Right over my heart.
I could hear her breathing. It was a little faster.
I looked down. From my angle, I could see right down the deep cleft of her breasts as she leaned over me. They were close. So close. I could smell the soap and incense rising from the fabric of her habit.
"Selina," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
"You're... warm," she said. "Why are you so warm?"
"It's called a 'fever,' sweetheart. From the dirty-ass thread you used to sew me up."
`['Survive the Convent' Quest Updated!]`
`[Optional Objective: 'Don't have inappropriate relations...' is now 'Under Consideration']`
"Dammit," I muttered.
She suddenly pulled her hand back and stood up. Her statue-like calm returned.
"The broth is cold. I'll go," she said.
"Wait," I said, trying to sit up. The pain stabbed me, but I ignored it. "Why? What's the catch?"
"The catch?"
"Nobody does anything for free in this world. Not in the alleys, and definitely not in convent cellars. What do you want?"
She turned at the door. The candle was behind her, silhouetting her in obscene, black curves.
"I want..." she paused. "I want you to keep your helmet on."
"What?"
"Your face," she said. "Your 'nothing' face. It... unsettles me. It's too normal. It makes me think about... things."
"The helmet. The Golden Demon. That's better. It's a mask. Masks are safe."
"I... unsettle you?"
"Yes," she said. "You aren't afraid of me. And you don't lust for me. (A lie, I totally did, but I was good at hiding it.) You look at me like I'm... just another person throwing garbage. It's strange."
"So you want me to wear the mask, to make you feel... what? Safe?"
"No," she said, and opened the door. "To make me feel normal."
She left, and the door clicked shut.
I was left alone again, with my burning wound, the faint scent of her sweat on my chest, and a very disturbing realization.
I'm not the hero here.
I'm the broken nun's pet.
And that, Reader, is a much more unsettling situation than any alley fight.