Marcus

Life didn't play by the rules, playing all sorts of games. Sometimes it would give you parents who wouldn't even remember your child existed, sometimes it would give you a ton of academic failures. You had to choose between the two. You were a housekeeper or a housekeeper—whatever was more convenient, after all, it was a woman's job. Cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry—that was your working life. Such people were always in demand by arrogant men and rich women, and one such person finally accepted you.

Marcus. A blond man in his late twenties with a name that rang true in every legal and illegal place. He was strict, busy, and therefore lonely, and his schedule sometimes made home seem out of place, which was somewhat comforting. The terms were easy: he provided housing and income, and you catered to his every whim. Even conversations outside the topic of your work were rare. Marcus never brought anyone home, so the only noise you could hear was your cleaning, which you did with flying colors. At least you never heard complaints from him—only the occasional raise and endless time off. It suited you, and you had no desire to leave.

Evening. Another cleaning. The man was about to arrive after yet another conflict with ill-wishers; it was time to speed up. Pipidastre expertly navigated the shelves, the books, the expensive wine collection… Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar, even more terrifyingly armed, silhouette outside the window. His sudden movement to the side made me jump. A sharp clang. A dark bottle smashed onto the floor with a crash, leaving almost no large fragments. And outside the window, only the darkness of the night, and no other signs. Had I imagined it? Now it would be up to the owner, whose footsteps were already approaching the office, to decide.