Idée fixe | Yan. Alastor x Reader
>Warnings: Cannibalism, references to violence, psychological manipulation, unsettling social dynamics, dark themes, Cannibal Town being Cannibal Town, Rosie lol, spelling and editing mistakes.
>Word Count: 6k(?).
The Catalog
Act. II
The following morning arrived far earlier than you would have liked.
A persistent knocking reverberated throughout the apartment, it arrived long before consciousness did.
At first, it worked itself into the remnants of a dream. Something distant and indistinct, a sound that belonged elsewhere.
Somewhere beyond the warmth of blankets and the comfortable weight of slumber pressing against your limbs.
There were no signs of hostility, nor urgency to its end. Simply determined, the sort of knocking that implied the person on the other side had no intention of leaving.
You buried your face deeper into the pillow, ignoring it.
A sensible response, you felt.
The knocking insisted.
You pulled the blanket higher, considering several possibilities with none involved opening the door.
You closed your eyes, a brief fantasy surfaced.
Perhaps if you remained perfectly still, whoever stood on the other side of the door would eventually lose interest and wander away.
Unfortunately, the person standing outside appeared equally committed.
“Dear.”
You groaned faintly into the pillow, the voice carried easily through the apartment.Bright, pleasant, and utterly inescapable.
“Sweetheart, if you're dead, kindly say so. I’d hate to waste such a enjoyable morning.”
The muffled words reached you through layers of blankets, walls, and stubborn denial.
You stared at the ceiling, to your demise it offered no solutions.
Bonbon lifted his head from the foot of the bed. The cat stretched languidly before hopping down onto the floor, apparently deciding the situation no longer concerned him. Judging by his expression, or lack thereof—he had simply chosen not to warn you.
That traitorous little creature.
Clearly he had been awake the entire time.
A glance toward the clock informed you that the morning had only recently begun.
By the time you finally surrendered, exhaustion and irritation had fused together, you dragged yourself toward the door and pulled it open.
Rosie stood waiting on the opposite side. Perfectly poised, not a single aspect of her appearance suggested she'd spent the last several minutes harassing someone at the midst of dawn.
“Good morning, dear.”
“... Do you know what time it is?”
Rosie smiled, “a delightful morning, if I do say so myself.”
“That isn't a time.”
“What a dreadful attitude.”
You briefly considered closing the door, as if on cue, she seemed to recognize the thought right away.
Rosie placed one gloved hand against the frame before you could act.
“Now, now.”
The standoff lasted approximately three seconds.
She smiled sweetly, you had known Rosie long enough to recognize the warning signs.
The smile itself wasn't one of them, she smiled at nearly everything.
Flowers, funerals, neighborhood disputes, and exceptionally impressive pies. Smiling was her natural state of being.
None, it was simply the way she would abruptly stay quiet. Rosie peered past your shoulder, then it remained there.
Before you could protest, she slipped past you and stepped dead center into the apartment.
“Rosie—”
The tenement looked exactly as it had yesterday, and the day before that.
And the week before that.
The room seemed larger in the morning light. It poured through the lofty windows in great golden shafts, illuminating every suspended speck of dust.
It spilled across faded rugs and polished wood. What appeared charming in the evenings looked considerably more incriminating in daylight.
It carried the faint scent of chamomile, fabric, old books, and something sweet she couldn't quite place.
Vanilla, perhaps.
A quilt had been abandoned over the sofa, left behind with the confidence of something that would be needed again later.
The unfortunate piece of furniture had not been sat upon in weeks, currently serving as a display stand for three unfinished bodices, a length of lace, and what appeared to be half a sleeve pinned directly into its shoulder.
The farther she wandered, the worse things became.
A trail of fabric scraps wound all over the floorboards like breadcrumbs, as though they had migrated independently throughout the apartment and established territory.
Stacks of books had been tucked beside the armchair, framed notes and memos, pinned wherever space had been found for them.
Together, they appeared engaged in a mutual agreement not to collapse if neither party made any sudden movements.Rosie continued her slow circuit through the apartment, the kitchenette offered no refuge.
The dining table had vanished entirely beneath layers of creative ambition, sketches overlapped with fabric swatches, fabric swatches overlapped with pattern pieces, and pattern pieces overlapped teacup rings.
It was a mountain of entirely reasonable clutter accumulated by a perfectly reasonable person.
“My word,” Rosie on the other hand, begged to differ. “You’ve spent far too much time up here, one could think you might have gone feral.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Rosie's expression grew increasingly sympathetic, the sort of sympathy generally reserved for terminal illnesses.
“When was the last time you spent a morning doing absolutely nothing productive?”
“Uh… I don't know?”
Rosie shook her head, the expression suggested she was once again appealing to higher powers for patience.
Unfortunately, given the current location, there was only so much assistance available.
“Get dressed.”
“What?”
“We're going for a stroll.”
“And since when did I agree?”
“You will.”
“What if I don't?”
“Then we'll discuss it while you're putting your shoes on.”
You rolled your eyes instead, she continued as though she hadn't noticed.
“Sewing yourself into every waking hour may be admirable,” Rosie extended her arm.
“But it is also terribly boring.”
You told yourself the commissions would still be waiting when you returned, the sketches weren't going anywhere, neither were the fabric swatches. Or the dolls, or the endless list of things demanding your attention.
With a long-suffering sigh, you rubbed a hand over your face.
“Fine.”
Rosie's smile brightened triumphantly, the way a cat might brighten upon spotting a bird with a broken wing.
“An hour. Perhaps two if we find something interesting,” you pointed a warning finger at her.
And somehow, despite knowing you'd been manipulated from the very beginning—
You found yourself bidding farewell to your dolls and heading toward the front door anyway.
_ _ _ _ _ ⊹ ࣪ ˖
The staircase protested every step of your descent, after several years in the building, you had developed a firm belief that the stairs were structurally sound and simply enjoyed complaining.
Rosie, meanwhile, descended with effortless grace, she linked her arm through yours before you could retreat back inside.
“There now.”
You sighed, “I still maintain this was coercion.”
“My dear, if I intended coercion, you would know.”
The streets grew steadily busier the farther Rosie guided you from the boutique.
Morning had settled comfortably over Cannibal Town.
Storefronts stood open to the sunlight, polished brass gleaming beneath striped awnings. Window displays competed for attention along the main thoroughfare. Tailors displayed freshly pressed suits upon mannequins.
Milliners arranged extravagant hats adorned with ribbons, lace, and occasionally teeth. Florists filled buckets with peonies and roses so vibrant they almost distracted from the butcher shop directly beside them.
You passed a bakery displaying fresh pastries behind polished glass.
A handwritten sign advertised Today's Special: Brain Stuffed Pies!! (With chery accents)
Rosie hummed, a woman emerged carrying a carefully wrapped parcel beneath one arm.
The paper split, and something disturbingly human-shaped tumbled free. Without missing a beat, she grumbled, picked it up, brushed imaginary dust from its surface, and continued on her merry way.
Neither seemed particularly concerned by the discrepancy.
Further ahead, two gentlemen occupied a table inside a diner, engaged in what appeared to be a spirited political disagreement.
One punctuated his argument by gesturing with a rib bone, his companion eventually snatched it from his hand.
“For pity’s sake, You're making a mess of the marrow!”
Rosie waved cheerfully as she passed them, both immediately tipped their hats.
The square beyond bustled with activity, vendors occupied nearly every available corner.
One stall specialized entirely in preserves, another sold handmade parasols. A third offered what appeared to be artisan carving knives displayed with the same pride most jewelers reserved for diamonds.
Several shoppers examined the merchandise with great interest.
One woman held a blade toward the light and asked whether it would remain sharp through prolonged family gatherings, the merchant assured her it would.
The stroll quickly revealed itself to be less of a stroll and more of a prolonged social engagement.
Rosie could not seem to walk ten feet without being intercepted by somebody eager to speak with her.
A florist emerged from her shop carrying armfuls of carnations before Rosie had even reached the display. An elderly gentleman waved enthusiastically from across the street. Two women seated outside a café interrupted their breakfast solely to compliment her hat.
Rosie accepted every greeting with effortless warmth.
She asked after relatives, remembered birthdays, inquired about businesses. And offered congratulations for achievements.
The effect was faintly unnerving, not because people liked her.
That part made perfect sense. Rosie possessed the sort of charisma that could convince someone they had been friends for years after a five minute conversation.
What unsettled you was the consistency, every resident seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
The realization followed you through several more conversations before curiosity finally overcame restraint.
“Do you know everyone in Cannibal Town?”
Rosie glanced toward you. “Goodness, no.”
The answer arrived with such immediate confidence that you instantly distrusted it.
“Thats hard to believe.”
“My dear, Cannibal Town contains hundreds of residents.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, “although, community is important.”
“Is that what we're calling this?”
“Am I wrong?”
She adjusted one glove before continuing. “People have a tendency to believe survival is an individual endeavor. It isn't. Never has been.”
The morning sunlight caught against her jewelry as she spoke. “Even the most self-sufficient among us depend upon others far more than we'd like to admit.”
You had just begun wondering whether Rosie intended to walk in circles indefinitely when someone called out.
The voice rose above the steady murmur of morning traffic.
“Oh, my.” The woman waved enthusiastically. “Rosie!”
“Why, Marjorie!”
Rosie brightened in return.
A stout woman detached herself from the crowd surrounding one of the stalls and began making her way toward Rosie. The vendor behind her protested as she nearly knocked over an entire display of preserves in her haste. The woman offered an apology over her shoulder without slowing down, you stepped aside as she approached.
Marjorie wore a cream colored dress trimmed with lace and an enormous feathered hat that seemed determined to eclipse half the street. Several bright blue plumes bobbed whenever she moved.
“My goodness, you look wonderful.”
Rosie accepted both of the woman's hands. “And you remain a shameless liar.”
Marjorie laughed, the sort that was reserved for old friends. As though this conversation had occurred a hundred times before.
“My dear, it truly is lovely to see you.” Rosie squeezed her hands. “How is your daughter recovering?”
The laughter remained, but it settled.
“Much better thanks to you,” something softened in Marjorie's expression, relief touched the words, relief of an old wound that no longer hurt quite so badly.
“Eleanor asks about you everyday.”
“Does she?” Rosie laughed warmly. “Well then, you tell that sweet girl that if she continues improving, I'll bring those lemon cakes myself.”
“Oh, she'll hold you to that.” Marjorie looked absurdly pleased, the expression lasted before it slowly transformed into something heavier. Her smile wavered just, the change was subtle enough that you might have missed it had you not been watching. You watched Marjorie's fingers tighten around Rosie's gloved hands.
Her eyes dropped to the ground, “I-I still don't know how to thank you.”
Rosie sighed, the sound carried all the weariness of someone forced to listen to the same words for decades. “Dear.”
“No, truly.”
Marjorie pressed on, the words tumbling over themselves now.
“If you hadn't intervened—”
Rosie waved a hand, dismissing it.
“Oh, nonsense.”
The woman looked certifiably distressed by the interruption. “We couldn't have done it without you.”
“You’ll make me sound terribly self important.”
The effect should have been comforting, it was anything but. You found yourself watching Marjorie, the woman seemed almost desperate for Rosie to understand something, for Rosie to acknowledge it.
To accept the gratitude being offered. And you slowly figured out, this wasn't happening for Rosie's benefit, it was happening for Marjorie's.
The gratitude wasn't being given, it was being presented. Like an offering, a debt repeatedly paid despite no longer being owed.
Rosie seemed to catch on as well, her expression carried one of recognition.
The way one might look upon a loyal dog sitting patiently beside the dinner table.
“My dear.” Rosie's voice lowered, honeyed. “You've thanked me a hundred times.”
“You deserved more.”
“No, darling.”
For the briefest moment, the words moved beneath the sweetness. A glimpse of iron beneath velvet.
“You did exactly what I asked of you.”
Majorie perked up, the alleviation was startling. Instantaneous, like she had been holding her breath for the duration of the interaction.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
Marjorie visibly relaxed, similar to a prisoner hearing a pardon.
You didn’t know why your stomach couldn’t help but tighten.
Rosie had not threatened her, had not demanded anything, had not even raised her voice.
Per contra, a single sentence from her seemed capable of erasing weeks of worry.
Or caused them.
Marjorie eventually departed after another round of assurances that Eleanor was healthy, thriving, eating properly, and very much looking forward to those promised lemon cakes.
She left glowing with obvious relief.
You found yourself looking toward the crowd where Marjorie had vanished, trying to determine why the conversation had left such an unpleasant feeling behind.
You couldn't find an answer. Rosie had been benevolent enough, Marjorie had been grateful.
That should have been the end of it. Instead, the entire thing sunk inside your throat like a swallowed stone.
“She's been worrying about that for two years.”
Her words knocked you out of your stupor, “two years?”
Rosie hummed in agreement, her smile remained.
The image of Marjorie’s expression refused to leave your mind. Not when Rosie first appeared, that part made sense.
People were always delighted to see Rosie.
No. It was the look afterward.
The moment Rosie had told her she'd done exactly what was asked, the immediate, overwhelming consolation. You'd seen relief before, this had felt different. Some invisible weight had been lifted from the woman's shoulders, a weight you hadn't even known was there.
“What exactly did she think would happen?”
The conundrum escaped before you intended it to.
Rosie glanced sideways, “Who?”
“Marjorie.”
“My dear, people worry.” Rosie chuckled, “Consciences are fascinating little things.”
Her response made sense, except, you couldn't shake the sensation that Marjorie had been seeking something.
Approval.
Validation.
Absolution.
And Rosie had granted it with a handful of words, the ease of it disturbed you. You thought about Mrs. Weatherby, about the shopkeepers, the customers, the neighbors. The dozens of residents who greeted Rosie every time she stepped outside.
Had they all looked at her that way?
You weren't sure, the possibility alone made you uncomfortable.
For the first time since meeting Rosie, you found yourself examining the woman beside you differently.
Not out of fear, or suspicion.
Simply…
Carefully.
Rosie chatted easily with a passing resident, remembering the name of his grandson, asked after his wife's health, accepted his thanks for some favor long forgotten.
The interaction lasted less than a minute, nonetheless by the end of it the man looked almost proud. Like receiving her attention had improved his entire day.
Rosie returned to your side shortly afterward, completely unaware of the storm she'd created. Or perhaps, entirely aware.
You still couldn't pinpoint anything she'd done wrong. If anything, Rosie was one of the kindest people you'd met in Hell. Yet watching her felt strangely similar to standing near the ocean.
Serene, beautiful even. Seemingly harmless at first glance, until you remembered how many things could disappear beneath the surface.
_ _ _ _ ⊹ ࣪ ˖
The morning was merry as ever, ahem—at least, Rosie appeared determined to believe it did.
You, meanwhile, had begun noticing a pattern.
At first, you hadn't thought much of it. Rosie paused at a flower stall to compliment a bouquet she had no intention of purchasing. Moments later she stopped to greet a baker removing fresh trays from his window display, then stopped by a newspaper stand, and then a dressmaker's window.
Each of them just had enough time for greetings, a brief exchange. Maybe a question, and a promise to attend some future event.
Nothing remarkable in isolation. Yet after the seventh interruption, you began to suspect something.
By the tenth, you were certain.
The streets changed gradually as you walked. The bustling market district gave way to quieter lanes, decorative iron balconies curved overhead, linen curtains fluttered behind polished windows. To no one's surprise, everywhere Rosie went, people greeted her.
You could no longer look at these interactions quite the same way.
A woman carrying a basket nearly twice her size called from across the street.
“Rosie!”
“Agnes, dear!” Rosie returned her enthusiasm “Is that the strawberry preserve?”
“It turned out perfectly!”
“I knew it would.”
Agnes practically glowed beneath the praise. The exchange lasted less than thirty seconds before both women continued on their way.
Rosie had that effect on people. But after Marjorie, after the debt, after watching a grown woman thank Rosie with tears in her eyes for a favor she would likely spend decades repaying—
The warmth felt different, not false.
Rosie knew exactly where she was going.
The initial novelty had long since worn off.
You had been walking for nearly an hour, perhaps longer. Time became difficult to judge when one was being escorted through Cannibal Town under circumstances that increasingly resembled a guided abduction.
Your shoes pinched, a forming blister was beginning to make itself known somewhere near your heel.
The pleasant morning Rosie had insisted upon was becoming considerably less from your perspective.
“Rosie, my feet hurt.” You were not above complaining, particularly when your suffering was both genuine and entirely somebody else's fault.
Head hung low, you staggered across the sidewalk. “Where exactly are we going?”
“Why, wherever the morning takes us dear.”
You stared at her as she continued down the street.
... Right. Of course.
The answer floated between you for several seconds before you heavily sighed and resumed following.
Rosie seemed to notice your prolonged silence, “My dear, must you interrogate every pleasant outing?”
You narrowed your eyes, you didn't believe her.
Your awareness of this was gradual, simply accumulating over the past twenty minutes. Rosie never seemed surprised by who she encountered, didn’t think before turning down a street, hasn’t even paused to consider where she might go next.
Whatever this was, it wasn't wandering.
“There may be one or two small matters I wished to check on.”
“Aha!” You pointed at her with righteous indignation, the accusation arrived with far more triumph than the situation warranted.
“I knew it!”
Several pedestrians glanced over to you, perhaps that was a little louder than necessary.
Rosie's eyebrows lifted, “Ah, you've uncovered some grand conspiracy.”
“This isn't a walk, you have errands,” one could think you’ve discovered a revelation that would shake the world in its very foundation. “You tricked me!”
“I merely encouraged you.” Rosie placed a hand over her chest, “Darling, the way you're carrying on, you would think I'd been leading a double life.”
“You tricked me.”
Rosie reached over and patted your arm, the gesture carried all the sincerity of a woman who would absolutely do it once more.
“Semantics.”
You made a face at her retreating back.
Rosie continued onward, the road narrowed as the two of you progressed deeper into town.
The sprightly disorder of the market district gradually faded behind you, merchants became less frequent, the crowds thinned. Decorative flourishes became less extravagant, the paint lacked the usual vibrancy. The buildings seemed older here, it became increasingly decrepit.
The structures stood closer together, pressing shoulder to shoulder, to one another.Many of the storefronts catered to highly specific trades.
A watchmaker sat bent over a magnifying lens near one window, tiny gears scattered across a velvet cloth before him. Next door, a woman embroidered silver thread into a funeral veil so elaborate it appeared capable of haunting someone on its own.
Rosie didn't comment.
Your pace slowed, for reasons you couldn't quite explain.
You watched as her form continued farther, having spent almost an entire year becoming accustomed to Rosie.
You wondered why you had not seen this all before, today it seemed to reveal a whole other layer to the woman.
“Come along, dear.”
Rosie resumed walking before you could object.
The road curved as it carried the two of you deeper into town, brick buildings crowded closer together here, rising several stories overhead. Wrought-iron balconies stretched between neighboring facades, their shadows cutting dark lines across the cobblestones below.
A pair of residents standing outside a tobacconist lowered their voices as Rosie approached. Whatever conversation had occupied them moments ago disappeared.
Both offered polite greetings, Rosie returned them with curt. Only after the two of you had passed did the conversation resume.
You found yourself looking back, not of fear, more out of awareness.
Though distinction did little to quell you.
You had spent most of the morning convinced she'd tricked you into accompanying her on errands.
Now you were beginning to suspect you'd only uncovered part of the truth.
The realization soured your earlier victory, suddenly this trip of hers felt less amusing.
Ahead, Rosie slowed.
Your gaze followed hers.
House Finch Atelier.
The entire storefront possessed the uneasy appearance of a task interrupted.
The gold lettering remained elegant despite its age, though one of the painted flourishes had begun peeling from the sign.
A mannequin stood in the display window wearing only half a jacket, another remained draped in loose fabric, pins still embedded along the seams. A measuring tape had been abandoned across the display stand. Several chalk markings remained visible on a sleeve awaiting alteration.
Rosie stopped before the entrance, her expression remained one of sweetness. You had begun learning that this meant very little.The bell above the door chimed lightly as she pushed it open, the air drafted outward carrying the scent of pressed wool, steam, and chalk dust.
For a period of time, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. However, you'd prove to be mistaken.
A heavy clatter inside the shop came the unmistakable sound of something falling over,
“Ah, shit—!”
You exchanged a glance with Rosie, to which she appeared unsurprised.
Hurried footsteps approached, the curtain separating the showroom from the workroom nearly tore from its rod.
The poor man took one glance at Rosie and visibly deflated. Not all at once, but enough that you could watch the hope leave him in real time.
“Miss Rosie!”
Mr. Finch nearly stumbled over his own feet reaching the front counter, he caught himself at the last second.
Albeit you couldn't say the same for his dignity, if survived the maneuver.
The tailor was a narrow man with silver threaded through dark, unruly hair, round spectacles perched precariously upon the bridge of his nose. Chalk dust clung stubbornly to his sleeves, while several tiny pins remained stuck in one cuff entirely unnoticed.
“Miss Rosie,” he repeated breathlessly. “What a pleasant surprise!”
You had never heard the word sound so thoroughly unconvincing.
“Mr. Finch.”
Finch swallowed. “Had I known you were coming,” he laughed weakly, “I would have prepared refreshments.”
“If you had known I was coming, then it wouldn't have been a surprise at all.”
The tailor’s laugh followed, it sounded brittle enough to shatter, an uncomfortable silence settled.
Finch rushed to fill it, words poured from him in a frantic stream. “Business has been keeping me terribly busy.”
“I'm sure.”
“The wedding season has been particularly demanding this year.” He strained. “Three ceremonies this month alone.”
“My.”
“And two funerals.”
“Only two?”
Finch snickered despite the fact she had not actually made a joke.
His explanation had begun somewhere around fabric shortages and gradually deteriorated into suppliers, delays, deadlines, unfortunate timing, and circumstances that were apparently determined to ruin him.
You had lost track several excuses ago.Rosie, meanwhile, listened with unwavering attentiveness. The sort reserved for condemned prisoners.
At no point did she interrupt him.Nor correct him.
Nor mention whatever she'd actually come here to discuss.
If anything, Rosie even seemed to regard him with mirth.
Watching it unfold felt oddly haunting. Like watching a rabbit exhaust itself running circles around a fox that hadn't yet bothered to pounce.
She wandered farther into the shop before Mr. Finch could gather himself enough to continue speaking.
Rosie paused beside a mannequin positioned near the front, her gloved fingertips brushed lightly upon the unfinished frock coat.
“Your stitching is exquisite as always.”
Finch’s justifications died down, then stopped entirely. The silence that ensued landed thick. The garment truly was phenomenal, tiny, intricate stitches marched precisely along the seam, every line sat exactly where it ought to.
It was the work of a craftsman who cared.
She continued to trace along the lapel. “You've always had exceptional hands.”
Rosie delayed.
“That's a rare thing.”
“T-thank you, Miss Rosie.”
The tailor visibly lightened, his reaction was instantaneous. Discomfiting in its sincerity, as though praise occupied the same category as oxygen.
Rosie finally looked away from the mannequin and toward him. Her smile remained exactly where it had always been.
“Which is why I was so surprised.”
Something in Finch's expression collapsed, the approval he had been basking in only moments ago disappeared with startling speed. It reminded you of someone who had snuffed out a candle.
One second it existed, the next, there was only the faint memory of warmth.
The color drained gradually from his face, whatever relief Rosie's earlier praise had offered him evaporated so quickly, it had scarcely finished settling before he realized it had never been the point.
Rosie's attention deviated beyond the tailor, and instead roamed the shop. The disarray became impossible to ignore once she started looking.
Numerous suits remained pinned to the dress forms, one side remained immaculate. The other, existed primarily as ambition.
Rows of alterations awaited beside the fitting mirror, each tagged, measured, and abandoned at a different stage of creation. The stack of order forms protruding from beneath a ledger, each accompanied by a note promising they would be finished before long.
Soon.
Nearly finished.
Just another day.
The promises accumulated faster than the attires.
Everywhere you looked, there seemed to be evidence of something abandoned midway through completion.
Rosie lifted one of the order slips, her eyes moved across the page. Then another, and another.
Her eyes skimmed each page with patient familiarity.
“Ah.”
She paused before a certain commission, it was for a black mourning coat.
The paper tag attached to the sleeve fluttered slightly as she lifted it. “This was for Mrs. Magdeline, wasn't it?”
Rosie's voice remained subdued, there was not even a trace of the slightest accusation in it. “I recommended her personally, if memory serves me right.”
Mr. Finch visibly stiffened, his shoulders having already begun sinking toward the floor. Now they seemed intent on continuing.
“Poor thing.”
Rosie returned the tag to its place. “Losing a husband is devastating enough.”
The paper fluttered softly against the sleeve. “Attending the funeral in borrowed clothing seems rather excessive.”
“Miss Rosie I can explain—”
She interrupted, “You simply made a mistake.”
Rosie's expression softened, the same expression she used when comforting nervous clients. The same expression she used when speaking to children.
“Every one of us does.” Her tone remained conversational. “Hell would be a much emptier place otherwise.”
Finch lowered his eyes.
“What matters is what happens afterward.”
The atelier had grown agonizingly silent, even the ticking wall clock seemed reluctant to interrupt.
“A week becomes two.”
The man’s hands tightened against the edge of the counter.
“Two becomes three.”
His attention fixed itself upon the floorboards, merely because looking anywhere else seemed considerably harder.
“And eventually, you've invested so much effort into evasion that actually having the conversation feels so utterly humiliating for you.”
Rosie cackled, the sound circulated throughout the shop. Bright, musical, and entirely at odds with the expression on Finch's face.
A knot coiled inside your stomach.
“Though I suppose after a certain point one becomes committed to avoidance.”
You felt Rosie's amusement crept in, she sounded comfortable even.
Entirely at ease.
The thought lodged itself inside of you, it wasn't what Rosie was saying. It was everything she wasn't.
This perturbed you more than anger would have.
Unlike many of the sinners you'd encountered since arriving in Hell, Rosie seemed entirely uninterested in reminding people she could hurt them.
There were no threats hidden beneath her words, no displays of force, no promises of consequences waiting somewhere down the line.
She hadn't even raised her voice.
Yet Mr. Finch stood before her looking as though judgment had already been passed and he simply hadn't been informed of the sentence.
Most powerful people demanded obedience, compliance. Rosie expected it.
The distinction felt insignificant, until you witnessed it.Then it felt enormous.
A delayed commission, an embarrassed tailor, that should have been all it was.
Nevertheless, you had the underlying sensation that everyone in the room understood something you didn't.
The exchange left you feeling like an outsider peering through a window.
You had heard every word, understood every sentence. The conversation seemed to rest upon foundations laid long before your arrival, and everyone involved appeared perfectly aware of them except you.
Rosie regarded him for a moment longer before releasing a soft sigh.
“Oh, for goodness sake.”
The tension dissipated so abruptly it left you momentarily disoriented.
“You look as though I'm about to execute you.”
A strained laugh escaped Mr. Finch. It bore far more resemblance to apprehension than amusement.
“I wasn't entirely certain.”
“My dear.” Rosie pressed a gloved hand against her chest, sounding scandalized. “What an awful thing to think of me.”
The tailor offered a wan smile, neither of you appeared particularly persuaded.
“Fortunately, this is still a conversation.”
Rosie's attention drifted back toward the unfinished garments.
“I should hate for it to become a pattern.”
For a brief moment, silence settled over the atelier once more.
Rosie glanced toward you, the smile returned so naturally that you found yourself questioning whether it had ever vanished at all.
Nothing in her expression suggested she'd spent the last several minutes dissecting a man alive.
“Now then!” She beamed, clasping her hands together. “I believe Mr. Finch and I have thoroughly bored our guest.”
“I wouldn't say—”
“You absolutely would.” Rosie patted your shoulder before you could object. “Why don't you be a dear and wait outside for a few minutes?”
You stared blankly at her, “You're dismissing me?”
“What a foul way of phrasing that.” Rosie looked genuinely affronted. She steered you gently toward the door. “I can assure you that nothing terribly exciting is about to happen.”
That statement failed to reassure you, Mr. Finch appeared similarly unconvinced.
“Honestly.” She laughed. “The pair of you look as though I'm about to drag Mr. Finch behind the shop and shoot him.”
No one said anything.
The tailor made a small sound that suggested he felt this was an unfair characterization only because it wasn't technically accurate.
“Which is frankly a little insulting.”
“Rosie—”
Before you could resume the argument, she rested a hand upon your shoulder and steered you gently toward the door. “Run along.”
The motion was not forceful, not optional, either.
The bell chimed softly overhead. By the time you realized you had, in fact, been removed from the conversation, the door had already closed behind you.
Rosie had not so much asked you to leave as she had passively removed you from the premises.
Truthfully, you weren't even sure why she had sent you outside.
For a minute, you remained exactly where Rosie had left you. You folded your arms, staring at the storefront.
The display window reflected the street behind you in warped fragments. The occasional passing townsfolk roaved through the glass like ghosts while bolts of fabric obscured most of the interior.
Nothing useful ever followed, you narrowed your eyes.
The temptation to press your ear against the door presented itself almost immediately, you resisted it for nearly a whopping twenty seconds.
Quite the record, if you say so yourself.
Perhaps there was no harm in standing a little closer. Your gaze lingered upon the door, a sensible person would have respected her request.
You were not a particularly nosy person. Generally, this simply happened to be an exception.
You found yourself taking several casual steps back toward the entrance, fully innocent steps. By accident, naturally.
The sort taken by individuals who absolutely were not attempting to eavesdrop.
You leaned ever so slightly,
Nothing.
A muffled voice tarried through the wood.
You pressed your head against the door harder.
Still nothing.
The walls of House Finch Atelier appeared constructed specifically to thwart curiosity. A deeply inconsiderate design choice.
Abandoning all dignity, you retreated from the storefront before anyone could catch you eavesdropping.
With a quiet sigh, you left behind the effort and seated yourself on one of the steps. If Rosie wished to keep secrets, she would keep them. No amount of hovering near the entrance was likely to change that.
How disappointing.
You shifted your weight.
Surely the conversation couldn't take that long, Rosie had made it sound as though she merely needed a few minutes. In your experience, that generally implied something measurable.
The problem with being removed from a conversation was that it left you alone with your thoughts.
Your thoughts, unfortunately, were proving less entertaining than expected.
The street stretched unfamiliar before you, offering little consolation.
A woman passed carrying several hatboxes, a gentleman reading a newspaper, a delivery cart rattled by.
You watched all of it.
Then resumed staring at the atelier, the situation rapidly lost its charm.
Rosie was undoubtedly doing this on purpose. Somewhere inside, she was probably having a perfectly joyful conversation while you slowly deteriorated from dullness outside.
The thought felt entirely plausible.
You rarely found yourself this deep within the district.
Most of your days revolved around the boutique, the plaza, Rosie's parlor, the more bustling parts of Cannibal Town, and the handful of streets connecting them together.
You had never actually spent much time in this part of town. Everything beyond that existed in the vague category of places you would eventually visit.
You glanced once more toward the atelier.
Honestly, if Rosie intended to resort to kicking you out, she could at least have the decency to make it interesting.
Your boredom deepened, the feeling had always possessed an unfortunate tendency to make decisions on your behalf.
You began walking, not far, just enough to alleviate the monotony.
You wandered past a watchmaker's shop, businesses seemed narrower here. More specialized.
Farther down the road, a woman sat embroidering silver thread into a mourning veil, a man selling decorative coffin handles.
You weren't entirely certain there existed enough demand to support an entire business devoted to coffin handles.
Yet Hell continued finding ways to surprise you.
The more you traipsed, the less attention you paid to where you were going.
Your thoughts drifted back toward Rosie, Marjorie, and Mr. Finch. The uneasy feeling from earlier refused to leave, you found yourself replaying fragments of the exchange.
The way Finch had looked when Rosie praised his work. The gratitude, the way his shoulders had loosened as though someone had finally granted him permission to breathe.
Then the moment afterward, when she had mentioned the delayed orders.How quickly that assurance had dissolved, you frowned.
That part bothered you.
Hell made sense when people were openly terrible, what made you skeptical were the people who never needed to be.
The longer you thought about it, the less certain you became.
Your mind went back to Marjorie, the memory arrived uninvited. You could still picture the woman's face. You remembered how tightly she'd held Rosie's hands, how desperately she'd needed Rosie to tell her she'd done enough.
And Rosie had, just like that. The strange thing was that Rosie hadn't seemed surprised by any of it, almost as though she'd encountered the situation countless times before.
Your gaze lowered to the cobblestones, maybe that was what truly bothered you.
People looked at Rosie as though her opinion mattered more than their own.
You liked Rosie, genuinely.
You enjoyed her company. Trusted her.
Probably more than most people, which made the entire ordeal difficult to examine objectively. It felt vaguely disloyal.
Like discovering there was an unfamiliar room inside a house you'd lived in for years. The structure remained the same, though you couldn't stop thinking about what might be behind the locked door.
What if Rosie happens to be just like th—
Your foot caught, and you lurched forward.
“Oh—!”
One foot stumbled after the other in a desperate attempt to recover.
Lost within the thought, you failed to notice the uneven stone protruding from the roadway.
The stumble arrived so abruptly that your body reacted before your mind managed to catch up, an entirely undignified sound escaped you.
For a brief moment, all of your concentration became devoted to the deeply important task of not falling on your face. Success arrived minimally.
You winced, pain shot through your ankle as your second foot landed incorrectly. Momentum carried you another step before giving you up altogether.
The cobblestones rushed upward, for one horrible second you simply remained there. Stunned.
The impact itself hadn't been particularly devastating, your pride, however, had sustained catastrophic injuries.
A hiss escaped through your teeth as you pushed yourself upright, the heel of your palm stung.
“Fuck, that hurt.”
You muttered the word beneath your breath, exactly the sort of graceful public display one hoped to be remembered for. Whatever remained of your dignity perished alongside them.
A shadow stretched across the stones before you. You grumbled, you were certain the street had been clear a second ago.
The first thing that entered your line of sight were a pair of polished black shoes. The leather was polished to a mirror sheen, meticulously maintained.
The afternoon sunlight glanced across the surface, catching along the rounded toe. A deep crimson panel covered the front portion, the color rich enough to resemble fresh lacquer. They looked absurdly expensive, not a scruff marred the surface.
Nor a speck of dust, an impressive feat considering the state of Cannibal Town's streets.
Your gaze climbed higher.
Dark trousers followed, pressed into crisp lines that remained utterly undisturbed by reality. They hung neatly over narrow ankles, disappearing beneath the hem of a coat that looked as though it belonged to another decade entirely.
A cane rested beside him.
The shaft was dark wood, smooth from years of handling. The head had been carved into something decorative, though from your angle it was difficult to determine precisely what.
The suit followed, red. Well, mostly. Thin crimson pinstripes threaded through the material from collar to cuff, every seam appeared precise, every fold intentional.
Nothing about him looked accidental.
Because apparently the universe had decided that if you were going to publicly humiliate yourself, it might as well occur in front of the best dressed man in Cannibal Town.
And finally—
The smile.
It was the first thing you truly noticed about him. Not because it looked joyful, quite the opposite. It simply refused to behave like a normal smile ought to.
Most expressions shifted naturally. They appeared and disappeared with conversation, reacting to thoughts, emotions, and circumstances. This one seemed permanently affixed, wide and unwavering.
Like someone had drawn it there and forgotten to erase it afterward, for one baffling moment, you found yourself wondering whether his face hurt.
Surely maintaining that expression for extended periods of time required effort.
The thought struck you as completely reasonable.
“My,” he tapped his cane lightly against the ground. “What rotten luck.”
Heat immediately crawled into your face, the stranger's smile widened.
“We're moving rather quickly, aren't we?” The man tipped his head slightly, “Most acquaintances wait until after exchanging names before throwing themselves at my feet.”
The words were delivered with such effortless cheer that it took you a moment to process them, then another moment to realize he was making fun of you.
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