Imagine having your period while you’re working a shift at the bar, and even though you’ve washed, you still carry the scent of blood.
Pierrot walks in, greeting you with his big hand.
And… as he approaches the counter, you see him tilt his head upward, as if he’s… sniffing the air.
Blood.
He can smell blood.
And not just any blood.
Yours.
Pierrot vaults over the counter, throwing himself over you, shielding you from view.
“Why did you come here?” he whispers, curled close to you.
“What do you mean?” you ask, confused.
“… you smell like blood. Do you know what that means? Do you know what that implies? For them? For all of them?! For… me? You drive me mad. Mad! Completely mad! I can’t let you work. Not here. You’re too… close to them. You’re in danger. I don’t like it. Take the day off.”
“Pierrot! I can’t, there’s no one else!”
“I don’t care! I can’t let them—Harlequin—him—” he starts, breath short, panicked.
“Pierrot? Pierrot, are you okay? Do you want some water?”
“Please, my lady. Please! I can’t lose you, I won’t! Don’t—please!”
