“It’s not easy to find someone like you.”

Phoenix’s sleeve is carefully rolled up. The coldness of alcohol against his forearm is followed by the burn of a scalpel tearing the skin apart.

Phoenix bleeds, and his body remains motionless.

“Such unexpected luck.” Perhaps it would have been easier if the voice were gleeful, but the man’s tone remains as smooth as the surface of the painted porcelain mask he wears. He pulls away the bowl he was using to collect the blood, and bandages Phoenix’s forearm with gentle, steady hands.

He is still in Phoenix’s head – a distant but unrelenting presence pushing Phoenix’s own consciousness back and forcing him into stillness. But even that connection doesn’t give anything away, there is no hate and no triumph, just a foreign will strong enough to make Phoenix…

Pulse of a tender throat under his hands, the usually comforting clinging of chains and amulets now a panicked cacophony.

The memory would have had him shudder, had he been free to move.

The masked man takes the blood to the black throne on the other side of the room. It’s the only thing Phoenix can see aside from the numerous gears of the clocktower, but the oppressive aura makes it difficult to look at.

Ashton would have known what it was at a glance, but Ashton isn’t here, can’t be here. Phoenix tries not to think if Ashton is still alive betrayed choked stabbed.

Blood pours onto the throne, and there seems to be a lot more of it than Phoenix remembers having taken from him. The blood clings to the elaborate ornaments and doesn’t stain the grey and turquoise of the masked man’s clothing even as he sits on the throne.

The figures on the back and armrests come to life. Angels dance and fall, and demons dance and drink up the blood until there is none left, and then they all stay still, an odd pantomime the meaning of which escapes Phoenix.

Between the ticks of the enormous clock’s gears, Phoenix hears an echo of a sigh.

The tension grows, making him feel nauseous. It’s the same kind of pressure that comes from sharing a space with Ashton and his artifacts, except stronger and darker and stickier somehow. The masked man adjusts some gears on the throne, causing the patterns on it to change, and Phoenix tries, tires, tries not to remember Ashton’s masterful fingers examining the surface of some relic.

The masked man looks at him.

“Go down one level and protect this room,” he says evenly. “Any intruders are to be eliminated.”

The mind against his own relents somewhat, allowing movement, and Phoenix gets a single glance back before he closes the door behind him. The throne is once again painted dark red, the angels crying, the demons triumphing. The liquid – is it still blood? – pours down to pool around the man’s feet.

In a blinding flash of darkness, the masked man disappears.

Phoenix’s hand closes the door before he can see if the figures on the throne have stilled.