"I didn't say you could die yet, Master,” spoke the butler, dabbing delicately at the stains on his suit.

The twitching body groaned, the sound bellowing from the split-open face.

"Please, your face is still healing from the last pathetic attempt; give it a rest. The stench of death still taints you."

Within minutes, Master's flesh pinched shut, as if tugged by threads.

Teeth burrowed themselves back into their holes.

Fractured bones scraped against one another as they folded back into place.

It was as if the work of a seamstress, though no hand laid touch.

"Master, you look displeased. What seems to be the matter?" riddled the butler, straightening his red bowtie.

Red. There is an odd type of beauty to be found within the red, all the shades that it brings.

There's the vivid vermilion of the freshly-picked roses that line the blue vase atop the dresser; the warm cherry lips of a lover, their soft words leading the way to the field of dreams; the sanguine sun in the sky, conjured by the miasmic dust that floated ominously in the heavens; Red, the scarlet tears that glistened off the butler's bowtie.

"You're here to pay your debt in blood."