Ellis sat at her desk in the dark hours once more, drinking expensive scotch. Her suit hung from the backrest of her throne and her waistcoat was open, her tie undone. Her shirt buttons were all open, herself trying to overcome the fever that her stress was giving her. The almost mortal stab wound that she had sustained was neatly stitched up, scarring her for what remainder of life she had left. Her odds were not looking good, but still, she had to fight on and win at whatever cost. Pulvis had to survive. For her father. A single bead of sweat slowly dripped down her forehead. She took a sip of the whisky and put the glass down onto the table. She sighed as she leaned back in her armchair, placing one of her elbows down onto the armrest, pressing two fingers to her temple. Images suddenly flashed in front of her eyes – scenes of the pain and horror that she had miraculously endured during those brutal battles. The god of death was not done with her yet and there was more bloodshed to come. She had to prepare immediately. She had to leave the past behind and move forward, but could not, however hard she tried. She still could not comprehend the horrendous thought that her father, her only family, was now gone. Fate had taken him by the throat and refused to let go as it dragged him down into the depths of Hell. He had guided her through all those years, trained her, made her the woman that she was now. There was no way of getting him back and she was all alone. Maybe that was her destiny. To be alone. Everyone that got near her ended up either captured or killed. More images of horror flashed by her, filling her ears with the damned screams of the dead – the scenes of the blood splattered corridors, the mountains of fresh bodies that infested them, looking like the aftermath of a world war one battle. Travelling through swirling tunnel visions, she realised that the tunnel only grew darker and colder as she dived further and further into the pit of hollering agony. She wondered when the pain would stop haunting her life and blaming her. But then again, she was to blame for everything that had happened to her subordinates. Their deaths were on her head. They stained her conscience like ink splotches on a white sheet. She had fallen too far to even tell if she was dead or alive, wondering if the battles were real or just instruments of an inescapable purgatory. Their blood-stained corpses were chasing after her, constantly reminding her that it was all her fault. Wiping away a single rolling tear, she grabbed her glass and swallowed a large gulp, drowning her pain and sorrows in drink.

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