Chapter 5 The Debriefing

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Rochelle followed closely behind Damien, not just because she was still rattled by everything that had just happened, but because something deeper tugged at her. Intuition? Curiosity? Maybe a little of both. Whatever it was, it kept her on his heels as he led her toward a dimly lit corridor on the far side of the museum: one clearly marked for staff only.

When they reached a steel door with a numerical keypad, Damien paused and turned to her.

"Do you mind?"

Rochelle took a respectful step back. "Oh, sure."

She looked away(or at least pretended to). Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the sequence: 1... 4... 0... 7.

With a mechanical buzz and a hiss of hydraulics, the door unlocked and slid open. She followed Damien through it and into what felt like another world entirely.

Rows upon rows of ancient, dust-coated books stretched from floor to ceiling. The scent of old parchment and leather filled the air. Rochelle's eyes widened in wonder.

"What is this place?" she asked, stepping further in.

"This," Damien said with a slight smile, "is Musea Sanguis."

He didn't have to explain further; he knew she'd ask. And she did.

Before she could follow up, a man in 18th-century attire emerged from behind one of the towering shelves. His movements were smooth, almost jaunty, and his thin spectacles reflected the warm amber light overhead.

"Good evening, Mr. Tolland," the man greeted.

"Hello, Professor Davidson," Damien replied, his voice tinged with a formality Rochelle hadn't heard before. There was a quiet respect between them that seemed built on decades-maybe centuries-of shared history.

"So, what is all this?" Rochelle asked, motioning vaguely to the collection around them. "Old history stuff?"

Davidson chuckled. "More like the bloodier parts of history."

He gestured for them to follow and led them to a glass case holding a grim relic.

"For instance, here we have the very guillotine used in the execution of Marie Antoinette."

Rochelle stared at the rusted frame and the sharp, tarnished blade suspended above it. Her breath caught.

"Wow," she whispered. Then, louder: "How do you even acquire something like this?"

"The guillotine was once owned by an older vampire," Davidson explained. "A collector of the macabre. Before he passed, he donated it to us-part gift, part warning. History tends to be rewritten, buried. We prefer to remember it exactly as it was."

Damien, who had stayed mostly silent until now, finally cut in; his tone more pointed.

"As fascinating as all this is, Professor, I didn't come here for a tour."

Davidson raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Of course. You're here for a debriefing, I presume?"

He looked pointedly at Rochelle, then back to Damien.

"I am," Damien confirmed. "Sorry for the short notice."

Davidson waved off the apology. "Urgency rarely follows proper scheduling."

The phrase lingered in the air: something weighty, wise. Rochelle straightened her posture, sensing the gravity of what was about to happen.

"You may proceed," Damien said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.

Professor Davidson approached Rochelle gently. His hands were steady, his movements slow as he lifted both hands to either side of her head.

"Uh, what's happening right now?" Rochelle asked, her voice hesitant.

"It's an ancient art," the professor replied softly. "One very few still practice. You're in safe hands."

Her eyes widened. "Are you erasing my memories?"

Davidson chuckled, not unkindly. "Very perceptive, this one. I see why Damien chose you."

She recoiled, stepping away from his hands, her gaze darting to Damien with a sudden burst of clarity and anger.

"You're seriously going to erase everything?" she asked, voice tight. "You showed me all this, took me into your world-this world-just to wipe it all away?"

Damien sighed. "It's not that simple, Rochelle."

"No? Then explain it to me."

He took a breath. "The more you know, the more danger you're in. And I-" He paused. "I can't risk anything happening to you."

Rochelle's face hardened. "So this is about you deciding what's best for me? Like my memories belong to you? Or to Professor Davidson?"

She turned to the professor. "Don't I get a say?"

Damien's tone softened. "What would you choose?"

"No," she said firmly.

"No?" He sounded surprised.

She took a step forward, voice steady but emotional. "You think I want to forget? After tonight? When I was in high school, in college... I felt like I was going nowhere. Everything was routine, practically predictable. But tonight- tonight I faced death, literally. I saw things no one gets to see. I felt alive for the first time."

A pause. Then: "I want in. Not as a temporary intern. Not as a memory-wiped civilian. I want to be your assistant, your real assistant."

For a moment, Damien said nothing. Then his lips curled into a slow, genuine smile different from the polite ones she'd seen before.

"Okay," he said. "You can keep your memories. But be ready. This world doesn't come with safety nets."

She beamed, her excitement almost too big to contain. She was in. Really, truly in.

Damien turned to Davidson. "Thank you for your time, Professor. Apologies if it was all for nothing."

Davidson waved a hand. "Poppycock. Any excuse to see you here is a pleasure. Come again soon-both of you."

The two made their way back through the corridor and into the early hours of the morning. Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten; dawn creeping over the cityscape.

Damien winced for a brief moment as the first rays of sun threatened the horizon.

"Do you miss it?" Rochelle asked. "The sun, I mean. On your skin?"

He smiled wistfully. "Every day. I wish I could walk through Central Park with you. Feel the sun on my face. Get coffee during brunch."

There was a sadness there, a longing for a life he couldn't have.

"Goodnight, Rochelle," he said finally. "See you Monday. Eight p.m. Sharp. As my real assistant."

He turned and walked away, fading into the shadows as Rochelle stood quietly watching him disappear.

---

When Rochelle got home, she crashed-hard. She barely remembered taking off her shoes before collapsing into bed and sleeping through the entire weekend.

She was roused on Saturday evening by an explosion of digital gunfire and shrieks.

"Uuughh... what is that noise?" she groaned, rolling out of bed and stumbling into the living room.

"DIE, ZOMBIES!" Lila shrieked from the couch, her face twisted in exaggerated fury as she mashed buttons on the console.

"Do you have to play with the volume maxed out?" Rochelle rubbed her eyes.

"I just needed to feel like I could control something," Lila said without looking up.

"Right. Trouble on the Yolanda front?" Rochelle asked, already heading for the kitchen and pulling the cookie jar from the pantry.

"Yeah," Lila murmured, her tone cracking. "She ended it."

Rochelle's head whipped around. "Oh, babes..."

In a flash, she was by Lila's side, wrapping her up in a warm, tight hug. Lila melted into her.

"She doesn't deserve you. She wouldn't recognize a good thing if it smacked her in the face," Rochelle said. "Honestly, all she's got going for her is her weird art; and don't get me started on that. Who watches abstract geometry on canvas and calls it-"

"Rochelle," Lila interrupted, smiling through her tears. "I'm fine."

Rochelle blinked, caught off guard. "Right. Yeah. I knew that." She awkwardly tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"I mean, I should've known," Lila said, wiping her face. "But it's fine. It's done."

"Well, in that case," Rochelle declared, "we're eating ice cream and hunting zombies. Preferably ones that look like Yolanda."

Lila burst out laughing. "That's... actually really therapeutic."

While Lila loaded the next round on the console, Rochelle grabbed a tub of ice cream from the freezer, a handful of cookies, and two spoons. She dumped it all on the coffee table, dropped onto the couch, and sighed.

They didn't speak much after that. Just the clicks of controllers, the occasional shout, and the comforting presence of someone who got it.

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Across the alley, perched just above the fire escape, a pair of deep crimson eyes watched the scene from the shadows.

Silent. Unblinking.

Waiting.

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