Mike and the maid stared at each other.
One second.
Five seconds.
Ten.
The silence was so thick Mike could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Come on, Mike, say something. Anything. Make up an excuse. Tell her you cut yourself by accident. Tell her—
The maid sighed.
It wasn't a sigh of horror.
Not panic.
Not even surprise.
It was a tired sigh.
The kind of sigh you let out when your coworker tells you for the fifth time they forgot to send the report.
Then, with a calm that bordered on inhuman, she slowly walked toward Mike.
Mike tensed, bracing himself for screaming, for tears, for the woman to run out and call for help.
But none of that happened.
The maid stopped in front of her, looked her straight in the eyes with an expression that mixed resignation and something close to sadness, and simply spoke calmly.
"I thought you had already gotten past this phase, Lady Mara."
…Huh?
Phase?
Without waiting for a response, the maid leaned down and took the knife from Mike's hand with a movement so natural it seemed like she had done it before.
Which, now that Mike thought about it, was probably the case.
So… this has happened before?
The knife disappeared into the maid's apron with an efficiency that would have impressed any street magician.
Then she pulled a clean cloth from the pocket of her uniform and crouched down to clean the blood off the marble.
Her movements were efficient and practiced.
As if cleaning blood from the floor were part of her morning routine.
This woman just found me kneeling in a puddle of blood with a knife and her reaction is… a sigh?
How messed up was the life of this so-called Mara for this to be considered normal?
Mike opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was an empty apology.
"I'm sorry."
The maid didn't look up from the floor. She simply nodded slightly while continuing to scrub the marble.
"There's no need to apologize… I simply thought you had gotten past this a long time ago."
…Huh?
Doesn't that imply the original Mara had cut herself before?
Shit… what kind of body did I end up in?
Mike was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the maid had finished cleaning the floor and stood up.
He also didn't notice she was approaching him.
And he definitely didn't notice her hands reaching for his nightgown.
Until he felt the fabric starting to slide up his body.
"W-W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Mike stammered, instinctively stepping back.
The maid looked at him with the same calm expression as always, as if she were explaining something obvious to a child.
"These clothes are no longer usable, Lady Mara," she said, pointing at the nightgown, which was indeed a disaster—stained with blood, torn in several places, and with half the skirt ripped off. "It would be best to throw them away… not to mention that you need to take a bath to wash the blood off."
"B-but I can undress myself—"
"Please raise your arms."
"Hey, wait—"
"Your arms, Lady Mara."
There was something in her tone—firm but gentle, like a mother who doesn't accept arguments—that made Mike obey on pure reflex.
He raised his arms.
And the maid pulled the nightgown off in one quick motion.
Cold air hit Mike's bare skin instantly, sending a shiver down his entire body.
And then reality hit him.
He was completely naked.
Standing there without a single piece of clothing in front of a woman he had met less than five minutes ago.
And to make things worse—as if the universe had conspired to humiliate him to the fullest—his little buddy had decided this was the perfect moment to get hard like a rock.
No.
Not now.
WHY NOW?!
Mike felt the heat rush to his face like a wave of lava.
His cheeks must have been redder than a ripe tomato.
Damn it! Go down! GO DOWN!
But his body—this new, traitorous body—didn't listen in the slightest.
There it was.
Standing tall.
Boobs on top, erection below, and a level of embarrassment that threatened to kill him for a second time.
Mike braced himself for the scream. For the slap. For the horrified look.
But the maid simply folded the bloodstained nightgown carefully, tucked it under her arm, and spoke with the same professional tone as before.
"The bathroom is over there, Lady Mara… wash the blood off while I dispose of the clothes and the knife."
She didn't look down.
She didn't react.
She didn't make a single comment.
As if the situation were completely normal.
…Seriously?
NOTHING?
I'm standing here naked with an erection and this woman is acting like she's watching paint dry?
Mike didn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted.
"I-I'll go," was the only thing he managed to say.
He walked toward where the maid had pointed with stiff, awkward steps, covering his crotch with both hands as if that would help at all.
Every step was a battle between his shattered dignity and the urgent need to get away from that situation as fast as possible.
Mike reached the bathroom—which was obscenely large, with a bathtub the size of a small pool and white tiles shining under the light—and closed the door behind him.
Finally alone in the enormous bathroom, he let out a long sigh.
Then slowly walked over to the toilet and dropped onto it.
What the hell just happened?