One week earlier…

“Thanks again, uh,” the older man squinted at the business card. “Frederico—“

“Figaro-“ The salesman corrected. “It’s Figaro.”

“Weird name.” Figaro gave a slight shrug and continued to pack up his assortment of paraphernalia. After shaking hands, he informed his new customer of the shipping times and then moved on to the next house.

This particular house appeared normal enough but an odd heaviness hovered over it. This sort of thing was frequent in the life of a salesman so Figaro did the natural thing and ignored it. He walked up and rung the doorbell. There was no answer so he pressed the button again. A few moments later, the door opened up—just a sliver.

“What do you want?” A feminine voice rasped.

Figaro cleared his throat and put on a friendly disposition. “Good afternoon. Is the man of the house in?”

“There is no man.” She spat. “Nor will there ever be.”

The voice said nothing more but the door remained open. The flustered salesman stood on the porch, growing more confused by the second. After about a minute, he decided that he had long since worn out his welcome.

“…Okay.” Figaro frowned. “W-well, I guess I’ll be going now.”

He turned and began to walk away.

“Wait!” The door swung open, revealing a lean, dreadlocked woman in a gray sundress. There was tension in her wide, brown eyes. She forced her thin lips into a smile.

“Won’t you come in?” She stepped to the side and gestured in with a clumsy motion. Figaro eyed her with suspicion. “Please?”

Figaro turned around and straightened his tie. “Alright then.”

A vague mustiness hung faint in the air of the living room. The low ceiling combined with the clutter of various knick-knacks to make the place appear congested. The flooring was composed of intricate design of ceramic tiles and the walls are wallpapered in sky blue.

Figaro sat on the mustard-yellow couch with his hands interlaced. His foot tapped nervously while he waited for his strange hostess to return.

“Here we are!” She sang. The woman emerged with two bottles chilled bottles of what looked like soda. She placed one down in front of him. “I hope you like sarsaparilla.”

“Well, I’m about to find out.” He picked up the bottle, slick with condensation due to the balmy house, and took a sip. It wasn’t too bad.

“My name’s Daphne and—“ The sound of breaking glass cut through the air. A man clad in all black dropped down from nowhere and landed on the coffee table right in front of Figaro. Even his face was covered.

“A—a ninja?!” He stammered. The ninja merely narrowed his eyes at him and then spun around. He grabbed the stunned woman and held her to him with one arm. Daphne struggled while he began to do strange gestures with his free hand. His fingers began to glow with an unholy purple light. Glowing symbols appeared on Daphne’s skin. She gave a short scream before growing limp. The ninja then dropped her on the couch.

“You wield the ultimate, now.” The ninja stated. He turned and pointed a finger at Figaro. “Now, you will become the demons! Protect her or your fate will be worse than 1000 deaths!”

He threw down a bomb and in a flash of light, the ninja was gone. Figaro blinked before springing into motion. He took Daphne into his arms.

“Daphne!” He shook the woman. “Are you alright?!”

Suddenly, the woman began to seize uncontrollably. Her eyes opened and rolled back, revealing only the whites. A deep, foreign voice rumbled out from within her.

“It…has…begun…” She growled. She then grew limp. Without warning, the wall behind him burst into flames. He heard a boom and the flaming wall exploded. Figaro picked up Daphne. There was no way that he was staying here long enough to see what that was. With the woman in his arms, he turned and ran.