"She was Papa's obsession for the longest time," Marianne said.

She walked briskly, keeping the distance between her and Charles exactly two steps. Following them were two of the manor's guards.

"He couldn't draw her. It was his only failure in life."

Her hands were folded under her chest, and her high heels carved a strictly straight line on the paved road.

"Each attempt made him more irritated. And one day, he gathered the colors and canvas; he burned it all."

The taps of her heels sounded divine against the sky bathed in the orange of the setting sun.

"The blaze reached the second floor. It was the first night in years that he looked at the starry sky."

But even those stars were fake.

"Regardless," — She looked back at The Photographer — "Is it true that my brother promised you my hand in marriage?"

Charles didn't know how to respond.

He glanced at her black heels and elegant ankles.

"As a reward."

Marianne spared him a glance before turning her head back to the front.

Her head swayed from side to side, but Charles couldn't see her half-closed eyes or her smile.

A groovy, low-key tune rose in the background, playing in tandem with the beats of Marianne's heels.

"You will hear from me soon."

Her steps come to a halt before the elevator to the lower floors.

Marianne turned around.

"Until then, keep alive."

The Photographer stared at her in daze.

The camera closed in on his expression, making the scene transition smoother once it zoomed out.

With Charles on the left of the frame, the elevator was captured in a full shot.

In the middle was a little man dressed in a brown suit. He was so short that everything other than his hat was out of frame.

To the right was a tall gentleman in black. Everything other than his head was in the frame.

The same dazed expression from before remained on the face of The Photographer. In his mind rippled Marianne's expression from before.

The door opened with a ding, and the two comically-sized gentlemen exited, replaced by a young couple dressed in the Punk style.

The funky tune became louder and clearer as the elevator door closed. Mixed with Dance and Electronic, it was Alternative Funk Rock.

The elevator continued its journey downward.

Left with his thoughts, The Photographer stood unaffected as the couple kissed, flirted, and fooled around.

The cuter of the two, wearing a short t-shirt and rocking a pink bob cut, smiled as the pierced man kissed her neck.

The guitar, the bass, and the mumbling vocals created a fun symphony. They seemed to represent the three passengers.

The green-haired man pinned his lover against the elevator wall. He kissed her as his hand snaked underneath her shirt, moving towards her chest.

The subdued drums picked up speed.

The green-haired man frowned. His eyes opened slightly, and his other hand moved towards her shorts.

He tugged at it and reached underneath, his frown turning grim. As he grabbed hold of 'her' genitals, his face froze.

His head jerked back.

Confused, his partner stared at him. She reached for another kiss, but he leaned back and snatched her choker.

It came off, revealing an Adam's Apple.

Pissed and hurt, she slapped him in the face as the door opened with a ding and walked out.

With a choker in hand, the man ran out after her.

The French vocals kicked in.

As the door was about to close, a hand reached out and held it open.

It is, as decided by the committee, against the law to force the elevator door open.

The monotone warning rang, mixed in with the vocals.

Please, close the door.

You've been warned.

Please, close the door.

Charles retained his pensive expression as the passenger walked in.

Wearing a dazzling attire wrapped around him, tens of chains weighing down his neck, he was a man who felt comfortable twirling a cane while leading two tall women on leashes.

One was draped in a black fur coat, while the other was covered in a white fur coat.

Their skin was immaculate. Their hair was straight and long. Their limbs were long, and their jewellery was pure gold.

They were beautiful and, most definitely, very high-class escorts.

Even if the gentleman accompanying the two hadn't put collars around them, no one would have suspected him of being anything but a pimp.

The girls stared at Charles, amused at what they perceived as a lack of interest.

The pimp stole glances at them, only to be kicked repeatedly in the ass crack.

Kicking and being kicked, they too left once their floor arrived.

The next passenger to enter was a spectacled old woman with outlandish grey hair resembling stacked scoops of ice cream.

She, too, held leashes in her hand, but attached to them were animals too short to enter the frame.

Charles looked down, prompting the camera to pan down to reveal a pack of Dachshunds staring at him.

He reached for his bag and pulled out the diary filled with his photograph collection.

Feeling nauseous, he rapidly flipped through the pages, and a photograph flew out. It fell to the floor and was quickly surrounded by the dogs.

Wading through the fur of the little creatures, Charles retrieved the photo before they could chew it down.

But it wasn't the one he was looking for. Instead of Marianne, he found the neon butterfly.

Unable to hold back his body's cries, he bent down and vomited out of frame.

The retching, the Funk Rock, and the disgusted noblewoman didn't faze the dogs. Against their owner's wishes, they frantically licked at the wall and the floor, savouring the vomit.

The woman tried to rein them in, but to no effect.

As the door opened with a ding, she ran out in horror.

Breathing heavily, Charles stood up, the dogs enjoying a meal at his feet.

The scene cut to them licking at Charles's feet as he followed a neon-lit road back to his apartment.

As he passed an alleyway, the music faded and the camera stopped following him. It closed in on the darkness of the alley.

The picture turned clearer.

Around the bend, lighted by the flickering light of a broken neon advertisement board, a body hung from the second-floor balcony.

He held nothing in his hand, but his curled fingers were marked with a dark powdery substance.

At his feet, tiny pieces of charred wood were scattered.

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