"You posted an advertisement," he says, and his voice is deep enough to vibrate , smooth and controlled with the kind of accent that speaks of private schools and country clubs and definitely not whatever circle of hell I'm currently occupying. "For a roommate."
2
FAUGH
Her eyes widen, tracking the movement as her pupils dilate in what I have learned to recognize as the human expression of profound shock mixed with the very real possibility of an imminent panic attack. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again with no sound emerging, and I take the opportunity to step forward into the threshold before she can recover enough to slam the door in my face, which, based on the wild energy radiating off her in waves, seems like a very real possibility.
The doorframe requires me to duck, angling my shoulders at a careful diagonal to avoid scraping the suit jacket against the chipped paint. I have learned through painful, expensive trial and error that custom tailoring does not respond well to careless treatment, and this particular ensemble cost me nearly two thousand dollars to have properly fitted. The ceiling inside is marginally better, giving me perhaps three inches of clearance if I maintain excellent posture, which I always do. Years of working as a bouncer taught me that good posture is half of effective intimidation, the other half being a willingness to follow through on unspoken threats, and old habits have provenremarkably difficult to break even after switching to more legitimate employment.
She scrambles backward, nearly tripping over what appears to be a crumpled canvas tarp streaked with violent slashes of crimson and cobalt, her hands coming up in a defensive gesture that would be utterly useless if I actually intended her harm. The apartment around us is smaller than I anticipated from the online photographs, which were clearly taken with strategic angles designed to hide the true scope of the chaos. Every available surface is covered in some combination of art supplies, half-finished canvases, crumpled takeout containers, and what I suspect might be the same coffee mug in various stages of abandonment throughout the space.
The visual disorder makes my fingers itch with the need to organize, to create systems, to impose the kind of rigid structure that has kept me functional since I left my father's house at seventeen. I can already see how I would approach it. Start with the kitchen, dispose of anything beyond salvaging, establish designated zones for different categories of items, implement a rotating cleaning schedule that accounts for her clearly erratic work hours.
"I am Faugh Goir," I say, keeping my voice deliberately even and controlled, the way I always do when humans are visibly frightened. Loud voices have never been necessary when simple physical presence accomplishes the same goal with significantly less effort. "You posted an advertisement seeking a roommate. I am responding to that advertisement."
She blinks at me, her mouth still hanging slightly open, and I notice for the first time that she has a small smudge of yellow paint on her left cheek, just below the curve of her cheekbone. Cadmium yellow, if I am correctly identifying the particular shade, which means she has been working with oils recently and likely has not bothered to properly ventilate her workspace. Thescent confirms it, the sharp bite of turpentine cutting through the underlying notes of lavender that seem to cling to her skin and hair, mixed with something darker and more organic that my brain unhelpfully categorizes as stress hormones and unwashed panic.
It should be off-putting, by all reasonable standards and logical assessment. The combination of scents, the sharp chemical bite of turpentine layered beneath neglected personal hygiene, the stale undertones of a living space that has clearly not been properly aired in far too long, should register as profoundly unpleasant, a clear and unmistakable signal of poor hygiene and even poorer life choices. It is exactly the sort of olfactory landscape that typically makes me want to immediately implement a comprehensive deep-cleaning protocol and establish firm boundaries regarding ventilation standards.
Yet here I am, breathing it in more deliberately than strictly necessary, and finding that my usual disdain for such disorder is not materializing with its customary force and certainty.
Instead, I find myself breathing slightly deeper, pulling more of it into my lungs, cataloging the layers with the same focus I apply to everything else. The lavender is deliberate, probably from some kind of cheap drugstore soap or shampoo. The turpentine is professional necessity. But underneath both is something warm and distinctly her, something that makes the back of my jaw ache in a way I have not experienced in several years and do not particularly want to examine too closely right now.
"You're," she starts, her voice coming out in a breathless squeak before she visibly attempts to pull herself together, squaring her shoulders in a gesture that makes her look even smaller and more fragile than she already is. "You're an Orc."
"Yes," I confirm, with the deliberate register that resonates in the small space between us. This is factually accurate anddoes not require elaboration, though I find myself studying her face with perhaps more intensity than is strictly necessary. Her eyes are still traveling upward, still processing the sheer vertical reality of my presence in her apartment, and I remain perfectly still, a practice born from decades of understanding that sudden movements tend to trigger primitive alarm responses in those considerably smaller than myself. The overhead light catches my left tusk as I turn my head slightly, as she tracks the movement with the fascination of someone encountering something thoroughly outside the bounds of her previous experience.
"A really, really big Orc," she continues, her eyes traveling up the length of my torso with an expression that suggests she is recalculating exactly how much danger she might currently be in. "Like, an exceptionally massive Orc. Are all Orcs this tall or are you, like, some kind of special genetic anomaly situation?"
"I am seven feet and one inch," I tell her, which is also factually accurate. "This falls within the upper range of average height for male Orcs from the northern highlands region. My father was seven feet and three inches. My eldest brother is seven feet exactly. I am not particularly unusual by the standards of my immediate family."
She makes a noise that sounds like someone has physically knocked the air out of her lungs, one hand coming up to press against her sternum as if checking to make sure her heart is still beating. The movement causes her oversized sweater to slip off one shoulder, revealing a thin grey tank top underneath and a frankly alarming amount of pale, paint-smudged skin that I force myself to stop cataloging immediately because that is not why I am here and I have no business noticing the curve of her collarbone or the way her pulse is visibly hammering at the base of her throat.
"Okay," she says, drawing the word out into multiple syllables. "Okay. Cool. Cool cool cool. So you're a giant Orc manwho just showed up at my apartment in a suit that probably costs more than my car, which I don't even have anymore because I had to sell it last month, and you want to be my roommate."
"That is correct." I shift the briefcase slightly in my grip, keeping my posture non-threatening, which primarily means not moving any faster than absolutely necessary. Sudden movements tend to trigger human flight responses, and I would prefer not to have her bolt out the door before I have completed my assessment of the space. "I require lodging. You have advertised available lodging. This is a straightforward transaction."
"Right," she says, nodding rapidly, her hands now gesturing in tight, frantic circles that suggest she is either thinking very quickly or spiraling into some form of breakdown. "Right, totally straightforward, nothing weird about this at all. Just a normal Tuesday where a seven-foot Orc in designer menswear shows up to rent my spare bedroom. Happens all the time. Super normal."
I wait, because I have learned that humans often need time to process information verbally, speaking their thoughts aloud in order to make sense of situations that have caught them off guard. Interrupting this process typically prolongs it, whereas patient silence allows them to work through their own anxiety more efficiently.
She regards me for another few seconds, tracking across my face with an intensity that suggests she is searching for some kind of tell, some indication that this is an elaborate prank or potentially dangerous situation. I keep my expression carefully neutral, the same polite blankness I perfected during twelve years of working nightclub doors, the expression that says I am professional, controlled, and absolutely capable of removing you from the premises if necessary but would prefer not to have to bother.
"Do you," she starts, then stops, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip in a gesture that I absolutely do not track with more attention than is professionally appropriate. "Do you have, like, references? Previous landlords? A background check? Because no offense, but you look like you could literally tear me in half without breaking a sweat, and I feel like I should probably know if you have a history of, you know, tearing people in half."
"I do not have a history of tearing people in half," I assure her, which is technically true. I have broken bones, dislocated joints, and rendered several individuals temporarily unconscious, but I have never actually torn anyone in half because that would be excessive and unnecessarily difficult to clean up afterward. "I can provide references from my previous landlord, my current employer, and three professional character witnesses. I have never been arrested, never been evicted, and I maintain excellent credit."
This appears to catch her off guard again, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline in a way that suggests she has encountered approximately zero financial responsibility in her immediate circle. "You have excellent credit?" she asks, her tone pitched somewhere between skepticism and genuine confusion, as though I have just claimed to speak fluent Mandarin or possess a PhD in theoretical physics.
"Yes," I confirm, allowing the word to settle in the space between us with absolute certainty. I do not elaborate unnecessarily. The facts are clear enough on their own merit.
She tilts her head, studying me with the intensity of someone attempting to solve a particularly vexing puzzle. "Like, actually excellent, or Orc excellent, which might be different?" There is a thread of humor in her question now, a tentative warmth that suggests she is beginning to view me as something other than a potential threat to her continued physical integrity. "Because I feel like maybe your species could have a completely differentsystem where everyone just, I dunno, hordes gold coins or settles debts through arm wrestling tournaments or something."
"My credit score is seven hundred and eighty-three," I tell her flatly. "I pay all bills on or before the due date. I have never carried a balance on my credit cards. I believe this qualifies as excellent by any reasonable metric."
She looks at me like I have just announced I am secretly three kobolds in a trench coat. "Jesus Christ, I think your credit score is higher than my entire net worth."
I do not respond to this because it seems like the kind of self-deprecating statement humans make when they are uncomfortable and do not actually require acknowledgment. Instead, I take another step further into the apartment, moving slowly and deliberately, giving her ample time to track my movement and adjust to my presence in her space. The living area is roughly twelve feet by fourteen feet, with a kitchenette occupying one corner and three doors presumably leading to the bedrooms and bathroom. The furniture is mismatched and clearly secondhand, but structurally sound beneath the layers of clutter. The bones of the space are acceptable. Everything else can be addressed with adequate cleaning supplies and a systematic approach.
