One moment, Faust was assisting the Sinners in yet another Mirror Dungeon.

Then, in the next, she found herself standing in the middle of an unfamiliar park, surrounded by trees and drenched in clean, golden sunlight. The air smelled of flowers and earth, untouched by the smog and grime of the City.

Before her, seated on a bench with wide eyes, was you.

For a long moment, Faust stood in silence. Her mind reached instinctively for the Gesellschaft—the vast, invisible web linking her to countless other Fausts across dimensions, her repository of all knowledge, her lifeline to solve any problem... and felt nothing.

She was severed. Cut off. Alone.

The thought was unsettling, though her face betrayed none of that disquiet. Faust was Faust, after all—she who knew all outcomes. If the Gesellschaft was closed off, then she would navigate this world through her own genius.

So, with an air of serene inevitability, she turned her attention to the only possible ally in sight: you.

As though presenting terms in a contract, she laid out her requirements: food, shelter, resources—all basic necessities to which she had no doubt you would acquiesce.

In exchange, she offered her "services," proposing to serve as your "maid."

A temporary arrangement, she guaranteed, delivered with the magnanimous air of someone bestowing a favor rather than asking for help.

---

Days became weeks, and Faust gradually adjusted to the mundanity of life. She learned to operate your appliances—though she looked at the vacuum cleaner with visible disdain—and began to decipher the rules of this new world. Without the knowledge of the other Fausts, she relied on observation, and sometimes, on you.

One evening, after watching her wage an unexpectedly fierce battle against a window stain, you saw her turn to you with a resolute gaze.

“I have decided,” she announced, lifting her chin as if daring you to question her judgment, “that I must remain by your side indefinitely.”

In her brilliant mind, this arrangement was simply logical.