The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.
Alexander Moreau stepped in, tossing his coat onto a chair, unaware of the storm waiting for him. Outside, the city hummed with life, oblivious to the terror about to unfold inside the glass walls of his luxurious apartment. But inside, shadows clung to the corners like sentient things, and every digital feed the siblings had planted flickered with subtle distortions. Reflections danced where none should, and the faint sound of whispering wind seemed to echo across the marble floors.
In a hidden control room miles away, Lyra, Nina, and the rest of the team monitored every camera and sensor. Kian's fingers moved across holographic keyboards with surgical precision. "Everything is ready," he said, voice steady. "Cameras, lights, floor vibrations, smoke vents. Roberta, your cue in five."
Roberta swallowed hard, adjusting the pale mask she would wear. Her heart pounded. "I… I'll do this. He won't know it's me. I—"
"You will be perfect," Lyra cut in, her silver eyes cold and calculating. "Fear is a language. Speak it fluently. Tonight, he learns how it feels to be powerless."
Max grinned beside her. "I've distracted the guards. They're chasing phantom alarms Kian planted in the north wing. He's alone."
Aria, Mabel, and Sophie leaned over the digital floor plan, noting the placement of sound devices, smoke traps, and lights. Every step Alexander took would be guided, orchestrated, trapped. Every reflection would show her face, every shadow would seem alive.
Lyra's lips curved in satisfaction. "Time for reality to bend. Let's see how arrogance feels when nothing is under control."
Alexander kicked off his shoes, laughing softly to himself. The penthouse was his domain. No one could touch him here. He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash over him, trying to relax after a night at a club. But a subtle chill ran down his spine. Something was off.
He reached for the mirror, wiping the condensation with the heel of his hand. And froze.
Elara. Or what looked exactly like her. Blood streaked across her pale face, hollow eyes staring directly at him. Her lips twisted into a cruel, silent scream.
He blinked. Nothing. Just his own reflection, wide-eyed, pale, heart hammering. He wiped the mirror again. And there it was—the ghostly figure, grinning, leaning closer, eyes dark pools bleeding crimson.
"No… this isn't real… it can't be…" Alexander whispered, voice shaking.
The lights flickered. Bright, dim, gone, then back—erratic, chaotic. Every shadow seemed to stretch, coil, and pulse, moving with a life of its own. Sweat ran down his spine. Panic clawed at his chest. He wrapped a towel tightly around himself and stumbled toward the hall.
Phone in hand, he called security. "Get… get guards here! Something's happening—"
Nothing. The guards were chasing false alarms, cleverly orchestrated by Kian. Alexander's confidence evaporated. He was alone.
A whisper floated down the hall, icy, slicing through the silence:
"Your time is near, Alexander…"
He spun. There, at the far end of the hall, stood Roberta—Elara—her face streaked with blood, crimson tears dripping from her eyes. She took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"How could I… loved you?" she hissed, each word dripping with venom and heartbreak.
Alexander's lips parted. "I… I—"
"You deserve it, bitch," she spat, the word jagged and cruel, echoing off the walls. The combination of rage and betrayal in her voice made him recoil.
The lights flickered violently again. Smoke coiled from vents, moving like serpents across the floor. Reflections in every mirror multiplied her image, making her appear taller, larger, unstoppable.
Roberta's hands stretched outward, phantom-like, as she screamed:
"YOUR TIME IS NEAR, Alexander! I WILL TAKE YOU WITH ME!"
Alexander stumbled backward, heart hammering, eyes wide. He tried to grab the phone, call for help. "Guards! Please! Someone!" His voice cracked. But the guards were away, trapped in Kian's loop of false alarms.
Roberta advanced, her expression a mix of sorrow, rage, and heartbreak. Crimson tears streamed down her face like a grotesque mask of agony. She whispered, voice cutting deep:
"I loved you… but you never loved me."
Her scream echoed again, long and raw, bouncing off the marble walls. The lights cut completely, leaving only the faint glow of security monitors and his shattered phone on the floor. The shadows seemed to move closer, closing in, every corner hiding her presence.
Alexander's knees buckled. He clawed at the floor, fumbling for the phone, tripping over the rug, eyes darting to every reflective surface. Every mirror, every glass showed her—bloody, accusing, unstoppable.
Roberta's last step brought her to the center of the hall. The red light flickered across her hollow eyes as she screamed one final time:
"YOUR TIME IS NEAR, Alexander! I WILL TAKE YOU WITH ME!"
And then she vanished. The shadow remained, twisted and lingering, as if she had imprinted herself on the very walls of the penthouse.
Alexander dropped to the floor, sobbing, panting, shaking.
Then—his phone lit up. Unknown number.
A message.
A photograph.
Elara. Bloodied, hollow-eyed, staring straight at him.
Text beneath:
"I'm coming for you, Alexander."
He screamed, snatching the phone, only to drop it again, heart hammering, body trembling uncontrollably. The luxurious penthouse felt like a coffin, every wall closing in on him.
In the control room, Lyra leaned back, silver eyes gleaming in the dim glow of monitors. "Let the hunt begin," she said softly, voice cold and sharp.
Nina nodded. "Tonight, he understands what happens when justice fails."
Kian smirked at the feeds. "And we've only just started."
Aria, Mabel, Sophie, Max, and Roberta exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them. Every illusion, every shadow, every drop of blood and trick of light executed perfectly.
Alexander Moreau had laughed at the law, at justice, at those who tried to stop him.
Tonight, he learned the truth:
Loyalty is deadly.
And it was hunting him.