VILLA — 12:00 AM
The villa was quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional whistle of the wind and the faint hum of the fridge downstairs. In the living room, Lilian lay asleep with her head nestled gently on Sergio's lap. He sat unmoving, running his fingers softly through her hair while staring blankly at the dark television screen. He wasn't watching—just waiting.
Leo and Liam were glued to their phones, eyes flicking across the screens, occasionally glancing up toward the main entrance like silent sentinels. The air was tense, their unease unspoken but shared. They were all waiting for her.
Then they heard it—the distant growl of a motorcycle slicing through the night.
Moments later, the front door creaked open. Lyric stepped inside, her steps uneven, her breath reeking of alcohol and something darker—grief, perhaps. She didn't acknowledge them. Didn't offer an explanation or a glance. She walked straight toward the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor.
Ding.
The metallic doors parted, and she stepped in, alone.
As the elevator ascended, her reflection in the mirrored walls stared back at her—smudged eyeliner, hollow eyes, and a sardonic twist to her lips. But she didn't care. Not tonight.
When the doors slid open with another soft ding, she stepped out—but instead of turning left toward her bedroom, she turned right. Her heels clicked against the polished floors as she walked down the corridor to the very last room.
The fourth room.
It had been years since she entered that room.
A place sealed off, not by locks, but by memories too heavy to bear.
She hesitated before lifting her hand and placing her thumb against the digital scanner.
Beep.
The door clicked open.
The room was barren except for a single item: a large, framed photograph resting on a wooden stand under a spotlight. Dust covered the corners of the frame, yet the image was as vivid as the day it was taken.
She turned on the light, walked slowly toward the picture, and sat down on the old armchair positioned before it.
It was a family portrait.
A beautiful woman with warm, caramel-toned skin, wearing a flowing ivory gown stood beside a proud man in a suit—his arm around her shoulders. Between them stood an elegant teenage girl with a regal bearing. And in front of them, grinning from ear to ear, were two tiny children: a boy and a girl, both dressed in vibrant colors, cheeks round with innocence.
The girl wore a punk dress, with her hair in soft curls and glitter on her eyelids. Her smile—radiant, infectious, the kind that made hearts melt.
That girl was Lyric.
Back when she was Angel Wiled.
Back before everything shattered.
---
SIXTEEN YEARS AGO — WILED MANSION
The mansion was buzzing with excitement. Pink and white balloons floated near the ceiling, and a large cake shaped like a carousel stood proudly in the center of the ballroom. The chandeliers sparkled, reflecting light off the crystal tableware arranged neatly on satin-covered tables.
Angel ran through the hall with her twin brother, Liam, hand in hand. Their laughter rang like bells, echoing through the massive house.
"Are you happy, Liam?" Angel beamed.
He nodded, squeezing her hand. "Of course, Angel. We're five now! We can go to school! We're big kids!"
They both giggled, twirling in circles until they crashed onto the floor, breathless and glowing with joy.
Their older sister, Heaven, descended the grand staircase, a vision in soft lavender. She looked every bit the graceful young woman she was. Angel and Liam squealed and ran to her, hugging her tightly.
Heaven bent to their level, planting kisses on both cheeks. "Happy birthday, you two. Your party is going to be magical."
They beamed. Life was perfect.
Then the doorbell rang.
Sergio walked in, dressed in a crisp black suit. He looked solemn as he approached Heaven. "Tell your parents the boys need to be checked at the hospital again. It's urgent."
Heaven nodded. "Please send my love to Leo and Liam."
Angel waved sweetly. "Bye, Mister Sergio!"
Sergio gave a small smile before disappearing.
Soon after, Mr. and Mrs. Wiled emerged—he, the charismatic politician; she, the adored philanthropist. Together they inspected the final decorations with pride. Everything was perfect.
Until the guards arrived.
But these weren't the usual men.
They were different.
Cold. Silent. Watching.
Angel ran to them like always, arms wide. But they didn't smile. Didn't kneel. One of them stepped forward and ruffled her hair with forced politeness.
"Go upstairs," he said. "Play with your brother."
Angel blinked, confused. But she obeyed. Holding Liam's hand tightly, she ran upstairs, casting one last look back.
An hour later, a scream tore through the house.
Angel jolted, heart racing.
Liam looked at her, eyes serious. "Let's go see," he whispered.
Hand in hand, they crept downstairs, their little feet padding against the marble steps.
Then they saw it.
Blood.
So much blood.
Heaven's body lay sprawled across the floor, her head… gone. Just gone.
Angel's knees gave out. Liam wrapped his arms around her tightly, trying to shield her from the nightmare.
Their mother's screams filled the air—raw, primal. She fought off a man who had her pinned, their clothes ripped. Their father was restrained by four guards, his mouth gagged, his eyes wild with rage and helplessness.
Angel watched as her mother stopped moving.
Just like that.
No more screams.
No more fighting.
Silence fell, thick and choking.
---
PRESENT — VILLA
Thunder clapped loudly, shaking the windows. Lyric blinked, pulled from the memory as a single tear traced down her cheek.
She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
Her face hardened.
She stood and walked to the window, staring out into the rain-soaked night. The storm mirrored her emotions—chaotic, violent, unforgiving.
She stepped out of the room and returned to her own, collapsing onto the bed. The walls closed in on her, but she no longer flinched. Pain had become a familiar companion.
Would she have been different if that day had never happened?
Would she still love pink?
Would she still chase butterflies and believe in magic?
Would her father have become president?
Would they still be a family?
But no.
They were all gone.
Slaughtered.
And she—Angel—had died that day too.
What remained was Lyric.
A ghost.
A blade wrapped in silk.
A soul with no light—only fury, vengeance, and the chilling memory of what they took from her.
They thought she died that night.
But she didn't.
She survived what no child should.
Because she was death.
And death always comes back.
She rose from the bed slowly, her face twisted into something dark—something inhuman.
She walked to the window again, pressing her palm to the cold glass.
"Blue House," she whispered, her voice a low snarl.
"Wait for me."
Lightning flashed, illuminating her features in the darkness.
The rain poured harder.
As if the heavens themselves knew—
Something wicked was coming.
And she would not stop until every drop of blood was repaid.