Selene
The basement didn't feel like part of the mansion.
It felt… forgotten.
The air was thick—stale, unmoving—carrying the damp, sour scent of rot and rusted metal. There was a faint undercurrent of something worse, something older… like decay that had settled into the concrete and refused to leave.
Moisture clung to the corners, gathering in dark stains that spread like quiet infections.
The lighting was low. Not dim enough to hide anything—just enough to make everything look wrong. The yellowed bulbs flickered occasionally, casting shadows that stretched too long, too thin, distorting shapes with every subtle movement.
Lily's laughter didn't stop.
It spiraled.
Not loud enough to echo—
but sharp enough to cut through the rot-heavy air of the basement.
Marco tightened the rope around her wrists.
"Shut her up," he muttered.
"Don't," I said. Because she wouldn't. That was her nature. To make a scenario Dramatic enough for other minds to divert thinking she was thinking mischievous. She wasn't. I was sure of it.
Victor didn't move.
Good.
I stepped closer instead.
Slow. Measured.
Because Lily only ever broke when you let her. Her laughter hit a peak—then snapped. Just like that.
Her chest rose and fell once. Twice.
Then she looked at me.
Really looked.
And for the first time—
I saw it.
Not madness.
Not mockery.
Fear.
Not for herself.
That made my stomach tighten. Because Lily Bennetts fear was only for one man and that was the man I married once. Lucien Voss.
"Done?" I asked.
Her lips parted slightly.
"You still think you're in control," she said softly.
"I am."
"No," she whispered. "You're standing exactly where they want you."
I didn't react. There's quite they and she was being so damn Vague, I wanted to snap a skull after this.
Anger never suits me. I always prefer details and calculations and observations. She and Lucien gets to my nerves
Every single time
"Define they," I said.
Her eyes flicked to Victor. Then Marco. Then back to me.
"They don't have a name," she said. Lies.
"Everything has a name."
"Not this," she replied. "Not yet."
I tilted my head slightly. Her eyes glinted and I wanted to strangle her. I never did well with half informations.
"Structure," I said. "You already gave me pieces. Execution. Surveillance. Override."
She didn't answer.
"Three minimum," I continued. "Possibly more. Internal access. Trained. Coordinated."
A step closer.
"Which means they've been inside for a while."
A pause.
"Long enough to study patterns."
Her jaw tightened.
"Long enough," I added quietly, "to study me."
Silence.
Victor shifted behind me. He understood too.
"Say it," I said calmly. Deadly calm.
"No."
"Say it."
Her voice dropped.
"They're not new."
My pulse didn't change.
But something cold settled deeper.
"How long," I asked.
She didn't answer.
"Lily."
"Years."
Not recent.
Not sudden.
Embedded. My thoughts aligned instantly. Security logs. Access irregularities. Minor glitches I ignored. Not glitches.
Testing.
"They built inside the system," I said.
"Yes."
"And waited."
"Yes."
"For what?"
Her eyes held mine.
"For you to become predictable."
That almost made me smile.
Almost.
"I'm not predictable," I said.
"You are," she replied. "You just don't see it."
I stepped even closer now.
Close enough to hear the slight unevenness in her breathing.
"Then enlighten me."
"You isolate variables," she said. "You control space. You trust systems more than people."
A beat.
"And they know that."
That wasn't wrong.
But it wasn't enough.
"Who leads them?" I asked.
"No one."
"Wrong."
"I'm not lying."
"You're omitting."
Her silence proved it.
Again.
"Lily," I said quietly, "you're not protecting them."
Her eyes flickered.
"You're protecting one."
That—
hit.
There it was.
A crack too small for anyone else to notice.
But not me.
"Who?" I asked.
"No."
"Who."
"No."
My patience thinned.
Not visibly.
Never visibly.
But enough.
I turned slightly.
"Marco."
He stepped forward immediately.
Knife already in hand.
Lily didn't even flinch.
That—
was new.
"Pain won't work," she said.
"I don't need it to," I replied.
Marco paused.
"Then what—"
"Stop," I cut him off.
He went still, because Lily was bluffing, she was waiting time. Why didn't I crack it earlier..
My entire body went still.
"…Victor," I said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Check upper levels. Now."
A beat.
Then he moved.
Fast.
No questions.
"Route?" Victor's voice came through the comm.
"Full sweep," I said. "Start with—"
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
darkness swallowed the basement.
Marco cursed.
"Backup power—"
"Wait," I said sharply.
Silence dropped instantly.
In the dark—
I listened. Not to them.
To the system. To the absence of it.
No hum. No low electrical current.
Nothing. Dead.
"That's not a cut," I said quietly.
Marco's voice lowered.
"Then what is it?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I already knew.
"They didn't shut it down," I said.
A pause.
"They took it."
Silence.
Then—
Lily spoke.
Right behind me.
Closer than she should've been.
Closer than she could've been.
"You're late, Selene."
Marco moved instantly.
Knife slicing through air—
but hitting nothing.
Lights snapped back on.
Harsh.
Blinding.
And Lily—
was gone.
Rope on the floor.
FUCK
Loose.
Untouched.
Victor's voice came through, sharp—
"Selene—top floor breach!"
Of course.
I didn't move.
Didn't react.
Didn't rush.
Because now—
I understood.
This wasn't infiltration.
This wasn't control.
This was—
a demonstration.
And I had just failed it.
My gaze dropped to the rope at my feet.
Clean.
Precise.
Planned.
Years.
They'd been inside for years.
Watching.
Waiting.
Learning.
And now—
they were done waiting.
I turned slowly.
"Lock every exit," I said.
Marco didn't hesitate this time.
"Already on it."
"Too late for that," Victor muttered through the comm.
I'm a monster
A lot of years ago
I realised it right the second I fell in love with Lucien
*Flashback*
I was laying down on the mosaic floor of the gallery in Paris, as I turned towards him, he was lying on the mosaic floor as well, his hair dazzling around the floor in a mishap. I slowly stood to sit on the floor, as I elbowed my hand and tilted my body to look at him, my hair cascading down on the floor as I looked at him with a dislodged body position.
There was a word Socratis used once, Soul's Mirror, meaning it could be an essence instead of an image. It could be a soul which would be blind to every other, a soul which could be smelt, and dealt with. If I illustrate my state, it could be thousands of breathing thorns walking around my chest until it fills my throat and cuts it, cuts it and the blood pours. Or it could be caterpillars squirming inside my lungs until it lets the lung die out. My soul could be made of dragons bound in the scales of his. We could be dragons, whose souls don't go further in the afterlife, just the body. We could be mates in a ludicrous, vulgar land. Trying to find the soul instead of the image. Dragons might have breathing pouches, he could be found in every other.
I sat as I found the gallons of oil acrylic paint buckets sheltered in the corner, I got up to find and returned with a red vermilion paint. I poured the bucket's content in the mosaic, the mosaic was gray, until it smeared in vermilion. I guided my bare hands in the paint, spreading them across the floor. I looked at him as I found myself helpless, because nothing was beyond it, beyond the belief that the paint would create his adventure. The scenario felt like he would be running towards the cliff, and realise the cliff would make him survive by anything solid to ground him. But I had nothing to hold onto. Nothing in my subconscious mind until I sped through my fingers and it started to shape his face.
I went up ahead and brought lavender, golden and violet to the floor, the colors mismatching just like the proportion of his eyes. I smeared the color as he kept sitting looking at my obnoxiousness. I looked at his skin, it was a little too reddish for my liking, it could be the air of foreign, it was paler than normal days, a little breakouts here and there, oil on the nose just like me. The moles, daunting still. A few days ago I saw somewhere on the internet that if a past lover had loved him a lot, it could be a hint to the moles scattered against his skin in the next life. Maybe I was his past lover. Maybe in every other life if he had, I would have been the lover. Because he was bathing in moles, even the pigeons don't have this many. I love to look at the moles whenever my eyes are on him, and they are always on him.
My knees stained with colors, my arms filled with finger marks, seemed like the marks after making love, wounds and bruises but still very pleasurable, could be called solitude as well. My fingers felt like they were drowning in paint. Some smearing on my cheeks as I wiped my face with my palms subconsciously, involuntarily moved my fingers along my hair, I was a massacre. I was a commotion. But he still kept looking at me as if I was Socrates myself. Creating revolutions under my hand whereas I was just trying to paint him.
At the end I came back with a jet black oil slime, and poured it over the canvas on the mosaic. The slime converted into places I hadn't imagined. The slime with its row of motion, made an enormous scaled monster, a face of a dragon, the wings of a lion. Right beside the bloody face I just painted of his. His cheeks are blood red, like the scars of heart searing into a face, so freshly that it creates bumps into his cheeks. Right behind his red hair, the black glistening slime created a demon, so sinister, my heart shattered.
It was me.
His face glittering in pale red, maroon red creates blemishes against his moles which I created with lavender. The red, making him burn like a lava, the reincarnated sun. Behind the sun, the shadow of the monster.
Mine.
Unapologetic, raging and filthy. Beastlike, vulgar and true. Teeth snarling, tongue out, eyes like murder.
Mine.
*End of Flashback*
They touched Lucien through my own system
They will find out
How Lucien Voss didn't get played but played rightfully and intentionally to see rhe purpose. And the purpose was me. So whoever Lily was being saved by, knew this too. But I wasn't a monster for Lucien for nothing