If you tell a writer she will die tomorrow, she says, "I haven't put all my grief on paper yet."
*
The city's most infamous nightclub was a place where the music never stopped. Bodies moved in a trance, swaying under lights that cut through air laced with temptation. It wasn't just the drugs or the drinks; it was the system, a relentless rhythm that trapped everyone inside. Here, people didn't just lose themselves; they let the night swallow them whole.
In the most luxurious lodge on the second floor, overlooking the hypnotic chaos below, sat Reagan Morgan. The King of the City. A ruthless businessman with a smile as unsettling as it was calculated. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light as he observed his empire.
"Ariadne," he called.
The woman seated behind him didn't flinch, though the sound of his voice made her stomach twist. She smiled, a reflex she had perfected, despite the revulsion clawing at her insides.
Reagan turned to her, his silver teeth flashing in the shadows. His long black hair was slicked back, revealing a skeletal face that made him look less like a man and more like a phantom wearing a human skin.
Ariadne, by contrast, was a vision of warmth. Her dark curls framed an angelic face, full lips, a soft chin, and lashes thick enough to cast shadows on her cheeks. She was a stark contradiction to the monster who claimed to love her.
"You should leave for the house I bought you. The guards will take you," he said. His voice was low and measured, but laced with warning. "My family is arriving. Regina will not tolerate a scene tonight."
Ariadne's smile remained fixed, forced, and sweet. "Of course. I should go now."
She reached for her small purse, eager to escape. But Reagan wasn't done.
"Aren't you going to kiss your lover goodbye?"
Her breath hitched, but she masked it well. "Oh… of course."
Steeling herself, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to keep the illusion intact. Satisfied, Reagan let his fingers ghost over her wrist before waving her away.
"The guards are waiting. Go."
Ariadne turned, her composure unwavering as she walked out of the lodge, but inside, she was suffocating.
As she descended the stairs, she felt the weight of an unseen gaze. She didn't need to look to know who it was.
Alexander Morgan.
The eldest son. The favorite. The perfect reflection of his father.
He stood near the entrance, his expression unreadable behind expensive glasses, a trench coat draped effortlessly over his frame. He was a walking contradiction, gilded with wealth, yet completely hollow. A puppet crafted in Reagan's image.
Ariadne stole a glance, a silent wish flickering in her dark eyes. Just once, she thought. Just once, look at me. Truly see me.
But Alexander didn't falter. He didn't pause. He simply moved past her, his mind miles away. Ariadne exhaled, disappointed but unsurprised.
At the door of the lodge, Alexander tapped Vermont on the shoulder before stepping inside. He left the door ajar, waiting for the rest of the pack.
"Come in and sit down, Vermont," Reagan said lazily. "No need to hover."
Vermont obeyed without question. A solemn-faced man with a sharp presence, he was more than just a right hand; he was a son in all but blood. With naturally light-green hair and striking features, he matched Alexander in beauty, though he lacked the ambition that ate at the Morgan heir.
Alexander approached his father, his voice calm. "They're coming."
Reagan smiled, turning back to the window to watch the sea of people part below. His family was approaching.
First came the twins, Sebastian and Julian. They were the yin and yang of destruction. Julian's naturally white hair gleamed under the club lights, while Sebastian's jet-black strands blended into the darkness. They were sociopaths in the making, each silently vying for the title of the worst.
Behind them was Melanie, Reagan's only daughter. A rare flicker of innocence in the Morgan dynasty. Beautiful, golden-haired, with warm brown eyes, she was proof that even amidst rot, something pure could grow. Reagan loved her, but he often wondered how she had remained untouched by the darkness that ran in their veins.
Beside Melanie walked Regina, Reagan's wife. The woman who had given him everything, including her own soul. She was a vision of elegance in a blood-red dress, her sleek brunette hair cut short and ironed into perfect submission.
But beneath the beauty lay something far more dangerous. Regina was not a woman to be crossed. Her love for Reagan was a sickness, a devotion so absolute it bordered on madness.
Trailing behind them all was the family's private scientist. A man of unsettling calm, with eyes that concealed horrors no one wanted to name. He was the kind of person who spoke in whispers, but whose actions screamed.
As each member entered, Vermont rose and locked the door behind them. Silence settled over the lodge as Reagan leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. His grin widened.
"Since we can't all lose our minds at the same time, has anyone found the Gazelle?"
A shared tension gripped the room.
Julian leaned back, smirking. "We'll find her, Dad."
Sebastian's voice dripped with malice. "And when we do, she'll write until her ink runs dry. Until her blood does too."
Melanie shuddered, looking away. Reagan only chuckled.
"When I become king of the new world, I will rule both dreams and reality."
Alexander's face remained impassive, though a muscle in his jaw twitched. The twins exchanged wicked glances, restless with excitement. Regina smiled, a picture of poise, though her eyes betrayed nothing. Vermont simply stared, detached.
And the scientist? He was already picturing his experiments.
Far away, in the quiet sanctuary of a hidden hut, Gazelle rubbed her ear absently.
"My ears are ringing," she murmured.
Across the table, Raven exhaled, pushing aside his empty plate. "So it begins."
"What?" Gazelle asked, her voice slightly louder than necessary as the ringing persisted.
Raven only smiled. "Never mind."
He rose, stretching his lean frame, a shadow against the dim firelight. His promise weighed heavily on him, but he could not leave. Not yet.
"Promises made will be kept," he said, his voice solemn. "And blood will be shed if necessary. But promises will not be broken."
Gazelle barely heard him, too lost in the warmth of the fire and the lingering taste of her last meal. She closed her eyes and smiled, allowing herself a rare moment of peace.
Raven scowled as he watched her, shaking his head.
"This woman neither listens nor sees the world around her," he muttered to himself. "Are writers always like this?"
No, Gazelle thought, drifting. Writers listen to everything. See everything. But we cannot waste the words we have yet to write.
"Promises are like pie crusts," Gazelle said, her voice low. "Easily made, easily broken."
But Raven did not hear her.