The assassination mission, a sword of Damocles, hung over Clara's head. The System's cold indifference, the seemingly impossible objective, and the lingering horror of the blood party created a suffocating pressure. Jonathan Goldsmiths was tightly guarded, moved unpredictably, and had virtually no discernible weaknesses. Poisoning was unlikely; direct confrontation, suicidal. She needed a plan. A high-risk plan, but one with a chance of success.
After much deliberation, Clara realized the only way to approach Jonathan when his guard was down was when he was near her, in her private space, and when he perceived her as no threat. The closest and most private space was her own bedroom.
But how to lure him there and make him drop his guard? Clara thought of feigned illness. A new bride, frail and in need of attention... or at least the master's inspection.
The plan began with preparing a weapon. Clara needed something sharp, easy to carry, and unlikely to arouse suspicion. Knives in the dining room were handled by servants. Bodyguards' weapons were untouchable. A pair of pruning shears seemed a plausible choice. She remembered the vast, immaculate gardens.
One morning, Clara approached Butler Reid. "Madam Butler," she said softly, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "I find the flower garden quite beautiful. May I perhaps have a pair of shears to... trim a few branches myself to bring into my room? I'd like to learn flower arranging to pass the time."
Butler Reid looked at her for a moment, her eyes betraying no emotion. She seemed slightly surprised, as Clara had never expressed any personal preferences or made any requests since arriving. However, this request was entirely reasonable for a lady of leisure in a grand mansion.
"Certainly, Madam. I will have a specialized pair of shears prepared and brought to you," she replied professionally. Despite knowing nothing about flower arranging, Clara managed to maintain a feigned enthusiasm.
The shears arrived soon after. A small, sharp pair of branch trimmers, gleaming metal. Holding them, Clara felt their weight and sharpness. These would be her weapon.
That night, Clara decided to execute her plan. She wouldn't pretend to be ill during the day; that might be detected. She waited until late into the night, when everything was silent.
She feigned a high fever, breathing heavily, groaning softly. She pressed the emergency bell, calling for a servant.
Immediately, the night attendant appeared, alarmed to see her in such a state. They quickly summoned Butler Reid, and then, following the Goldsmiths family's protocol, Jonathan would undoubtedly be informed.
Not long after, steady footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door opened. Jonathan Goldsmiths entered, followed by Butler Reid and the family doctor.
"Clara? What's wrong?" Jonathan's voice seemed concerned, or was it just part of the act? Clara couldn't read him.
The doctor quickly moved to examine her. Clara continued her performance, feigning weakness, saying she felt dizzy, short of breath, and burning up. The doctor checked her vitals, then gave a vague conclusion about excessive fatigue or a change in weather, prescribing sedatives and vitamins.
"Mr. Goldsmiths," the doctor said to him, "Madam appears to be overly fatigued. She needs plenty of rest and should avoid stress."
Jonathan looked at Clara, his deep eyes unreadable. He nodded, dismissing the doctor and Butler Reid.
"Get some rest," he said to her, his voice still deep and warm. He didn't leave immediately. He sat down in the armchair near Clara's bed, looking seemingly tired after a day's work.
Clara lay in bed, feigning sleep. She felt his presence in the room. He sat there, silent, only the sound of his steady breathing. She waited. Waited until she felt his breathing become deeper and slower. Was he... asleep?
She slowly opened her eyes. Jonathan was dozing in the chair, his head leaned back, his face revealing a rare weariness. This was her chance. Her only chance.
Clara gently sat up. Her whole body trembled, not from her feigned illness, but from extreme tension. She reached for the pruning shears she had hidden under her pillow. The cold metal felt chilling in her hand.
Target: The heart. The quickest way to end it.
She slid out of bed, one step, then another, silently approaching him. Her footsteps seemed swallowed by the profound silence of the late night. The dim light from the bedside lamp was just enough for her to clearly see Jonathan's sleeping face. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, a complete contrast to the brutal monster she had seen.
She stood beside his chair. He was deeply asleep. No bodyguards in the room. Butler Reid had left. Only her and him.
Gripping the shears firmly, Clara aimed for his heart.
She took a deep breath. Suppressing all emotion, all fear. This was her mission.
With all the strength she could muster, Clara plunged the shears straight into Jonathan's chest, aiming precisely for his heart.
The metal pierced through fabric, then flesh. There was a small, wet thwack. She felt the resistance.
Clara yanked the shears out. Blood. Fresh blood gushed out, soaking his white shirt, spreading across his chest.
She looked at the spreading pool of blood, feeling faint. It was done. He was dead.
"It's almost over..." she thought to herself, closing her eyes, waiting for the familiar System notification to appear, waiting for the sensation of being pulled back to the real world.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds...
Nothing happened. No System screen. No sensation of being pulled away.
Clara slowly opened her eyes.
She was still here. Still in this room. The dim light. The pungent smell of blood.
And Jonathan...
He was still sitting in the chair. Blood flowed from the wound on his chest, soaking the chair. But he... he wasn't dead.
His deep eyes were open. Staring directly at her.
A faint, very faint smile slowly spread across his lips.
Clara's heart felt like it stopped beating. Horror. Disbelief. How could this be? She had stabbed him straight in the heart!
Jonathan gently lifted his hand, reaching towards her. His fingers were bloody. He took her hand, the one still holding the shears. His hand was chillingly warm.
"I'm... fine..." he whispered, his voice still deep and incredibly calm, as if that fatal wound were merely a small scratch.
Clara looked at him, at the bleeding wound, at the faint smile on his lips, at his deep eyes devoid of any fear or anger, only understanding and... something strange, unexplainable. Her entire body trembled violently. He truly wasn't human!
In the midst of extreme panic, from somewhere unknown, a strange instinct surged. She looked at the gushing wound. Discarding the shears, Clara frantically grabbed a towel from the table, trembling as she pressed it firmly against the wound on his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding.
"Don't... don't bleed anymore..." she stammered, tears welling up, unsure if from fear or something else.
Jonathan looked at her actions, the smile on his lips seeming to deepen slightly, carrying something... tender? Or perhaps just subtle mockery.
He gently placed his hand over hers, pressing lightly on the towel covering the wound.
"Again... troubling you," he whispered.
Then, he slowly stood up, disregarding the bleeding wound. He looked at her one last time with that unreadable gaze, then gave a slight nod.
"I'm... going back to my room now."
He turned, walked slowly towards the door, his terrifyingly calm demeanor unchanged, leaving Clara alone in the blood-splattered room, her heart pounding wildly from horror, confusion, and... something else she couldn't name.
The plan had failed miserably. She couldn't kill him. And he... he didn't die. He just smiled, said he was fine, and left for his room as if nothing serious had happened.
Clara watched the door close. Jonathan Goldsmiths. Who was he, really? He wasn't human. He was a terrifying entity, beyond all explanation. And she... she had tried to kill him, but failed. And had even... tried to save him?
The room was plunged into chilling silence. Only the smell of blood and the brutal truth of her failure remained. The assassination mission. The man who wouldn't die. The truth about Jonathan... was even more terrifying than she had imagined.