The mansion's ruined walls seemed to close in as Charles stepped through the shattered doorway, his boots crunching over broken glass and splintered wood. The air was thick with the scent of ash and ozone, remnants of the ritual chamber's collapse. Shadows danced across the cracked marble floor, cast by flickering candles that burned with an unnatural, crimson-tinted flame. The space felt alive, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were watching, waiting.
Vivian stood in the center of the room, her silhouette framed against the faint glow of the candles. Every movement she made was too smooth, too deliberate—like a predator that had already mapped out the hunt and knew its inevitable end. Her crimson dress clung to her form, its fabric shimmering as though woven from liquid fire. Her eyes, once a soft hazel, now glowed with an eerie, molten intensity that seemed to pierce through the dim light.
