The next morning, the manor held its usual quietness. Gemma came downstairs dressed in a black hoodie, baggy black jeans, matching black Nike sneakers, and a black nose mask.
Lucy descended the stairs, looking exhausted. Eye bags clung beneath her eyes—she hadn't slept.
"You can't wear your nose mask to school, girl," she muttered, heading toward the kitchen without even glancing at her.
"Gem," a deep voice called from the top of the stairs. Both Gemma and Lucy looked up to see George standing there, smiling genuinely at Gemma.
Lucy blinked in surprise. That was the first honest smile she'd seen from her husband in years.
George walked down slowly, eyes locked on Gemma like he was searching for something—but when he reached her, he sighed. "Gem, you've grown so big. Oh my God!"
He pulled her into a hug, gently moving her stiff body.
"Oh stop it, George. She needs to be in school," Lucy rolled her eyes.
"Don't be jealous, woman," he laughed, deep and warm.
"Humph! Why would I be jealous," she scoffed as she entered the kitchen, cheeks flushed. "Oh my God, what's happening," she whispered to herself, shaking it off.
George opened his arms wide. "Won't you hug daddy?"
Gemma stared at him, then turned away, saying nothing as she stepped out.
(He smiled to himself. "Matter of time," he thought.)
Turning back, he saw Gabriel at the stairs. The boy said nothing and walked past him.
Gabriel headed to the garage, knowing Gemma would already be in the black Rolls-Royce. He slid into the backseat.
"Hey, sis," he said. No reply—as expected.
"Drive," he ordered the chauffeur, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
At school, all eyes turned toward them as they stepped out of the car. Gabriel tried to hold Gemma's hand, but she pulled away, walking ahead.
"Let me show you to your class, Gem. You don't know the way," he called after her.
Her class was on the third floor. They entered together as a woman in her thirties, with glasses perched on her nose, lectured at the front.
"You're late, Gabriel," she said sternly.
"I know," he answered, unfazed.
She turned to Gemma. "Introduce yourself."
"She's Gemma," Gabriel interrupted.
"I was talking to her, Gabriel."
"She won't reply, so why bother?"
Before she could respond, her phone rang. She stepped out, returning two minutes later looking tense.
"I'm your homeroom teacher. Miss Annie," she introduced herself quickly.
The class was silent, staring intently at the newcomers. Whispers spread.
"Miss Annie never lets anyone go." "Who the hell is she?"
Gabriel escorted Gemma to her desk, then walked out without being stopped.
Once the teacher left, the class erupted in whispers. A girl at the front turned and smiled at Gemma.
"I'm Mia Chris. Nice to meet you," she said, extending her hand.
Gemma just stared at her, expression unreadable.
"Oh, you're not a talker. Great. Come, let me show you around." Mia stood, tugging Gemma's arm.
Near the door, someone stuck a leg out. Gemma hit it but didn't stumble. She turned to see a red-haired girl sucking on a lollipop, grinning.
Gemma gave her a blank stare. The girl quickly turned away, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Haha, serves you right," Mia laughed, still holding Gemma's hand.
She stopped outside, pulling Gemma's mask off.
"Oh my God," Mia whispered. "A beauty… no, an angel."
"She looked like something carved from silence itself"
"Gemma's black hoodie sat loose on her frame, casting shadows over her face . Her black jean and Nike sneakers matched the dark theme -- clean, sharp, and untouched. Her black nose mask covered half her face, even with it, there was something arresting about her presence. Cold. Still. Unreadable.
But when it was pulled down, it was like unveiling a hidden painting.
Her skin was porcelain - pale, almost unreal under the School's fluorescent lights. High cheekbones. A narrow jawline. Eyes the color of smoke - dark brown endless, and hollow. Not dead, but not entirely alive either. Her lips were thin, unpainted , yet they looked too perfect , like they did never spoken a word.
Her hair, jet black and straight , hung just past her shoulder , not styled, not messy - just effortlessly perfect . And not one strand moved unless she moved. She had the kind of face that didn't need makeup - flawless , but unnerving in it's stillness .
Then there was this mark. Just right under her eyes, it was faint easy to miss - a tiny crescent - shaped birthmark . Like a bruise the moon has left behind.
Mia blinked , caught between awe and confusion . It wasn't the kind of beauty that drew you in - it was the kind that made you afraid too look away.
Gemma didn't flinch under the attention , she simply stood there , still as stone , the silence around her louder than any voice in the hallway.
Students were too stunned to speak but still took pictures of her.
Suddenly, someone zipped by on a skateboard and bumped into Gemma.
"I'm sorry!" the girl said.
It was Zoe Whitlock, a 17-year-old with cropped black hair and angular features. She always wore oversized clothes and skated everywhere. Sharp-tongued, but cautious—afraid of slipping up and saying too much.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, extending a hand. Gemma didn't take it. She stood on her own, eyes locked on Zoe.
Time froze.
Zoë's thoughts screamed. "It's her. Gemma. She's here."
Images she had buried came flooding back:
Flickering flames—red, not orange. Melted candles dripping wax like blood onto cold stone.
A voice chanting—too deep, too calm. Not human.
Zoë, pressed against stone. 'Don't move. Don't speak.' She obeyed.
In the center: Gemma. Barefoot. Drenched hair. White—or grey—clothes. Fog around her. Symbols drawn on the floor—none Zoë recognized.
"She's ready," someone whispered by her ear. She turned—no one there.
Gemma didn't react as they cut her hand. Blood dripped. Her face—empty.
A voice echoed. Ancient. Wrong. Shadows moved wrong—too slow, too long.
One figure stepped forward. No face. Just a mask. Antlers.
Gemma looked directly at Zoë—and smiled.
Then—darkness.
Back in the hallway, Zoë stared at Gemma. She looked normal. Human. But Zoë couldn't unsee what she saw.
The blank stare. The smile. It haunted her.
She told herself it wasn't real. Couldn't be. But deep down—she knew.
—
Meanwhile, Gabriel walked to his locker, oblivious to the moment unfolding above.
He opened it—and found a note.
"I Know. She Knows."
He looked around, searching for who left it. Nothing. He pocketed it, whispering to himself:
"Don't forget to install that camera."