The grand foyer of the Azul estate, once a symbol of prestige and ancient lineage, had been transformed into a grotesque gallery of slaughter. Bodies were scattered across the expanse, their forms twisted in their final moments of agony. But it was the ritualistic precision that truly chilled the blood: their eyes had been gouged out, leaving hollow, weeping sockets, and their heads were resting on the floor directly before their own kneeling, headless bodies.
There were five people in this haunting posture at the center of the hall. The rest of the clan—close to twenty friends, workers, and extended family—were scattered throughout the space.
Blood filled the whole place. It pooled and flowed, moving like a dark, viscous river across the polished marble.
