Page 27 of Porcelain Grave

"The crimes you committed against my mother are way overdue for a payback," I hiss.

Panic seizes him. In a desperate, clumsy move, he lunges for the desk phone, his fingers scrambling to press the security button. He starts to speak, his voice a frantic whisper—"Security! Get in here—"

BANG.

A single, precise shot rings out. Rhys hasn't even moved from the doorway.

Adam lets out a blood-curdling scream, clutching his hand. His fingers are shredded, the phone clattering to the desk as blood sprays across his expensive paperwork. He collapses back into his chair, sobbing, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps.

"Please!" he wails, the cowardice finally surfacing. "I didn't—it wasn't me! I was just following orders! Thomas made us do it! I didn't want to! I don't even remember her face! Please, I'll give you money! Anything!"

Rhys leans against the doorframe, his voice dripping with disdain. "Excuses are for people who think they're going to survive the night, Adam. And you? You're already dead. You just haven't stopped breathing yet."

"I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry!" Adam begs, sliding off his chair and onto his knees, his ruined hand leaking blood onto the plush carpet.

"Sorry doesn't bring her back," I whisper. "And it doesn't stop the pain."

“No, no, no. Please. There are must be something I can do... I can write you a check... I can buy you anything you wish in the world… I can give you compensation money.”

I step forward, the axe raised. He tries to crawl away, his expensive suit dragging through the glass shards, but he's too slow. I bring the axe down with a brutal, sweeping motion.

The blade is fucking lethal. It doesn't just cut; it shears. In one clean, violent arc, the steel bites through the flesh and bone of his neck. There is no struggle, no second strike needed. The blade separates his head from his shoulders in one singular, sickening crunch.

His head bounces once on the carpet, his eyes still open, still reflecting the neon glow of my mask. His body remains upright for a split second, a fountain of hot, crimson blood sputtering from the severed carotid, spraying across the obsidian desk and the white walls in a grotesque, abstract painting. Then, the torso collapses with a heavy thud.

I stand there, breathing hard, watching the blood soak into the carpet. I feel a wave of euphoria so intense it almost makes me dizzy.

"Look at him," I mutter, staring at the headless corpse. "All that power, all that money... and he died like a fucking dog."

Rhys walks up behind me, wrapping a possessive arm around my waist and pulling me back against his chest. He looks down at the carnage with a look of pure satisfaction.

"Perfect," he whispers in my ear, his voice dark and proud. "A fitting end for a piece of shit. You did beautifully, my little monster.”

Rhys has to go and deal with some bollocks at The Midnight Menagerie. He told me to stay put in the chambers, to wait for him like a good little doll, but he doesn't understand that my mind is a fucking cage when I'm bored. If I spend one more minute staring at these velvet curtains and gothic carvings, I’m going to lose my absolute shit.

I can't do it. I just can't.

I slip out of the castle quietly, my footsteps barely making a sound on the cold stone. The night air hits me, crisp and smelling of damp earth and something sweet and rotting. I make my way down toward the common area of the carnival, moving with a calm I don't actually feel.

The carnival tonight is a fucking fever dream. As always. It’s a sprawling, gothic wasteland of striped tents that look like they’re bleeding into the dark sky. The lights are all deep purples, sickly greens, and blood-reds, casting long, distorted shadows that dance across the cobblestones. A thick, clinging mist rolls over the ground, swirling around my ankles like ghostly fingers trying to pull me down. The smell of fried dough and caramelized sugar mixes with the scent of old incense and ozone. People are everywhere—masked freaks, decadent nobles, and lost souls—all drifting through the haze.

I hear the clown talking to another performer. ‎"The Ringmaster won't like this."‎

‎Another replies, ‎"Then don't let the Ringmaster find out."

I pause.

‎Ringmaster?

Could be an attraction I haven't seen yet.

I walk through the crowd, a ghost among ghosts. I don't say a word to anyone; I don't even look them in the eye. I just keep moving, driven by a restless energy that feels like electricity humming under my skin.

I wander further than I’ve ever gone, pushing past the familiar sights until I hit a part of the grounds that feels... different. Heavier. That's when I see it: a massive, looming tower that pierces the sky like a jagged obsidian needle. The Chapel Bell Tower.

It looks empty, desolate, and utterly imposing. As I approach, I spot a security guard standing by the entrance. My heart gives a little thud—I expect him to bark at me, to tell me to fuck off or escort me back to the castle. But as I get closer, he doesn't move to stop me. He doesn't even speak. He simply steps aside, his eyes vacant, granting me passage as if I belong here.

I don't question it. I just go.