As the night deepened, Camilla Robinson sat in her private room, a slow smile curling on her lips. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the walls, but she basked in the warmth of her own triumph.
She had done it.
Harlond Smith was chasing ghosts. She had carefully laid down just enough doubt to stir his suspicions, knowing full well that his investigation would lead to nothing. No loose ends. No evidence. Only confusion and frustration.
She leaned back in her chair, swirling a glass of wine in her hand. The Smiths were unraveling, their emotions playing right into her hands. Jillian's doubt, Harlond's desperation—every reaction was a carefully orchestrated performance.
She let out a soft chuckle. How easy it was to manipulate those blinded by grief.
Rising from her seat, she walked to the window, gazing out over the darkened city. The game wasn't over yet. No, this was just another move in her grand design.
Harlond would keep searching. Jillian would keep questioning. And all the while, Camilla would watch them suffer—knowing she had led them straight into nothingness.
And that, she thought, was the sweetest victory of all.
*****
At the hospital, Lillian Smith was sweating profusely. The sterile white walls of Orwell First Hospital seemed to close in on Lillian Smith as she lay motionless in her bed. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, but it did nothing to mask the bitter taste of suffering on her tongue.
Pain rippled through her body like a slow-burning fire. Her limbs felt heavy, her chest tight, as if invisible hands were pressing down on her. Every breath was a struggle, shallow and unsteady. She had been healing—or so she thought. But now, something was wrong.
Her fingers trembled as she tried to reach for the call button, but the strength had left her. A cold sweat clung to her skin, her body caught between burning heat and unbearable chills. The world around her blurred, the steady beeping of the monitors fading in and out like a distant echo.
She wanted to scream, to call for Harlond, for Jillian—anyone. But her voice was gone, trapped in her throat as waves of agony crashed over her.
Had the toxin failed? Or had something far worse taken hold of her?
As the pain deepened, a single thought gripped her mind:
This wasn't healing. This was something else.
The hospital room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. Lillian Smith lay motionless, her body weakened, her breath shallow. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, the pain coursing through her veins like fire.
Then—voices.
She heard them just outside her door, hushed but urgent. At first, the words blurred together, but then… one sentence cut through the haze like a blade.
"…the poison is working faster than expected. Her internal organs are already deteriorating."
Lillian's eyes shot open. Her heart pounded.
"She won't last much longer," came another voice—deeper, unfamiliar. "By the time they realize, it'll be too late. No evidence. No trace."
Lillian's breath caught in her throat. They were talking about her.
Her mind raced. Who were they? How long had they been doing this?
She forced her trembling fingers toward the call button. She had to warn Harlond, Jillian.
But just as her fingertips brushed the device, the voices stopped.
Silence.
Then… footsteps.
The door creaked open.
Lillian froze, her body paralyzed not just by weakness—but by fear.
The two figures loomed over her bed, their gazes sharp, calculating. They knew.
A nurse took a step closer. Her voice was soft, almost mocking. "Did you hear what we were discussing, Mrs. Smith?"
Lillian's mind raced. If she showed fear, if they sensed even a hint of truth, she wouldn't make it through the night.
She forced a weak, confused expression onto her face, blinking as though struggling to stay conscious. "W-What?" Her voice cracked. "I don't… I don't understand."
The second figure, a man cloaked in shadows, exchanged a glance with the nurse. His posture stiffened.
The nurse leaned in, her fingers grazing the IV line as though checking it. "Good," she murmured, her tone dripping with false kindness. "You're very weak, dear. Probably imagining things."
Lillian let her eyelids droop, pretending to drift in and out of awareness. Inside, her heart thundered.
The man grunted. "If she did hear anything, it won't matter soon."
The man exchanged a glance with the nurse and immediately the nurse understood what to do.
The nurse smiled—a chilling, false sweetness—as she reached into her pocket and retrieved a small vial. With practiced ease, she uncapped it and poured the contents into Lillian's IV bag.
The clear liquid swirled into the solution, disappearing instantly.
"There, that should help you rest," the nurse murmured, her fingers trailing lightly over Lillian's wrist before stepping back.
Lillian barely had time to process what was happening before a strange fog settled over her mind.
Her vision blurred. The walls of the hospital room seemed to shift, the soft glow of the lamp now too bright, too sharp. The voices around her distorted, echoing unnaturally.
Her body felt heavy—too heavy.
Panic surged through her.
She wanted to scream, to yank the IV out of her arm, to fight, to escape—
But her limbs refused to obey.
Through the haze, she heard the deep voice of the unknown man. "See? She won't remember a thing."
The nurse let out a quiet chuckle. "Just a little something to keep her… calm."
Lillian forced herself to hold on, to fight against the darkness creeping into her mind. She couldn't let them win.
But the room was fading.
And so was she.
Later during the day, Jillian Smith decided to check on her mother. Upon arriving, a wave of unease washed over her.
Lillian Smith sat propped against the pillows, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Her usually sharp eyes were dull, unfocused. Her fingers twitched against the bedsheet as if she were struggling to hold on to something—a thought, a memory… reality itself.
"Mother?" Jillian called gently, stepping closer.
Lillian turned her head slowly, almost too slowly. When her gaze met Jillian's, something was… off.
A flicker of recognition passed through her mother's face, but then—it was gone.
"Jillian?" Lillian's voice was distant, uncertain, as if testing the name on her tongue. She blinked rapidly, as though trying to clear a fog from her mind. "You… you came."
Jillian swallowed hard. Something wasn't right. "Of course, I did. How are you feeling?"
Lillian frowned. "I… I don't know." She rubbed her temples. "I feel… strange. I was dreaming, I think. Or awake. I can't tell."
Jillian's chest tightened. This wasn't like her mother.
She reached out and took Lillian's hand—it was cold and trembling. Her mother, who was once so sure of herself, now looked… lost.
Jillian's eyes flickered to the IV bag beside the bed. The liquid dripped slowly, feeding into her mother's veins. Had someone given her something?
A sinking feeling settled in Jillian's gut.
Something had happened here but could not pinpoint where the problem was.
After settling down her mother, Jillian Smith decided to return home to continue her studies.
The Smith estate was eerily silent when the phone rang.
Jillian Smith sat near the fireplace, her mind troubled by the unsettling visit with her mother earlier. Something had been wrong. The distant, foggy look in Lillian's eyes, the confusion in her voice—it wasn't just illness. It was something else.
When the phone rang, she jumped.
Harlond Smith, who had been sitting across from her, answered immediately. "This is Harlond Smith."
The voice on the other end was urgent, trembling.
"Mr Smith, you and Lady Jillian must come to the hospital at once. It's Mrs. Smith… there's been an emergency. Her vital signs are dropping."
Jillian felt the world tilt.
"We're coming," Harlond said, his voice sharp as steel.
They arrived at Orwell First Hospital in record time. Jillian's hands were ice-cold, her heartbeat frantic. Harlond walked beside her, his face unreadable—but his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
As they reached the emergency ward, a doctor approached them, his expression grim.
"Sir… my Lady… We did everything we could." He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "Mrs. Smith's body… couldn't take it any longer. She passed away during the examination."
Jillian's world shattered.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, she was fine earlier—she was—"
She turned toward the hospital room, expecting, hoping, praying to see her mother sitting up, confused but alive.
Instead, she saw the still form beneath the white sheet.
Harlond stood frozen. For the first time in his life, he had no words.
Jillian stumbled forward, grabbing her mother's lifeless hand, hoping for warmth—but there was none.
Silent tears slid down her face as she let out a shaky breath.
Something was terribly wrong.
Her mother had been getting better. So how had she suddenly died?
And deep inside, Jillian knew… this was no accident.