Rose's breath was ragged as she yanked at the ropes, her wide eyes darting around the dimly lit cellar, trying to make sense of what was happening. The shadows flickered against the damp stone walls, and for the first time since I had met her, there was no trace of that confident, flirtatious girl—only fear.
"Castor," she breathed, her voice trembling, "what the hell is this? Why are you doing this?"
I tilted my head, watching the way her pupils dilated, how her fingers twitched slightly as she struggled against the restraints. It was fascinating, really—how quickly someone's perception of you could shift. Just hours ago, she had looked at me with something soft in her gaze, something warm. But now? That warmth had been replaced with something colder, something much more delicious.
"Why?" I repeated, rolling the word around in my mouth like a piece of candy before letting out a sharp laugh. "Oh, Rose, you still don't get it, do you?"
Her breathing hitched, but she clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing into something resembling defiance. "You're insane."
I let out a sigh, stepping closer. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
She flinched as I crouched down in front of her, tilting my head with a grin that probably didn't reach my eyes. "This is just who I am, Rose. This is who I've always been. You just didn't see it because I let you see what I wanted you to."
She scoffed, shaking her head. "Creepy. That's what you are. You stalked me, manipulated me, pretended to care just to—what? Tie me up in some disgusting cellar and ask me questions? You're a freak, Castor."
The words sent a strange jolt through my chest, but I ignored it, my grin widening instead. "A freak, huh?" I chuckled, tapping my temple. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just a little too much for you to understand. You see, Rose, I'm not like other people. My mind—it's a mess. There's Castor, and then there's… well, I don't really know anymore. Some days I feel like I'm in control, like I'm the one calling the shots. Other days, I feel like I'm just watching, like someone else is moving my body, making decisions for me."
I tapped my head again, harder this time. "So tell me, Rose—if I don't even know which version of me is real, then who the hell am I?"
For a second, she just stared, her breathing uneven, her lips slightly parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Then, something shifted in her expression.
"Cassius," she said, her voice quieter now, almost calculating. "Did you do the same to him?"
The name sent a bolt of something cold down my spine, and for the first time, my grin faltered.
I exhaled through my nose, standing up and dragging a chair from the corner of the cellar. The legs scraped against the stone, a sharp, grating noise that made her flinch, before I sat down directly in front of her, legs spread, elbows resting on my knees.
"Yeah," I said, leaning forward, my voice barely above a whisper. "I did."
She sucked in a breath, but I wasn't finished. I laced my fingers together, my gaze never leaving hers. "And you want to know the worst part?" I gave her a slow, deliberate smile. "I don't even regret it."
Rose's voice cracked as she screamed, her desperation bouncing off the cold, damp walls of the cellar. "Help! Someone—"
I grabbed her face, forcing her to look at me. "No one's coming, Rose." My fingers pressed into her jaw, and for a moment, I saw it—that flicker of realization in her eyes. The moment she understood how helpless she was.
I let out a low chuckle, leaning in just enough for her to feel my breath. "You think I'd be stupid enough to bring you here if there was even a chance of someone hearing?" My grip loosened slightly, just enough for her to speak, and when she did, her voice was venomous.
"You're a pathetic, obsessed freak," she spat, her eyes burning with hatred. "I should've known something was wrong with you."
I sighed, standing up and pacing a little, running a hand through my hair. "See, that's the problem, Rose. You were too caught up in your little fantasy to notice what was right in front of you." I turned sharply, my eyes locking onto hers. "But none of that matters now. What matters is what you know about Marienne."
Her expression barely shifted, but I caught it—the slight flicker of recognition at the name. She knew something. I could feel it.
"Marienne?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I clenched my jaw, stepping closer. "Lying doesn't suit you."
"I'm not lying," she snapped, her defiance unwavering. "I don't know anything about—"
My patience snapped.
I slammed my fist against the wooden table beside me, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the confined space. Rose jumped, but she recovered quickly, her glare piercing.
"Stop lying to me!" I roared, my vision blurring at the edges. My heart was pounding in my chest, my breathing ragged. She was toying with me. Playing dumb. And I couldn't stand it.
But she only smirked, her confidence returning despite the ropes digging into her wrists. "Look at you," she said, tilting her head. "Losing control. That's the real Castor, isn't it?"
I let out a sharp breath, closing my eyes for a second before exhaling through my nose. She was trying to get under my skin, trying to push me over the edge. I couldn't let that happen. Not yet.
I crouched back down, forcing my expression into something softer, something almost… concerned. "Rose," I murmured, my voice quieter now. "You don't understand what's at stake here. Just tell me what you know."
She held my gaze, unwavering. "And if I don't?"
I smiled, slow and deliberate. "Then we'll be here all night."
Rose's voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of fear beneath it. "Someone will come looking for me, you know," she said, tilting her chin up in defiance. "They'll notice I'm gone."
I smirked, shaking my head. "No, they won't."
Her brows furrowed slightly, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. She was trying to convince herself more than me.
"You think I was careless?" I leaned against the cold, wooden table, arms crossed. "I made sure no one saw me take you. Right now, you're nothing more than a girl who drank too much at her own party and went upstairs to sleep it off. That's what they'll assume."
Her lips parted slightly, as if to protest, but I didn't give her the chance.
"You remember the terrace, don't you?" My voice was calm, deliberate. "You had a few drinks. You confessed. You were vulnerable." I tilted my head, watching as my words sank in. "Then you collapsed. That's all they saw. Just a girl who had a little too much fun."
I took a slow step forward, watching her expression shift.
"I made sure we weren't seen when I carried you out," I continued. "The party was at its peak. No one was paying attention. The guards outside? They saw me leave in one of your carriages, just like many other guests. And the driver? Let's just say I made sure he never saw who was inside."
Her breathing had quickened now, but she tried to mask it behind a sharp glare. "You're insane," she muttered.
I crouched down to her level, my smile widening. "No, Rose. I'm just thorough."
For the first time, true fear crossed her face. She knew now. No one was coming.
I leaned forward, my fingers tightening around the armrest of the chair I had dragged in front of her. The cellar was dim, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across Rose's pale face. She was still trying to compose herself, but the subtle tremble in her fingers betrayed her.
"Where is Marienne?" I asked, my voice low and controlled.
Rose exhaled shakily, eyeing me with a mixture of caution and disdain. "She disappeared," she muttered. "No one knows where she went. That's the truth."
I studied her, searching for the telltale signs of dishonesty. But she wasn't lying—not yet.
"You were in the same circles as her," I pressed. "You must've heard something. Even rumors."
Rose hesitated, then sighed. "There were whispers that she had connections to something dangerous. That she was looking into things she shouldn't have been. I don't know the details."
I narrowed my eyes. "Who was she after?"
"I don't know," Rose said, her voice growing more impatient. "She was reckless. That's all I know."
I exhaled through my nose, feeling the irritation creep in. "Reckless," I echoed. "Or determined?"
Rose scoffed. "What's the difference? Look where it got her."
My fingers twitched, but I kept my voice steady. "You don't seem very sympathetic."
"Why would I be?" Rose's tone hardened. "You're acting like she was some kind of saint. She wasn't. She had enemies, she was careless, and she probably ended up exactly where people like her do—dead."
Something in me snapped.
I grabbed the armrest of her chair, leaning in so close that she flinched. "Say that again," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Rose's expression twisted into something cruel. "She's dead, Castor. Or worse. And maybe she deserved it."
A sharp, cold laugh bubbled out of me, but there was no humor in it. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you?"
She sneered. "Oh, I should shut up? What about you? You're obsessed, Castor. You've lost your damn mind over a girl who probably wouldn't have even cared about you if she was still alive."
I gritted my teeth, my fingers digging into the wooden frame of the chair. My vision blurred at the edges, a mix of rage and something else—something I couldn't name—twisting in my chest.
Rose saw it. And she smiled. "Face it," she whispered. "She's gone. And you're just a pathetic little boy chasing after ghosts."
I tightened my grip on the chair, my knuckles turning white. Rose's words echoed in my head, feeding the chaos already unraveling inside me.
"That's a pretty bold claim," I said, my voice steady but laced with something sharp. "Especially considering the Ravencroft family had their own issues with Marienne."
Rose's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. A crack in the mask. A moment of hesitation.
I caught it immediately.
"Ah," I breathed, leaning back with a slow, eerie grin. "So it's true, then?"
Rose's jaw clenched. "Don't twist my words."
"Twist your words?" I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. "Come on, Rose. I did my research. The whispers, the tension. Marienne and your dear family weren't exactly on friendly terms, were they?"
"You don't know anything," she spat. "Marienne was a problem for everyone. Not just my family."
"But she was a bigger problem for yours," I countered smoothly. "Enough for people to notice. Enough for there to be rumors."
Rose's breathing grew uneven. I could see the flickers of emotion crossing her face—annoyance, anger, something close to fear. She knew something. She knew something.
"Tell me," I murmured, my voice dangerously soft, "what exactly did your family want from her? Or were they trying to get rid of her?"
Rose's eyes darkened. "You're insane."
"Maybe," I admitted. "But I'm also right, aren't I?"
She remained silent, her nails digging into the chair's arms.
"Rose," I said, my patience slipping, "you can either tell me now, or I'll find out myself. And I promise you, I won't be nearly as kind when I do."
Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but then she shut her mouth and shook her head.
I sighed, rolling my shoulders back. "Fine," I muttered. "Have it your way."
And then, without warning, I grabbed her by the jaw, forcing her to look directly at me. Her pulse hammered in her throat, eyes widening in panic.
"You don't understand," I said, my voice turning lower, darker. "I don't care about your insults. I don't care about your empty threats. I only care about one thing—Marienne."
Rose struggled against my grip, but I didn't let go.
"So I'll ask one more time," I whispered, my nails pressing slightly into her skin. "What the hell did your family do to her?"
For a moment, silence hung between us, thick and suffocating. Rose's gaze flickered between defiance and fear, but when she spoke, her voice was quieter. Weaker.
"They always talked about it," she finally admitted. "The Ravencroft family. The other houses too. They never outright said her name at first, but we all knew who they meant."
I didn't say anything, only tightened my grip on her jaw. Her pulse was rapid beneath my fingers, her breath shallow.
"They called them a troublemaker house," Rose continued, avoiding my gaze. "The Whitmore family. There were meetings, discussions—like they were planning something."
The rage simmering beneath my skin started to boil. Planning something?
"What kind of discussions?" I demanded.
Rose swallowed hard. "They said the Whitmore family was an anomaly," she muttered. "A stain on the hierarchy. That they needed to be—" she hesitated, eyes darting to the side, "—exterminated."
I stilled.
Exterminated.
The word hit like a blade to the gut.
The room felt smaller, darker. The air heavier. My grip on her jaw loosened as my thoughts spiraled.
"They said it wasn't personal," Rose added quickly, her voice trembling now. "Just...necessary."
I let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Necessary," I echoed, the word tasting like acid in my mouth.
The pieces were finally coming together, jagged edges fitting into place. This wasn't just a disappearance. Wasn't just an unfortunate tragedy.
This was a deliberate act. A coordinated effort.
A murder.
My vision blurred at the edges. My mind felt like it was splitting apart, unraveling. The hatred I kept buried deep inside clawed its way up, demanding release.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
—I smiled.
The laughter started low, like a low rumble in my chest, but it built up quickly. It spilled out of me, harsh and guttural, echoing off the walls of the dark cellar. I couldn't stop it. I didn't want to stop it. The truth—what Rose had just revealed—it was too much, too delicious. The pieces were falling into place, but more than that, it felt like vindication.
The Whitmore family, my family, was a stain to be erased. An anomaly. They were wrong. They thought they could control everything. And now, they were the ones who would be erased. My thoughts spiraled out of control, a whirlpool of madness, pulling me deeper and deeper into my own twisted sense of justice.
I couldn't contain the manic laughter that poured from me, even as I stood there, staring down at Rose. She was... an unfortunate necessity in my search for truth. But now that I had it, the last thread of my humanity snapped.
And then, in the midst of my wild laughter, I noticed her moving. The subtle shift of her body in the chair. At first, I barely registered it. But then it clicked—she was moving.
My heart skipped a beat, and in a flash, my senses sharp as knives, I turned to look at her again. Her eyes were wide now, her lips trembling in something that could only be described as fear. She was still tied to the chair, but there was a subtle shift in her posture.
Before I could process what was happening, I felt something crash against the back of my head. A sharp, blinding pain shot through my skull, and I staggered forward, my knees buckling. The world spun around me, distorted and fractured. My thoughts scattered like broken glass, each shard stabbing at my mind.
And then... everything went black.
※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※
Castor's past had been a shadow, one he buried deep within himself, locked away with the rest of the things that haunted him. But tonight, as he lay unconscious in that dark cellar, his mind drifted back to a time before it all shattered. The memories were like fragments of glass, sharp and painful, cutting through the haze of his current madness.
Years ago, Castor's father, a proud nobleman, had been a picture of stability—a man who had everything under control. The Whitmore family was respected, their name carried weight, and there was a certain joy that came with being part of something so prestigious. But something had changed. There had been tension, an undercurrent of stress that Castor could never quite place, and his father, once so composed, had become distant and angry. The joyous family dinners, the laughter, the warmth—they all vanished. And in their place, there was nothing but cold silence and arguments.
Castor's mother had retreated into herself, her once gentle demeanor hardened by the strain of trying to keep a family together that seemed to be falling apart at the seams. She would often sit at the grand dining table, reading, writing, or just staring into the distance, while his father paced the house, snapping at everything that moved.
Marienne, his sister, had been at Dicarthen, away from the mess at home. But even from a distance, she had kept in touch. Her letters were Castor's lifeline, the only thing that kept him grounded in the midst of the turmoil. She wrote of her studies, the friends she had made, and the new experiences she was having. Each letter was like a breath of fresh air in the suffocating silence of the Whitmore estate.
One particular day, Castor sat at his desk, reading one of Marienne's letters. It was filled with her usual enthusiasm, her voice practically leaping off the page. She had mentioned a new friend at school, someone she admired, and her excitement was contagious. Castor couldn't help but smile as he read. It was almost as though she were right there with him, talking to him about her life, her dreams.
But then, just as he reached the part where she described her studies in more detail, the sound of a loud bang echoed through the house.
Castor's heart skipped a beat, and he froze, the letter trembling slightly in his hands. It had come from downstairs, from the direction of the parlor. A series of muffled shouts followed, growing louder and more frantic. His father's voice, rising in anger, mingled with his mother's quieter, pleading tone. Castor could hear the distinct sound of furniture being knocked over, the heavy thud of a chair crashing to the ground.
His first instinct was to run, to find out what was happening, but he hesitated. He hadn't seen his father like this in a long time. The fear and anxiety clawed at his chest, and for a moment, he just sat there, frozen.
Another loud crash, followed by a strained, desperate yell from his mother. That broke the paralysis. Castor leapt from his seat, the letter slipping from his hand and fluttering to the floor as he bolted toward the door.
His heart pounded in his ears as he rushed down the hallway, the sounds of the argument growing louder with each step. He reached the top of the stairs, his mind racing. Should he go down there? What could he do? But as the last step of the staircase loomed before him, he heard his mother's voice, quieter now, almost as if she were on the verge of tears.
"Please... please, stop…"
It was enough. Castor's feet moved before his mind could catch up, and in a blur, he was rushing down the stairs, driven by some deep, primal instinct to protect, to stop whatever was happening before it went too far. He had to intervene. He had to do something.
But as he turned the corner into the parlor, what he saw shattered everything.
His father was standing over his mother, rage contorting his face, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His mother was kneeling on the ground, her face pale, tears streaking down her cheeks. The sight of her, broken and vulnerable, sent a cold chill through Castor's body. His father, the man who had always been his pillar of strength, now looked like a stranger—an angry, violent stranger.
Time seemed to slow as Castor stood there, his heart racing, his thoughts scattered. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he could do.
And then his father saw him.
"Castor," his father spat, his voice thick with fury. "Stay out of this."
But Castor didn't listen. His hands were shaking, his entire body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. He took a step forward, then another, until he was standing between his father and his mother.
"Stop," Castor said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Stop it, please."
His father's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move. There was a long, tense silence. And then, finally, his father spoke, his voice low and dangerous.
"You think you can stop me? You think you can stop this family from falling apart?"
Castor swallowed hard, the weight of his father's words sinking into his chest. He felt powerless, useless. His mind was a mess of conflicting emotions—fear, anger, guilt. He didn't know what was real anymore.
And then, as though to make it all worse, the sound of a letter slipping from Castor's hand onto the floor echoed in the room.
His father's gaze flickered down to the letter, then back up to Castor, and Castor knew—he knew—that everything was about to change.
As the tension in the room reached a boiling point, Castor's vision blurred, and the air felt thick, suffocating. His father's cold, hateful eyes locked onto him, but Castor couldn't look away from the scene before him—his mother's face, pale and desperate, her hands clawing at his father's grip around her throat. She gasped for air, her body trembling violently as she struggled, her eyes wide with terror.
The sight of her, broken and powerless, ignited something inside Castor—a fire he hadn't known existed. His entire body went rigid, the world around him narrowing to the single point of his mother's suffering. The words his father had spoken felt like a distant echo in his mind, fading into oblivion, replaced by a single thought: I need to stop this.
His father's fingers tightened around his mother's throat, and her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. Castor's heart pounded so loudly in his chest, it was as though the very air around him was vibrating with it. He felt the blood rush to his head, a dizzying pressure building in his temples.
He couldn't think. He couldn't reason. All he could feel was the overwhelming need to act, to end this, to save her. He glanced around the room, his eyes wild, desperate for anything, anything he could use. And then, there it was—a heavy vase, ornate and delicate, sitting on a nearby table.
Without a second thought, Castor grabbed the vase, his fingers wrapping tightly around the base. His muscles burned as he swung it with all his strength, the glass cracking through the air in a deafening crescendo.
The vase collided with his father's head with a sickening crunch, shattering into a thousand pieces as the impact knocked his father backward. The force of the blow sent the older man stumbling, his grip loosening around his mother's throat.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. His father staggered, a stunned look on his face as the blood from the wound on his head began to trickle down his face. His mother, coughing and gasping for breath, collapsed to the floor in a heap, her hands clutching at her throat in an attempt to regain some semblance of control over her ragged breathing.
Castor stood there, panting, his chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened. His mind was clouded with a haze of adrenaline, rage, and fear. The sight of his mother, alive but fragile, struggling to breathe, snapped him out of his stupor. He rushed to her side, falling to his knees beside her.
"Mom," he whispered urgently, his hands trembling as he gently cupped her face, lifting it to meet his gaze. "Mom, are you okay?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes fluttered, her body trembling as she tried to gather herself. But Castor didn't wait for her response. His eyes darted to his father, who was slowly regaining his balance, his expression twisting into a snarl of rage. The blood from his wound stained his clothes, but it only seemed to fuel his fury.
"You little—" His father growled, his voice hoarse from the pain and shock. But before he could finish his sentence, Castor was already on his feet, his hands balled into fists. The air was thick with a heavy tension, and Castor felt it rise in him, an overwhelming urge to finish what he had started, to make sure his father never laid a hand on his mother again.
But before he could move, his mother's voice cracked through the chaos.
"Castor… Stop…" Her hand, weak but determined, gripped his wrist. "Don't… Don't hurt him."
Castor froze, his heart hammering in his chest. His mother's pale face was now turned toward him, her eyes wide with fear—not for herself, but for him. She didn't want him to become like his father. She didn't want him to carry the weight of that violence.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "Don't become him."
Those words… those words hit Castor harder than any punch could. His entire body went stiff, the rage in his chest cooling as her plea rang through his mind. His hand, which had been clenched so tightly it hurt, relaxed, and he slowly lowered it.
His father, seeing that Castor had momentarily hesitated, lunged forward in an attempt to strike. But Castor was faster. With one fluid motion, he stepped to the side, grabbing his father's arm and twisting it behind his back, forcing him to the ground.
"You've crossed a line, Father," Castor muttered under his breath, the words coming out like a cold promise.
But despite his own anger, despite the flood of emotions raging inside him, Castor didn't press further. His father, now on the floor, glared up at him with venom in his eyes, but Castor wasn't looking at him anymore. His gaze turned to his mother, who was still clutching her throat, her breathing shaky but steadying.
"I'm so sorry, Mom," Castor whispered, his voice cracking. "I didn't know what else to do. I just—"
His mother reached out weakly, her hand trembling as she touched his cheek. "It's... it's not your fault, Castor," she said softly, her voice strained. "But... you have to leave. You have to get away from here."
The weight of her words sank deep into his chest. There was no escaping it now. The house he had once known, the family that had once felt whole, was beyond saving. The crack had formed years ago, and now it was too wide to repair.
With a final glance at his father, who was still sprawled on the floor, Castor gently helped his mother to her feet. He didn't know what he would do next, but the course of his life had already been set in motion.
The world around him was already starting to shift, and he didn't know where it would take him next. But as he helped his mother stumble away from the chaos, he knew one thing for certain:
The person he had once been—before all the anger, before the madness, before the darkness—was gone.
Castor sat in the small, dimly lit apartment, staring blankly at the walls around him. The monotony of his temporary life, with its cold, sterile furniture and silent, empty rooms, had become his new reality. He didn't care about the lack of comfort, the dullness. Nothing mattered anymore. His mind was elsewhere—somewhere far beyond the grey apartment and the small suburban neighborhood he had been forced to call home for the time being.
The phone call came that day, shattering the fragile semblance of calm he had managed to construct for himself. The sound of his phone ringing was a sharp, unwelcome intrusion in the quiet. With shaking hands, he reached for it, eyes scanning the number on the screen. His heart skipped a beat. It was the lawyer's office.
He answered, his voice tight, unsteady. "Yes?"
The voice on the other end was calm, almost detached, and it immediately put him on edge. "Mr. Castor Whitmore, we regret to inform you that your mother, Isabelle Whitmore, passed away this morning. Her death was sudden and unexpected. We are also sorry to inform you that your sister, Marienne Whitmore, is currently missing. No one has seen or heard from her for the past few days, and we have reason to believe she may have been abducted. You have been appointed the head of the Whitmore house following a decision from the Council."
The words hit him like a fist to the gut. His mind couldn't keep up with the flood of information. His mother's death—sudden, unexpected. Gone. And Marienne, his sister, the one person who had kept him grounded, who had given him hope, now missing.
His body trembled uncontrollably, the phone slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a sharp clang. He didn't hear it, though. His mind had already fractured. His mother's death. His sister's disappearance. They were the final blows, the ones he hadn't been prepared for, the ones that broke the already fragile pieces of his psyche.
He had become the head of the Whitmore house, with generations of wealth that he did not know what to do with and power he didn't wish for.
A choked sob escaped his throat, and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel. The pain hit him like a tidal wave, crashing over him with such force that he couldn't breathe. His mother was gone. His sister, the only family left, was lost, possibly gone forever.
Castor fell to his knees, the overwhelming grief consuming him. His hands dug into his scalp as though trying to rip the pain from his mind. The world around him seemed to spin, and all he could hear was the deafening sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He gasped for air, his chest tightening, unable to breathe.
How had this happened? How could everything fall apart so completely?
His entire life, everything he had fought for, everything he had built, had been ripped away from him in the span of a few minutes. The last vestiges of control that had kept him functioning—barely—had shattered in an instant. He had no purpose anymore. No one to fight for. No one to protect.
"Marienne," he whispered, his voice raw and broken, as though speaking her name could somehow bring her back to him.
But she was gone. And so was his mother.
He could feel it all slipping away—the anger, the hatred, the guilt—all the emotions he had buried so deep for so long. They boiled to the surface now, raw and unchecked. The darkness that had always been there, lurking at the edges of his mind, crept forward, demanding to be acknowledged.
It didn't matter that he had tried to suppress it. It didn't matter that he had tried to change, to control the chaos within him. Nothing mattered anymore. He had lost everything. The anger, the rage, the bitterness—it was all consuming him, driving him to the brink of madness.
Castor stood shakily, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to break the world in half. He wanted to lash out, to tear apart everything that had taken his family from him. But there was no one left to fight, no one left to blame. He was all alone, trapped in a spiraling cycle of grief and rage.
He stumbled toward the window, looking out at the suburban neighborhood that felt so foreign to him now. The world outside seemed untouched, serene, as though nothing had changed. But inside, everything was different. His mind was unraveling. The walls, once steady and supportive, were collapsing around him.
In that moment, Castor understood something deep inside him. He could never go back to who he had been. The man who had tried to live a quiet, normal life—he was gone. In his place was someone else. Someone lost. Someone broken. Someone who would stop at nothing to find Marienne and destroy everything and everyone who had taken her from him.
The darkness inside him flared, a fire that could never be quenched. The man he was becoming was no longer a victim of his past; he had become a predator, a force driven by rage and vengeance. And he would make them all pay.
※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※
I woke up with a start, disoriented, my eyes flickering open to a dull light streaming through the blinds. My head felt like it was about to crack open, a throb deep in my skull that made everything feel distant. The bed beneath me was unfamiliar, the sheets too smooth and cool, and I couldn't quite figure out where the hell I was.
Where the hell am I?
I glanced around the room, my vision blurry at first, trying to piece things together. The walls were bare, white, the room sparse except for a few pieces of furniture. This wasn't my apartment, nor was it anywhere I recognized. My chest tightened, and I felt a cold sweat break out along my spine. I pushed myself up slowly, groaning as my muscles protested.
What the hell happened last night?
My mind scrambled through fragmented memories—Rose... the party... her confession... and then... nothing. I couldn't remember after that. It was like I had blinked and the world had shifted. My fingers brushed over my forehead, trying to wipe away the dizziness, but the more I thought, the more it all felt like a haze.
I sat up completely, my eyes scanning the room once more. There was a strange, unsettling stillness to everything. A nagging feeling settled in my gut, but it wasn't a feeling I could place.
I remembered her confession—Rose had... said something. But the details? A blur. Why had I passed out? Was it the drink? Was something put in it? Or had I just lost control? The questions spun like a cyclone in my head, growing more intense the longer I sat there. I needed to figure out what happened. I needed to know if I had done anything—anything—I would regret.
Panic began to set in, the pressure in my chest tightening. I pushed the thoughts away, forcing myself to focus, to think logically. The floor beneath my feet felt unsteady as I swung my legs off the bed and stood up, trying to regain some semblance of control over myself.
I moved to the door, cautiously checking if it was locked. It wasn't.
I rubbed my temples, trying to calm the rising storm of confusion and fear.
Whatever had happened last night, I needed answers.
I look myself in the mirror. I'm in a new shirt. I don't remember anything.
Ever since I've come to this hellhole of an academy in search of my only living family member, I've lost sight of who I am.
I often ask myself:
Who the hell are you, Castor Whitmore?