Part 1: The Museum of Loss
The massive front doors, made of dark, heavy oak, were opened by a butler named Robert. He was impeccably dressed, but his eyes were weary. When the twins introduced themselves as friends of Cecilia, his brow furrowed in genuine, almost pained surprise.
"Wait here a moment," Robert whispered, his voice hushed as if the walls themselves were listening. "I will inform the masters."
In a distant, soundproofed study, Mr. and Mrs. Cole—the architects of the Cecilia empire—received the news with cold, clinical skepticism.
"Tell them to go away," Mr. Cole said, not looking up from his tablet.
"I agree," Mrs. Cole countered, her voice like silk over glass. "But they likely saw her walk in. If we turn them away too quickly, it looks suspicious. Neighbors talk. Tell them Cecilia is resting, but we would be 'delighted' to meet her friends."
Robert's shoulders slumped, a flash of profound sadness crossing his face before he turned to leave.
"And Robert?" Mrs. Cole added. The butler halted with a visible, involuntary jitter. "Fix your face."
Robert took a sharp breath, and instantly, the sadness vanished, replaced by a mask of professional, hollow neutrality. As he led the twins in, Mr. Cole signaled a maid with a subtle nod. She disappeared into a side room to prepare a fresh, heavy dose of "medication."
As the twins were led through the grand hallway, the air grew colder. It felt more like a museum than a home. Royal-style portraits lined the walls, documenting the family's history. Damien stopped at the first one: a toddler-aged Cecilia with a mischievous, bright glint in her eyes—the kind of light that suggested a high positive energy potential.
As he walked down the line, he watched that light systematically die. In every successive portrait, her eyes grew more vacant, her posture more rigid, until the final painting showed the girl they knew: a ghost in a black dress.
Wayne followed behind, hunched over and unimpressed. "Creepy," he muttered, his voice echoing in the hollow space. "It's like they're collecting her instead of raising her."
Part 2: The Long Table
They reached the dining room, a cavernous space where Mr. and Mrs. Cole sat at opposite ends of an impossibly long table. They wore perfectly practiced, corporate smiles. Gourmet food—the kind that looked too beautiful to eat—was placed before the twins. Wayne took one look at the fancy spread and crossed his arms. He didn't trust people who owned mega-corporations, and he certainly didn't trust their salt.
"Well," Damien said, offering a gentle, diplomatic smile. "I didn't have dining with billionaires on my bucket list today."
"Oh?" Mrs. Cole asked, her eyes sharp. "Has Cecilia never mentioned our status to her friends?"
"She barely says anything, really," Damien admitted.
Mr. Cole leaned forward, his smile tightening. "And how exactly did you meet our daughter?"
"We're in the same class," Wayne snapped. "How do you think?"
Mr. Cole's gaze shifted to Wayne, his eyes turning cold. "Quite the snappy one. Our company makes pharmaceutical stabilizers—pills that fix that kind of 'unruly' temperament."
"Can they fix your fake smile, too?" Wayne shot back.
Damien quickly clamped a hand over Wayne's mouth. "Sorry about him! He... isn't used to the 'stabilized' life. If you don't mind, though, may we see her? We're worried."
"She came home very tired today," Mrs. Cole said smoothly. "She needs her rest. We only invited you in to meet the people our daughter associates with. A pleasure we haven't had until now."
"I see," Damien said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm actually surprised you were home. I assumed you'd be busy growing your empire."
"Family always comes first," Mr. Cole replied. "Nothing is more important than our little girl."
The three of them shared a warm, artificial smile. Damien's natural radiance was so strong it almost made the parents forget Wayne's outburst, but Wayne was reaching his limit.
"Can I ask the real questions now—?"
Damien hissed a "No" through his teeth, his smile never breaking.
Suddenly, a THUD echoed from the floors above. It was heavy, a percussive boom that vibrated the crystal chandelier above the table and caused the wine in Mr. Cole's glass to ripple. A brief, awkward silence followed.
"It seems we have a domestic matter to tend to," Mr. Cole said, his voice now devoid of any warmth. "Robert will see you out."
Part 3: The Gift and The Gale
As they were ushered to the door, Robert leaned in, his movements frantic but precise. He handed them a lunchbox—the exact same model Cecilia used at school.
"I noticed you didn't eat," Robert whispered, his eyes darting toward the stairs. "Here, have this to go. But... don't eat too much at once, okay?" It was a warning wrapped in a polite suggestion.
The twins were ushered out into the evening air, the massive doors groaning shut behind them.
"That was weird as heck," Wayne said, shivering.
"Yeah," Damien agreed, clutching the lunchbox. "I had hoped to get more info, but their guard was up like a fortress."
Inside the mansion, the thudding grew into a low, rhythmic rumble. Mr. and Mrs. Cole approached a reinforced, steel-lined door upstairs. Suddenly, the door buckled outward. A maid was hurled through the air, crashing into the hallway wall as a wave of dark, oppressive energy—a raw, 94% Negative Energy gale—exploded from the room.
The parents powered up, their own calculated, artificial auras clashing against the darkness.
"I'm sorry we have to do this again, Cecilia," Mrs. Cole said, her voice now cold and clinical. "But we have a family interview tonight. We can't have you running wild and ruining the name."
Inside the room, Cecilia was hovering in the center of a black vortex. Her eyes were no longer vacant—they were pitch black, and a guttural, supernatural screech tore from her throat. She saw her parents—her jailers—and lunged.