The room was quiet—too quiet for what had just happened. The air still trembled with the aftermath of violence. Abigail's body lay motionless on the carpet, her once-arrogant face now swollen and bruised, a pitiful reminder of what hate could do when it backfired.
Julie stood there, her breaths low and controlled, though her knuckles still ached from the blow. Her hands were cold despite the heat rising from her chest. Ava stood beside her, equally steady, though her lips twitched upward in a satisfied smirk that spoke volumes of the retribution just delivered.
"Are you alright, sis?" Azazel's voice came gently, breaking the suffocating silence as he entered the room. His eyes swept over the wrecked space — the overturned vase, the faint scent of spilled perfume mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood. He frowned, his usually playful eyes now shadowed.
Julie gave a small nod, her tone flat. "Yes. But please, carry her out. Your brother needs someone to attend to him."
