"𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕕 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕝𝕚𝕖, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖 𝕒𝕖𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕞𝕒𝕪 𝕕𝕚𝕖." – ℍ.ℙ. 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕔𝕣𝕒𝕗𝕥
The steady click of heels on marble echoed through the long, silent corridor. Alice inhaled slowly, adjusting the sleeves of her crisp black blazer. Another day. Another funeral.
She had lost count of how many—how many goodbyes, how many grieving faces, how many bodies laid out under the cold fluorescent glow of Eternal Repose Holdings Inc. She had been trained well. Death was routine, like breathing.
She paused before the grand mirror that lined the far wall, its surface left uncovered. A mistake.
The woman staring back at her—wasn't quite her.
Dark brown hair, lifeless. Hollow eyes. Lips pressed so tight as if holding back a truth she wasn't ready to hear.
Her fingers twitched. Then, without thinking, she threw the stiletto in her hand.
A loud crash.
Glass shattered into a hundred jagged pieces, shards scattering across the floor like broken constellations. She stepped forward, her heel pressing into them, ignoring the sting of tiny cuts against her skin. The gnawing pain seeped through—but she did not care.
She had been trained for this. To feel nothing at all.
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"Alice, dear, you look exactly like your mother—ravishingly beautiful," someone once murmured. But the words were a curse more than a compliment.
Alice was Anastasia's mirror image—her replica in every sense. The same cascading chocolate-brown hair, the same piercing hazel eyes. Compliments had always surrounded her, praises whispered about her striking resemblance. But for her mother, that resemblance festered into resentment.
Flashback: Voices from her childhood echoed in her mind, a chorus of admiration. "She's just like her mother—so beautiful." But beneath the flattery lay a venomous truth.
"I hate your face," Anastasia had spat, eyes burning with something far darker than anger. "You are nothing but an ugly copy, a stolen version of me."
Alice had been deeply loved once. But as she grew into her mother's image, the adoration twisted into something cruel. Her mother could no longer bear the sight of her—of anyone, anything that bore her likeness. Ever since her father's betrayal, her mother had come to despise her own reflection, and by extension, Alice.
Then came the night that haunted Alice most. The night her mother's rage reached its peak.
Pain exploded across her scalp as her mother's fingers wove into her hair and dragged her forward. The air smelled of sterile death. The morgue doors swung open.
"Mother, please! I'll do better! I'll do better this time!" Alice's voice cracked, desperation laced in every syllable.
Her mother's hand lifted, striking her across the face. The impact sent her stumbling, blood pooling in her mouth.
"Ugly child," her mother seethed, towering over her. "Do not think highly of yourself. You are nothing but a replica of me!"
Alice's breath shuddered as she lay there, trembling.
Never again would she look in the mirror the same way. The thought of her own reflection nauseated her—she saw only her mother staring back. A face she could never escape. From that day forward, Alice vowed to avoid mirrors entirely or, at the very least, brace herself for the haunting familiarity that awaited her.
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The embalming chamber smelled of chemicals and resignation.
Alice stood with her arms crossed as the latest body arrived, wheeled in by one of her workers. The pale sheet draped over the form did little to conceal its fragility.
"The police are saying this might be connected to the serial cases. So sad—she was far too young. She must have drunk herself into oblivion," the worker muttered.
Alice glanced at the report. Poison.
"The family opted out of further investigation," she stated, flipping the page. "They refused the autopsy. They just want her buried quietly."
The worker hesitated. "It's odd, don't you think? No questions, no pushback?"
Alice gave him a pointed look. "They trust us to handle it. To keep things private. The company is also managing the insurance legalities. It's done."
Silence. The worker nodded and wheeled the body forward.
Death wasn't messy here. Not in Eternal Repose.
It was perfected.
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Flashback.
The scent of embalming fluid had become a part of her childhood. It clung to the walls, to the air, to the very fibers of her existence.
Alice ran her fingers over the mahogany lid of a coffin, tracing the patterns, the wood polished to a flawless sheen. She knew every groove by heart.
"You must learn, Alice."
Her mother's voice, smooth as silk, sharp as steel.
"Death is not something to fear. It's something to perfect."
She had clawed at these coffin walls before, long ago, when she was younger. Begging to be let out.
But obedience was taught early in the Deus-Bishop household.
She had been trained for this.
She inhaled, exhaled, forced herself to focus. She had a meeting to prepare for.
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Alice stepped toward her car, pausing as she leaned against the window. Raindrops traced uneven trails down the glass, each streak dissolving into the hazy grayness beyond. The world outside felt distant, subdued—much like the thoughts crowding her mind.
Oh, how she wished she could see Dean right now. Her dark sentinel. The one person who had ever felt like something beyond the cold mechanics of death.
She took a slow sip of her coffee, black and bitter, letting its warmth ground her. A distraction—that was what she needed. Something to pull her from the suffocating weight of embalming chambers and hushed conversations about daughters lost to poison-soaked dreams.
Velvet cake. That sounded perfect.
She pulled out her phone, fingers hovering over the screen, hesitating longer than she should. Then, finally, she typed:
Where are you right now? I could use something sweet—company included. If you're up for it.
A moment passed before her phone buzzed with his reply.
I'm away from the city right now, but I'd be glad to see you too. I have tickets to The Boneyard Museum. Thought maybe we could make a night of it once I'm back.
A slow smile crept onto her lips.
That sounds perfect. Message me as soon as you're back.
For now, the rain continued its quiet symphony against the car window, and Alice allowed herself, just briefly, to imagine something outside of death.
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Far away, beyond the city's reach, beyond the safety of prying eyes, the cabin stood in eerie silence.
No signal. No neighbors. Just wilderness stretching endlessly, swallowing whatever dared to venture into its depths.
Inside, the shadowy figure worked with meticulous precision, dismantling tools and arranging them carefully. An ax. A chainsaw. Instruments of torture laid out as if part of a ritual.
Taxidermy dolls lined the shelves, their empty glass eyes staring into nothing. Wigs, suits, boots, sets of large men's clothes—disguises.
Above the fireplace, a bear and deer head loomed, their hollowed-out forms the only witnesses to the atrocities that unfolded beneath them.
On the outside, it looked like any other forgotten cabin lost in the woods. But below—below was something else entirely.
Layers of underground tunnels. Soundproofed. Hidden.
If someone was trapped here, no one would ever find them. No one would hear them.
The woman bound to the chair stirred, her body sluggish, her head rolling to one side. Gagged. Stripped of anything that once made her human.
A sharp slap tore her from the haze.
She woke to the sound of the ax hitting the table with a resounding thud.
Her screams sliced through the air.
"Help! Somebody! Help me!"
"Please—I beg you—don't kill me!"
The words barely had time to settle before the ax swung again.
The sharp crack of bone.
The wet sound of flesh splitting apart.
Amid the chaos, a sudden crash of plates echoed through the room—but the sound was strangely muted as they landed upon the thick wolf-skin rug sprawled across the floor.
The figure worked with practiced ease, slamming the body onto the table, carving deep lines into raw skin—like an artist creating a masterpiece.
Like an angel's wings.
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The golden chain dress glistened under the studio lights as Eloise posed, her body an intricate sculpture wrapped in opulence. A black hat obscured her face, the brim casting an enigmatic shadow over her fiery red locks that framed her sharp cheekbones. The jewelry shoot demanded perfection, but perfection had always come naturally to her.
She stepped away, exchanging the chain bodice for something even more daring—nothing but a rare collection of Mozambican rubies. The centerpiece, a 5.19-carat unheated cushion-cut ruby, pulsed like a living entity against her skin, surrounded by angular round pavé diamonds. They snaked around her neckline in deliberate precision, each glinting with seductive fire. The bracelet on her wrist held 18.26 carats of unheated Pigeon's Blood rubies, so rich they seemed to bleed. Diamonds flanked them, cold and sharp, light captured in their icy facets.
Her blood-red matte lipstick painted the final stroke. The lens clicked.
"Regardez... un, deux—parfait," murmured the photographer, voice edged with reverence. Eloise didn't flinch, didn't falter—her confidence exuded danger, controlled yet untamed.
The shoot wrapped with effortless efficiency, as if time bent to her will. Her assistant approached, handing her a Lean Protein Glow Shake, its smooth texture barely registering on her tongue.
"If I didn't know how brilliant an artist you are, I'd say you're only meant for the camera," the assistant whispered, half in admiration, half in awe.
"Have you sent my collection for the exhibit?" Eloise asked, her voice detached, calculating.
"Yes. It's been delivered to Obscura Art House. Only private collectors will have access."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed her lips.
The limo glided through the city, taking her far from the dazzling world of high jewelry and flashing cameras. It stopped before an abandoned warehouse, its steel doors groaning in secret welcome. Here, she shed her designer armor, slipping into durable overalls, gloves, and a lab coat. The scent was intoxicating—the sharp tang of crushed cochineal staining her palms blood red, the pulverized ochre spreading in thick strokes across the canvas. Burnt wood and bone—deep blacks born from charcoal—spread in haunting contrast.
This was her true realm, where artistry was more than spectacle. The world outside ceased to exist, drowned under the spell of Clair de Lune's melancholic hum.
And Eloise painted, away from oblivion, yet dangerously close to something else entirely.
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The boardroom was silent, the weight of expectation thick in the air. Alice sat at the head of the long ebony table, posture rigid, hands folded neatly before her. Eternal Repose Holdings was her birthright—an empire built on death and dignity, funeral homes that catered to the elite. Her mother sat across from her, eyes sharp as cut glass, watching, always watching.
Alice had been raised in precision. Cold calculation was second nature—no wasted words, no unnecessary emotion. Even now, in the face of another acquisition, her mind ran through financials, logistics, power shifts.
Yet something felt... off.
A dull ache pulsed at the back of her skull, ignorable but persistent. It had happened before—fleeting migraines, strange fatigue—whispers of something unplaced. But Alice was not a woman prone to distractions. She pressed forward.
Her mother's voice sliced through the silence. "You must maintain control, Alice. You are the legacy."
She gave a curt nod, her fingers tightening around the pen in her grasp. Legacy was duty, and duty left no room for indulgence.
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Alice blinked.
The walls of her office stood exactly where they should—sterile, cold, calculating. The heavy scent of polished mahogany lingered in the air, her mother's presence a phantom even in absence.
She remembered stepping in this morning—reviewing the latest acquisitions, discussing expansion strategies, listening to forecasts. But now, she was stepping out.
Had the day passed already?
She glanced at the clock—9:47 PM.
Her stomach sank. The sharp tug of time lost clawed at her mind. She did not remember the hours between.
There was no recollection of meetings, no memory of conversations, no fleeting moments of fatigue that came with workdays that dragged into nights.
Only entering.
Only exiting.
Eloise existed in between.
She walked the shadowed streets with purpose, her lips still painted crimson, her movements sharp and calculated. She had spent the lost hours wrapped in danger, draped in violence, indulging in a world that Alice would never dare touch.
The scent of blood clung to her skin—not from ink or pigment, but from something more final.
A stranger had whispered her name tonight.
Not Alice.
Never Alice.
"Eloise."
She had leaned in, the weight of the stolen rubies pressing against her collarbone, the glow of the city painting her in flickering light.
"You're playing a dangerous game," the man had murmured, his voice laced with amusement.
Eloise had only smiled. Because she never played games. She wrote the rules.
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Alice stepped into her home, her fingers twitching as she locked the door behind her.
She had no appetite. No lingering thoughts of business.
Only an unease—a gnawing sensation that she had missed something crucial, like a word on the tip of her tongue, like the vague imprint of a dream slipping into oblivion.
She showered, scrubbing at something unseen, something she couldn't remember.
And when she finally collapsed into bed, when exhaustion dragged her into the abyss, Eloise opened her eyes elsewhere.
Smiling.
Because Alice never remembered.
And Eloise never forgot.