Three days passed in the theater of his family's home, and Marianne Quinn began to unravel.
It started with the mirrors.
She would catch glimpses of movement in reflective surfaces—not her own reflection, but his. Elias, standing behind her with that terrible smile, wearing his crimson robe like a burial shroud. But when she turned, nothing was there except the empty room and the growing certainty that something fundamental had broken in the world.
"He's not real," she whispered to Victor on the third morning, clutching his arm with white-knuckled fingers. "He can't be real. Dead people don't just... come back."
Victor said nothing, but his hands shook as he poured coffee into the same mug Elias had abandoned that last morning. The mug had become a shrine of sorts, untouched and untouchable, a reminder of normalcy that no longer existed.
[PSYCHOLOGICAL DETERIORATION: ACCELERATING. EXPECTATION LEVEL: RISING. CURRENT RATING: 94/100. PERFORMANCE NOTES: SECONDARY CHARACTERS DEMONSTRATE COMPELLING TRAUMA RESPONSES.]
Elias materialized in the kitchen doorway as if summoned by their conversation. He had taken to appearing and disappearing at will, a talent that seemed to come naturally in this new existence. The Mirror World bent around him like stage lighting, casting shadows that moved independently of his form.
"Good morning, family," he said, his voice carrying the artificial warmth of a television host. "I trust you slept well?"
Marianne dropped her coffee mug. It shattered on the kitchen floor, spreading brown liquid across the tiles like blood. She stared at the broken pieces with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle.
"Careful, Mom," Elias said, kneeling to gather the ceramic shards. "Broken things can be dangerous."
"Don't call me that," she whispered. "Don't call me Mom. My son is dead. I killed him. I killed my son."
[MATERNAL GUILT: OPTIMAL. AUDIENCE ENGAGEMENT: SUSTAINED. CURRENT RATING: 96/100. RECOMMEND: ESCALATE PSYCHOLOGICAL PRESSURE.]
"Yes, you did," Elias agreed pleasantly. "But I forgive you. After all, what's a little filicide between family members?"
Victor slammed his hand on the counter. "Stop it. Just stop it. You're making her sick."
"I'm making her honest," Elias replied, standing with the ceramic pieces cupped in his palms. "She's been carrying this guilt for three days now, pretending that what she did was somehow noble. But we both know the truth, don't we, Mom?"
He let the shards fall from his hands. They struck the floor with a sound like breaking glass, but instead of scattering, they began to reform, pulling themselves back together into the original mug. The coffee stain reversed itself, brown liquid flowing backward across the tiles and up into the restored vessel.
Marianne screamed.
"Demon!" she shrieked, pressing herself against the refrigerator. "You're a demon! You're not my son, you're something else, something wrong!"
[SUPERNATURAL REVELATION: ACHIEVED. EXPECTATION LEVEL: PEAK. CURRENT RATING: 99/100. PERFORMANCE NOTES: SUBJECT DEMONSTRATES ESCALATING REALITY MANIPULATION.]
"I'm exactly what you made me," Elias said calmly, setting the restored mug on the counter. "A son who won't stay buried. A love that won't stay dead. A performance that refuses to end."
He moved closer to her, his footsteps making no sound on the kitchen floor. "Tell me, Mom—when you held the scalpel, when you made the first cut, did you think about how it would feel? The resistance of skin, the warmth of blood, the way the heart would stop beating in your hands?"
"I didn't—we didn't—the doctors—"
"The doctors were just consultants," Elias interrupted. "You made the choice. You signed the papers. You chose which son would live and which would die."
Marianne's eyes rolled back, showing only whites. She began to laugh—a high, broken sound that echoed off the kitchen walls.
"He's not real," she said to no one in particular. "He's not real, he's not real, he's not real."
[CURRENT RATING: 100/100. PSYCHOLOGICAL BREAK: ACHIEVED. EXPECTATION LEVEL: SUSTAINED. PERFORMANCE NOTES: SUBJECT HAS SUCCESSFULLY INDUCED MATERNAL PSYCHOSIS.]
The golden text pulsed with satisfaction, and Elias felt the Audience's approval wash over him like applause. But underneath the intoxicating rush, something else stirred—a flicker of the man he had been before death, before resurrection, before the constant hunger for ratings and relevance.
What am I becoming?
The question was dangerous, he realized. It implied that he had once been something else, something better. But the Audience didn't want introspection—they wanted spectacle.
"Victor," Marianne said suddenly, her voice eerily calm. "Get the knife."
Victor froze. "What?"
"The knife. The big one, from the butcher block. Get it."
"Marianne, no—"
"Get the knife!" she screamed, her composure shattering. "It's still in there, don't you see? The demon is still in there, wearing his face, using his voice. We have to cut it out. We have to cut it out before it spreads."
[VIOLENCE ESCALATION: IMMINENT. EXPECTATION LEVEL: CRITICAL. CURRENT RATING: 100/100. RECOMMEND: ALLOW SCENARIO TO DEVELOP.]
Victor backed away, his hands raised placatingly. "Marianne, please. You're not thinking clearly. He's our son—"
"He's dead!" she shrieked. "I killed him! I felt his heart stop! I watched them close the incision! He's dead and this is something else, something that crawled out of his grave!"
She lunged for the knife block, her movements jerky and desperate. Victor tried to stop her, but she was beyond reasoning, beyond fear. The blade came free with a metallic whisper.
"I can fix this," she whispered, turning toward Elias with the knife raised. "I can fix what I broke. I can send him back to where he belongs."
[CURRENT RATING: 100/100. VIOLENCE IMMINENT. EXPECTATION LEVEL: MAXIMUM. PERFORMANCE NOTES: FAMILIAL MURDER ATTEMPT PROVIDES OPTIMAL DRAMATIC TENSION.]
Elias stood perfectly still, watching his mother approach with the knife. The Audience's hunger was palpable, their excitement building toward a crescendo. They wanted blood, wanted the tragic climax of maternal infanticide.
But as Marianne raised the blade, her face twisted with madness and grief, Elias felt something crack inside him. Not the theatrical breaking of a performer, but the genuine fracture of a heart that had loved and been betrayed.
"Mom," he said softly, and for the first time since his resurrection, his voice carried no artifice. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She froze, the knife trembling in her grip. "Sorry for what?"
"For coming back," he whispered. "For making you remember. For refusing to stay dead."
[EXPECTATION LEVEL: FLUCTUATING. EMOTIONAL AUTHENTICITY: DETECTED. CURRENT RATING: 98/100. PERFORMANCE NOTES: SUBJECT DEMONSTRATES UNEXPECTED VULNERABILITY.]
"I should have stayed buried," he continued. "I should have let you grieve and heal and pretend that what you did was mercy instead of murder. But I couldn't. I couldn't because they won't let me."
The knife wavered. "They?"
"The ones who watch. The ones who judge. The ones who decide whether I exist or not." He looked directly at her, and she saw something in his eyes that made her step back. "I'm not your son anymore, Mom. I'm their plaything. Their puppet. Their performer."
[CURRENT RATING: 95/100. AUDIENCE ENGAGEMENT: DECLINING. WARNING: NARRATIVE AUTHENTICITY THREATENING ENTERTAINMENT VALUE.]
"But I remember being your son," he said, his voice breaking. "I remember loving you. I remember wanting to make you proud. And I remember believing that you loved me too."
The knife fell from Marianne's hands, clattering on the kitchen floor. She stared at him with eyes that had seen too much, understood too little.
"What have we done?" she whispered.
"You saved one son," Elias replied. "And damned another."
[EXPECTATION LEVEL: CRITICAL DECLINE. CURRENT RATING: 87/100. RECOMMEND: IMMEDIATE NARRATIVE CORRECTION.]
The golden text flared with alarm, and Elias felt the familiar void opening in his chest. The Audience was losing interest, their attention beginning to drift. He was being too human, too genuine. They wanted the monster, not the man.
But for just a moment, looking at his mother's broken face, he didn't care.
"I forgive you," he said, and meant it.
The kitchen lights flickered, and somewhere in the distance, applause began to fade.