It was widely understood that only a physician of Dr. Rebecca's particular caliber and authority would dare to be so pointedly "discourteous" to the Nightshade Family's daughter. She possessed a straightforward temperament, unimpressed by either wealth or social position. Whether a patient accepted treatment was ultimately their choice, and no amount of money could purchase her flattery or compromise her principles.
It was precisely this integrity that caused Elena to extend to Dr. Rebecca a degree of trust that far exceeded what she offered to most people.
"...Very well," Elena said after a prolonged silence, the words emerging with obvious reluctance.
She accepted the glass of water and proceeded to swallow the pills, one by one, in a process that felt arduous—like the completion of some difficult, unpleasant task.
Whether from the medication itself or from some other cause, Elena had always experienced drowsiness following her pharmaceutical regimen. But this time, the onset was particularly fierce and aggressive—arriving with unexpected speed and overwhelming force.
Only ten minutes had elapsed since she'd ingested the final pill when the sensation began: her head suddenly felt as though it had been filled with molten lead, impossibly heavy and disconnected from the rest of her body. Her vision began to deteriorate, the clarity fading into an increasingly pronounced blur. The people and objects surrounding her seemed to shimmer behind a veil of mist, becoming indistinct and unreal.
What's happening on the second floor? The thought surfaced through her deteriorating consciousness. How far has the plan progressed?
She attempted to maintain awareness by propping her head with her hand, blinking rapidly in an effort to combat the drowsiness that was systematically overwhelming her defenses. But the pharmaceutical weight proved stronger than her will. Her voice emerged barely above a whisper, carrying notes of both resignation and frustration:
"So... sleepy..."
The moment he registered her condition, Adrian rose smoothly to his feet. He approached with evident concern, his movements careful and deliberate as he positioned himself beside her wheelchair. His hands settled gently on her shoulders, providing both support and reassurance. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low, warm with genuine worry:
"Elena, are you unwell? Would you prefer that I escort you upstairs to rest for a time?"
Elena's response came slowly, her consciousness visibly fragmenting:
"...Mm."
Summer Chen immediately stood, offering to assist:
"I can push Elena upstairs."
She moved closer, extending her hand toward the wheelchair's push handle. But as she did, her fingertips accidentally brushed against Adrian's hand—the one that had been providing Elena with support and stability.
Adrian recoiled instantly, pulling his hand away as though he'd touched something burning. The reflex was involuntary and immediate.
Summer's breath caught audibly. She turned to look at Adrian, her eyes suddenly filled with a complex mixture of emotions.
Observing this small tableau, Sophia appeared at precisely the right moment, moving with practiced efficiency. She positioned herself between them, her expression carrying the appropriate blend of respect and professional concern. Her voice, when she spoke, was perfectly modulated:
"Oh dear, Teacher Adrian, Miss Summer, you are both our guests. How could we possibly trouble you with such matters? Besides, the formal luncheon will be commencing very soon. Please, do sit down and allow yourselves to rest. Enjoy some tea and refreshments. I will personally ensure that Miss Elena receives proper care."
As she spoke, she smoothly and naturally assumed control of the wheelchair, her hands positioning themselves on the push handles with practiced ease. Then, before anyone could offer further assistance or protest, she began to move, propelling the drowsy Elena away from the crowded ballroom and down a corridor that led toward the villa's more private interior regions.
Drowsiness. An irresistible, consuming drowsiness.
Elena felt as though she were sinking into some inescapable dream state—her body held firm by invisible forces, her consciousness unable to break free regardless of how desperately she struggled. It was as though she'd been administered a powerful anesthetic, designed to strip away her awareness and drag her into darkness.
The only sound that penetrated her deteriorating awareness was the monotonous, hollow rumble of the wheelchair's wheels rolling across the villa's flooring—a sound that seemed to originate from an increasingly distant place, growing fainter with each moment.
Within her fragmenting consciousness, she had a strange fantasy: that her exhausted, fragile body had settled into soft, warm blankets, wrapped in a familiar, comforting fragrance—one that provided a temporary sanctuary and moment of peace.
She had no sense of how much time had passed before even that singular sound—the wheels' continuous rumbling—disappeared entirely.
Her sensory world contracted. Sight faded. Hearing diminished. Touch evaporated.
All of her senses gradually dissolved into silence and emptiness.
Her head tilted against the wheelchair's backrest, and she surrendered completely to unconsciousness.
Sophia pushed Elena's inert form along a secluded pathway that skirted the villa's more populated areas. The route took them gradually closer to Mirror Lake, that deep expanse of water that marked the estate's boundary.
She selected a location on the shoreline—a position with a relatively gentle slope—and brought the wheelchair to a careful stop. She positioned it with evident deliberation, ensuring that Elena's wheelchair faced directly toward the water: that bottomless, emerald expanse that reflected the sky's infinite depth.
Having completed this arrangement, Sophia stood for a moment, seemingly having completed some extraordinarily difficult task. Her eyes scanned the surroundings rapidly, confirming that no one had observed her actions. Then, moving with the silence of a phantom, she began her retreat along the same path, making her way back toward the villa's bustling interior.
Before turning to disappear completely into the shadowed shelter of the trees, she couldn't prevent herself from turning back one final time. She looked at that small, vulnerable figure positioned by the lake—illuminated by the autumn sunlight, appearing particularly fragile and helpless.
Sophia's hands clenched into fists so tight that her fingernails drove deep into her palms, drawing blood and creating a sharp, physical pain.
Her emotional state was impossibly complex—layered with guilt, with struggle, with internal conflict. But beneath it all, something twisted into what might almost be called "relief." Her voice emerged as a silent scream within her own consciousness:
Life and death are ruled by fate. Living has been torture for her every single day. Perhaps... ending it in this way is actually an act of mercy.
Inside the Banquet Hall
Time continued its relentless progression through the afternoon.
The birthday banquet officially commenced. The atmosphere became increasingly animated and boisterous. Exquisite dishes were presented in continuous succession. Guests engaged in the ritualistic choreography of celebration—clinking glasses, exchanging elaborate toasts, laughing, conversing, offering greetings. The various sounds wove together into a vibrant tableau of high society indulging in its own celebration.
Very few guests took notice of the absence of the two figures who were nominally central to the event: Victoria and Elena Nightshade had completely disappeared from the proceedings.
Whether they were present or absent proved irrelevant to the majority of attendees. The true focus of this gathering had never been the birthday girl herself. The substance here was transactional: the exchange of business interests, the expansion of professional networks, the establishment and reinforcement of mutually beneficial relationships.
Grandfather Jiang, despite being surrounded and occupied by well-wishers and business associates, seized a brief interval to signal over a passing member of the service staff. He posed his question in low, measured tones:
"Have you observed either of my granddaughters recently? Have you seen Victoria or Elena?"
The waiter responded with practiced respect:
"Chairman, the eldest young lady's dress was soiled earlier, and she went upstairs to change. The second young lady appeared somewhat fatigued and is also resting upstairs."
Grandfather Jiang's brow furrowed slightly. A vague sense of unease began to settle into his chest—an intuitive concern that something was not quite right. He was about to probe further, to ask more detailed questions, when his nephew Hubert and several other business associates enthusiastically intercepted him, pulling him away with promises of introducing him to several important business partners and potential investors.
In moments, he found himself surrounded by layers of conversation—greetings, business propositions, and social maneuvering. He had no opportunity to spare a moment for his concerns. He was forced to temporarily suppress his doubts, resolving to investigate the situation later once the formal proceedings had concluded.
By Mirror Lake
Time seemed to have crystallized into an almost supernatural stillness.
After an indeterminate period—minutes or hours, impossible to measure—a gentle breeze moved across the lake's surface. It stirred the long, dark hair of the girl positioned in the wheelchair, moving it with the delicate care of an invisible hand.
Sunlight fell upon her features—her small, refined face that could fit within a human palm. Her long eyelashes cast faint shadows beneath her eyes, creating the impression of something heartbreakingly fragile.
From a distance, the profile she presented was almost impossibly beautiful—like a character carefully rendered in a manga or watercolor painting. Yet it simultaneously radiated a profound sense of tragic beauty and devastating vulnerability.
Where... where am I?
Elena's consciousness began to recede like a tide withdrawing from shore. Slowly, with considerable difficulty, she forced her heavy eyelids to open.
Her vision gradually clarified from its blurred state, and what emerged before her eyes was a sight both strangely peaceful and deeply unsettling: Mirror Lake itself—its water a calm, emerald green that seemed almost preternatural in its stillness. A few white egrets paced elegantly along the shoreline, moving with deliberate grace as they searched for food.
The faint whisper of wind touched her ears. Sunlight provided a measure of warmth to her body. Everything surrounding her seemed impossibly peaceful and beautiful—a postcard-perfect scene that felt fundamentally wrong to her waking mind.
How did I... get here? Her voice emerged hoarse, the characteristic roughness of immediate post-sleep speech. The question was posed to herself as much as to the empty air.
She raised her hand—that hand that seemed as delicate and tender as a newly emerged bamboo shoot—and gently pressed it against her temples, where a dull, throbbing ache was beginning to intensify.
The pain was both dull and sharp simultaneously—a sensation that made her wince and lower her eyelashes in discomfort. She understood with immediate clarity that remaining in the wind would only exacerbate the headache. She needed to move, to return to shelter.
Almost purely on instinct, Elena's hand moved toward the wheelchair's control panel. Her fingers located the switch on the armrest—a mechanism designed to allow independent wheelchair operation. She pressed it with deliberate gentleness, intending to activate the chair's turning mechanism so that she could pivot around and begin her return journey to the villa.
But the anticipated turn never occurred.
The moment she activated the control, the wheelchair did not respond with a gentle rotation. Instead, as though propelled by some invisible force—as though pushed by a hand she couldn't see—the entire device suddenly surged forward.
The wheelchair lurched directly toward Mirror Lake.
Elena's body was thrown slightly back against the seat from the violent acceleration. Her eyes widened in shock and dawning horror as she realized what was happening:
The wheelchair wasn't turning. It was accelerating toward the water.
Toward the deep, dark, bottomless water that waited at the edge.