Daylight filters into the small, cluttered apartment through thin curtains, spilling uneven streaks of pale gold across the room. Anna stands by the full-length mirror in the corner, her reflection staring back at her like a stranger. The rich navy-blue suit clings to her frame, impeccably tailored, every seam whispering of wealth and confidence. She smooths the lapel with slow, deliberate fingers, though her expression betrays her nerves. The faintest furrow creases her brow, but Anna doesn’t say a word.

  Behind her, Phara stands, equal parts poised and focused, adjusting the suit’s shoulders with meticulous precision, tilting her head as though surveying the work of a sculptor. She leans forward, her fingers brushing Anna’s hair into place. The deliberate touch makes Anna’s caramel waves fall perfectly across her shoulders, softening the sharpness of the outfit.

  "Is something wrong?" Anna’s question cuts through the quiet as her eyes dart to the side, where Theodore slouches on the battered sofa with the kind of casual amusement only he can muster.

  Theodore lets out a low chuckle, sharp and teasing. His broad grin deepens the dimple on his left cheek. “I just never thought I’d see you so... professional,” he says, waving a hand toward her polished appearance as though the suit itself is the punchline.

  Anna swivels toward him, crossing her arms, her movement tight and crisp—like someone trying to practice authority in front of a mirror. “I am always professional,” she declares with a raised brow, her voice clipped.

  Phara stifles a laugh, but it bursts free in a moment of surrender to Theodore’s grin. The ripple of their amusement fills the room, bouncing off cracked walls and the faint hum of the coffee maker in the corner. Anna rolls her eyes, picks up her nearly empty coffee mug from the counter, and takes a long, deliberate sip.

  Phara clears her throat, trying to reset the mood, and slides over to retrieve her own sleek purse from the couch. “You were being serious. Sorry,” she says, her voice light but not quite convincing. “Come on. The car should be arriving soon.”

  Anna exhales, the faintest pout brushing her lips, and turns back to the mirror. She adjusts her blazer once more, tugging at the hem to ensure it falls just right, and then slips on her sunglasses. Now her reflection carries an air of untouchable perfection. If someone didn’t know better, they’d think she belonged at an upper-crust charity gala or a glossy magazine spread.

  The trio spills from the apartment moments later, closing the creaky door carefully behind them. They tread down a narrow side stairway, metal steps rattling beneath their feet. Waiting at the curb is the car—a gleaming black sedan, its polished surface gleaming even in the clouded daylight. Its imposing presence feels like a prop out of a high-budget heist movie.

  Anna slides elegantly into the back seat, and Phara follows, closing the door with the quiet confidence of someone who’s done this before. Theodore, wearing the role of the driver like a second skin, settles into the front and adjusts the rearview mirror. His eyes flick to Anna and Phara. “Ready?” he asks, his voice casual but not without a trace of anticipation.

  “Drive,” Anna says, her voice laced with authority. For the first time that day, she sounds like the person she’s pretending to be.

  The car glides through the streets with a smooth efficiency that matches nothing of the trio’s humble reality. Theodore doesn’t stop until they’re in the shadow of a towering office building—the kind of structure built to intimidate as much as impress. Whitefield Cosmetics is etched in sleek silver letters across the glossy facade, the name glinting in the fading sun like a promise.

  Theodore pulls up beside the curb and hops out, opening the door for Phara and Anna in one seamless motion. Phara steps out first, her tailored knee-length skirt and pristine white blouse transforming her into the perfect assistant. Anna follows, her sunglasses shielding her expression, her movements measured and deliberate—like the world’s cameras are on her.

  “Miss Whitefield is waiting for you inside,” the doorman says, his tone as practiced as the professional smile on his face.

  Anna offers the faintest of nods, a motion so slight it could be mistaken for the dismissal of an empress. Phara stays a step behind her, clipboard tucked under one arm, her gaze forward and serious. The two women follow the sharply dressed attendant through the revolving glass doors, their footsteps clicking in calculated unison against polished marble flooring.

  The grand double doors of Whitefield Cosmetics headquarters arch open, and Anna strides in with the confidence of someone meant to be seen. Her suit clings to her like it was spun from ambition itself, each step she takes echoing softly against the marble floors. The golden chandelier overhead casts a glow that clings to her, amplifying her presence like a spotlight. Beside her, Phara walks dutifully, clipboard in hand, the image of a poised and discreet assistant. Anna’s ensemble screams wealth and power, but it’s the graceful tilt of her chin and the unyielding spark of her dark eyes that command attention. Heads turn. Whispers follow. Every cluster of employees and investors stops mid-conversation to gape.

  Melissa Whitefield stands near the center of the spacious lobby, encircled by a throng of investors and board members, their laughter and handshakes coating the air with the practiced airs of corporate camaraderie. She is striking—a tall, willowy woman dressed in a sleek cobalt-blue dress that brings out the glacier-blue of her sharp eyes. Yet when Anna approaches, moving like a predator who knows her prey has already surrendered, Melissa falters for just the briefest of moments. Her laugh halts mid-note, her gaze locking with Anna's. A faint blush blooms across her high cheekbones, softening the sharp angles of her face.

  Anna glances sideways at Phara, their silent exchange filled with purpose, before returning her focus to Melissa. When she speaks, her voice spills out in a rich Hungarian accent, smooth and intoxicating as aged wine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Whitefield,” she purrs, her every word deliberate, magnetic. “It’s good to know your angelic voice is paired with a face straight from heaven.”

  Melissa looks utterly disarmed. Her body tenses for the barest of seconds, but she doesn’t pull her hand away when Anna takes it. Anna bends slightly, brushing the back of her knuckles with the lightest touch of lips, a gesture both reverent and defiant. Melissa’s blush deepens, traveling to her ears. Her investors exchange glances—some amused, some confused—but Melissa recovers quickly, though her voice is softer now as she addresses the room.

  “All right, everyone,” she says, motioning toward a nearby corridor, “let’s move to the demonstration room. The future is waiting.”

  Anna smirks faintly as Melissa steps ahead and begins leading the group. Together, they all walk through stark-white hallways gleaming under fluorescent lights, the smell of disinfectant growing stronger with each corner they turn. Deep in the building’s bowels, Melissa ushers them into a high-walled medical observation chamber. The room is eerily sterile, its walls a haunting reflection of the florescent lights. The glass panel that separates the observing area from the actual lab glints with a cold shine. On the other side stands Dr. Specker, a wiry man with an unnervingly steady demeanor. His movements are deliberate as he picks up what looks like an injection device, its silver barrel gleaming under the surgical lights. Inside the device is a vial of translucent, glowing fluid—formulas of miracles and nightmares.

  Below them, an older woman lies unconscious on a medical table, her features slack, her skin sagging with age like parchment gently folded over fragile bones. Without hesitation, Dr. Specker leans over the woman, injecting the glowing serum into her neck with surgical precision.

  Seconds pass like hours. The focus of attention—the subject—is an older woman strapped to a medical recliner. She’s unconscious, her head tilted to one side, silver-gray hair spilling over the chair’s edge like a tarnished crown. Her face is a roadmap of decades: deep lines carved into her forehead, crow’s feet etched by tiny lifetimes of laughter and sorrow. But she lies helpless now, her chest faintly rising and falling, a lamb at the altar of something deeply unnatural.

  Dr. Specker picks up the injection device with a steady hand. It gleams under the cold light like something out of a futuristic nightmare—sleek, deadly, and precise. Slowly, carefully, he draws the amber liquid into the chamber on the injector. Formal, Melissa had called it—an experimental compound developed by Whitefield to “reverse time.” Anna had barely disguised the flicker of skepticism in her gaze at the word, but watching it now, pooling in the doctor's hands below, sends a chill rippling through her chest.

  Anna leans in unconsciously, her breath fogging the glass ever so slightly. The moment the cream touches the woman’s skin, there’s a shift—subtle at first. Her wrinkles seem to soften, dissolve, as though an artist’s eraser is sweeping away decades of careworn texture. Then, more dramatically, the transformation intensifies. Skin that had sagged and folded tightens and lifts, growing impossibly smooth, luminous in mere moments. The old woman’s throat no longer holds the signs of age—it looks like it belongs to someone in the flush of their twenties.

  A gasp escapes Phara, barely audible, as Anna glances at her from the corner of her eye. But Anna doesn’t react. She keeps her composure, fixing her gaze on the doctor as he steps back to observe his handiwork: the magic of Whitefield’s “breakthrough” before their eyes. Anna’s hands curl into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She isn’t just watching a scientific procedure; she’s staring at the unraveling of something fundamentally unnatural.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?” Melissa’s voice hums beside her, smug with pride. Anna turns, offering her a cool smile, a practiced look perfected over the years. But deep inside, unease simmers.

  “Remarkable,” Anna echoes mechanically, her mind racing. A glimmer of suspicion sparks like a match flicked in the dark. As Phara holds her by the hand in place.

  ***

  In the gleaming, state-of-the-art medical demonstration room at Whitefield Cosmetics’ headquarters, a thick tension hangs in the air despite the bright, sterile glow of overhead lights. Rows of investors sit perched in sleek, minimalist chairs behind a sheet of soundproof glass, their wide eyes reflecting astonishment. On the other side of the glass, a frail older woman has just been transformed before their very eyes, her age melting away as if touched by some forbidden alchemy. Now, standing in her place is a radiant woman in her twenties, her gray-streaked hair replaced with luscious waves of gold, her once-wrinkled skin smooth and luminous. Gasps of wonder ripple across the room, hushed whispers exchanged behind manicured hands.

  Phara stands at the back of the space, her dark eyes steady, her posture composed. Her hand, however, grips the wrist of Anna tightly, a silent tether holding the storm inside the younger woman at bay. Anna trembles under Phara’s grasp, her emotions almost palpable—rage, grief, and the sharp sting of betrayal swirling together like a venomous brew. Through their touch, Phara senses it all, the hot, electric fury emanating from Anna’s core. It’s like holding onto a live wire, a dangerous current that threatens to jolt loose at the slightest provocation.

  Anna’s narrowed, bloodshot eyes are fixated on Melissa, the poised, glamorous woman standing at the center of the investors’ adoration. Melissa beams under their praise, her immaculately tailored white suit

  Phara just by holding Anna’s hand can senses all of her emotions. Anna’s look at Melissa as if she could murder her. Phara says, “Breath Anna don’t make a scene.”

  Anna, her jaw clenched tight enough to snap, hisses through her teeth, "I could rip out her throat right now. I know she took my sister for this bullshit."

  Phara's dark eyes narrow, glancing at Melissa again. Beneath her composed exterior, she can’t deny the chilling possibility. Melissa’s audacity knows no bounds; it always has. But there’s no room for impulse, not now. Phara feels the faint buzz of her cell phone in her pocket, a vibration that cuts through the rising tension. She lets go of Anna’s wrist just long enough to fish the slim device from her tailored jacket. With a subtle glance downward, she reads the text on the screen from Theodore: Still tracking Anastasia’s car… need more time. Stall her.

  Her lips tighten, then she exhales, speaking softly but with authority. "Think of Anastasia," she whispers to Anna. "He needs more time to find her car. You want answers? Then do this quietly."

  Anna’s nostrils flare, and her head swivels toward Phara, her glare full of barely-contained resentment. "What do you want me to do?"

  Phara’s voice is calm, deliberate. "Go to Melissa. Flirt with her. Find out what car she drove today. The faster we know, the sooner we find your sister."

  There’s a moment of hesitation, but only a moment. Anna’s gaze flickers back to Melissa, and then she nods. "Fine," she mutters, adjusting the hem of her blouse like preparing for battle.

  Phara watches as Anna steps forward, threading her way through the maze of seated investors. Melissa, standing in the glare of soft, targeted lighting, looks up as Anna approaches, her perfect smile freezing—and then warming again with something more calculated. Anna turns the corners of her mouth upward, lifting her chin with just the right curve of confidence and allure, masking the fury threatening to devour her alive.

  Phara observes intently, though she stays in the shadowed perimeter of the room. She sees Anna’s lips move, watches as her body language shifts seamlessly into the flirtation they’ve rehearsed before—a casual brush of her arm against Melissa’s, a coquettish tilt of her head. Melissa, for all her cunning, indulges the attention, the slight flicker of vanity in her eyes betraying her.

  Phara can’t hear their words, but the dance of the interaction is enough to hold her attention. The seconds stretch out long and thin. Then, at last, Anna turns away, her face a mask of exerted self-control, and walks briskly back to Phara. The rapid sound of her heels against the tile feels like gunfire in the pit of Phara’s stomach.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Black Audi. Private plate: MEL001." Anna barely looks at Phara as she speaks, her voice taut.

  Phara’s lips curve into the faintest, determined smile. Her hand clasps Anna’s briefly, a reassuring squeeze. "Well done," she murmurs. For a brief, fleeting moment, she allows herself to believe they are just one step closer to unraveling Melissa—and to finding Anastasia before it’s too late.

  Outside, the parking garage looms like a modern labyrinth, its concrete walls bleached a pale gray by the fluorescent hum of overhead lights. The air feels thick, tinted with the tang of motor oil and the faintly acrid bite of rubber. Theodore moves like a shadow slipping between the rows of gleaming vehicles, his driver’s uniform lending him an aura of purpose while his sharp, darting eyes betray something deeper. The vibrations in his pocket seize his attention and he freezes mid-step, fingers hesitating before retrieving the buzzing cellphone.

  The screen lights up, illuminating his face with a cold electronic glow. The message from Phara reads: Black Audi. Private plate: MEL001. A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, a fleeting expression of mischief and victory. Sliding the phone back into his jacket pocket, he exhales softly and presses onward.

  The black Audi isn’t difficult to find. Its sleek body gleams ominously under the flickering lights, a cat among mice in this crowded place. But it’s not unguarded. Two hulking men in matching black suits loiter near the car, their postures rigid with focus. Theodore halts, slipping behind a nearby column. His mind churns. And then it comes to him—an idea so simple it borders on absurdity.

  He crouches low and, clearing his throat, mimics the sharp bark of a dog. The echo ricochets through the cement enclosure, startling the guards. Both straighten immediately, heads swiveling.

  “Did you hear that?” one of them mutters, already stepping away from the car.

  “Yeah,” the other replies, frowning. “Go see if there’s a loose dog in here.”

  The first guard ventures off towards the source of the imaginary canine, leaving the second behind to hold position. Theodore waits, his muscles coiled tight like a spring, his heartbeat a subdued drumbeat in his ears. The lone guard shifts his weight, scanning the dim expanse with vague unease.

  The opportunity is brief, but it’s enough. Theodore, with the practiced silence of a seasoned predator, moves. He skirts between the shadows, keeping low, his breath measured and contained. Reaching the Audi, he lowers himself to the ground, gravel biting into his palms as he works swiftly. From his pocket emerges a small black device, no larger than a matchbox. His fingers are deft as he affixes the tracker to the underside of the Audi’s chassis, pressing it firmly until it clicks into place like a secret whispered into concrete.

  He doesn’t linger. Rising to his feet in a fluid motion, Theodore retreats, as He keeps his head low, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes, though his ears strain to pick up the faintest of noises.

  ***

  In the sterile, fluorescent-lit medical observing room of Whitefield Cosmetics, the faint hum of machinery underpins the tense silence that follows the demonstration. Dr. Specker stands at the counter, meticulously arranging the glass vials back into their foam-lined case. His gloved hands tremble ever so slightly, though whether from exhaustion or apprehension, it’s hard to say. The faint, lingering scent of antiseptics and something faintly metallic hangs in the air.

  Across the room, a pair of smartly dressed men in charcoal suits guide a woman out through polished double doors. Her heels click sharply against the tiled floor, the sound fading as the doors sigh shut behind her. Dr. Specker glances up, his tired eyes narrowing as he spots Melissa Whitefield standing just outside the glass partition, her signature smile firmly in place. She watches the departing investors like a hawk, her polished, professional demeanor meticulously masking the predatory gleam in her eyes.

  Specker exhales heavily and turns back to his work, but as the last investor steps out of the room, he’s distracted by the faint creak of a door opening to his right. He freezes for a moment, glancing sidelong toward the source of the noise. From the private entrance, Alexander Whitefield steps in, the sharp click of his expensive leather shoes cutting through the room’s stillness. For a man his age, Alexander walks with an imposing air, the tailored business suit and silver-streaked hair doing little to soften the aura of unflinching authority that clings to him like a second skin.

  “Did you enjoy the demo?” Dr. Specker asks, his tone heavy with a restrained bitterness that even he cannot quite disguise. He straightens up, brushing a hand down his lab coat.

  Alexander strides toward the counter without hesitation, his sharp eyes immediately roving the vials lined up on the counter. With both deliberate and precise movements, he picks up one of the glass containers. He tilts it slightly, letting the viscous, iridescent liquid inside catch the light. The faint shimmer dances against the glass walls of the room, casting fleeting rainbows. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at Alexander’s lips. “Finally,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, “one of my children has done something right.”

  Specker stiffens at the implication, his jaw tightening. “I am the one who did all the work,” he replies. His voice is sharp, edged with frustration and barely veiled resentment. In his mind, months of tireless effort, sleepless nights, and ethical compromises flash like a slideshow.

  Alexander's laugh erupts suddenly, cutting through the tension like a razor. It’s not a joyful laugh, nor is it particularly warm. It’s a sound of cold satisfaction paired with an unspoken message: Specker might as well be a tool, a means to an end. “Yes, you did,” Alexander replies coolly, his eyes lifting from the vial to pin Specker with a calculating look. “Melissa made sure of that.”

  As though summoned by her name, Melissa appears. The click of her heels grows louder as she steps into the room, her confident stride carrying her toward the small assemblage by the counter. The sharp, unmistakable scent of her signature perfume—white orchid with a biting undertone of something darker—precedes her. Her expression is radiant, practically glowing with pride, but Specker knows her well enough to catch the subtle glimmer of triumph in her eyes.

  Specker’s throat tightens as his gaze flickers between Melissa and Alexander. There’s something unspoken hanging in the air between father and daughter, something dark and unnerving, concealed beneath their polished exteriors. Specker knows he doesn’t want to be caught in the crossfire, but he can feel the heavy, inevitable weight of their expectations pressing down on him nonetheless. Speechless, he looks away, focusing instead on the faint crackling hum of the fluorescent lights above, as if they might drown out his unease.

  The white walls and chrome accents casting fractured reflections of the small vial in Alexander Whitefield's grasp. The liquid inside shimmers faintly, its iridescent sheen suggesting an otherworldly quality, like melted moonlight trapped in glass. Dr. Specker’s steely eyes remain fixed on Alexander, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid as though he anticipates something monumental.

  Melissa stands nearby, her tailored suit impeccable, though her posture betrays a subdued tension. Her manicured fingers drum lightly against the edge of the sleek metal table as she offers a measured smile.

  “All of them are willing to invest,” she says, her voice poised, yet carrying an undercurrent of eager pride.

  Alexander, a man whose very presence seems to command submission, tilts the vial toward the dim light overhead. His narrow gaze scrutinizes the liquid with an intensity that makes the room feel heavier, like its air has thickened. Without looking away from the vial, he asks, “Did you record this demo?”

  “Yes, of course,” Melissa replies, her tone tinged with as much confidence as it is caution, her eyes flickering briefly to Dr. Specker before returning to her father.

  A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Alexander’s mouth. “Good,” he says. His voice is quiet yet sharp, like the edge of a blade. “I’m hosting a party at the family’s main penthouse. I’m sure my friends will want to see this for themselves. Investors tend to favor witnessing miracles in luxurious settings.” He finally tears his calculating gaze from the vial and hands it back to Dr. Specker, who accepts it reverently, his gloved hands cradling the glass as though it holds a secret that could shift the very fabric of existence.

  Melissa’s lips part into a smile that transforms her sharp, professional demeanor into something softer, as though she has been given a gift she isn’t quite sure she deserves. “Thank you, Father,” she says.

  Alexander takes a step closer to her, his towering figure imposing even in such a sterile, high-tech room. “Just remember,” he says in a tone that suggests both instruction and warning, “don’t get distracted by that Hungarian investor. She is beautiful, yes, but beauty has a way of... manipulating focus. Stay sharp.”

  Melissa’s smile falters for a brief second, but she recovers quickly, nodding. “Yes, Father,” she says.

  Without another word, Alexander adjusts the cuffs of his bespoke charcoal suit and strides out of the room with the deliberate precision of a man who has never stumbled a day in his life. The faint echo of his shoes on the polished floor lingers even after he’s gone.

  Once the air settles, Dr. Specker clears his throat, drawing Melissa’s attention. For a moment, something imperceptible passes between them, a flicker of emotion in her guarded hazel eyes and the barest quirk of his lips. But before either can speak, the soft hum of the machinery reminds them of the task at hand—the vial, the demonstration, the audience of investors—and the fragility of the boundary they may have just crossed.

  ***

  Anastasia and Norika stood in the cell, their eyes locked on the man who had been callously thrown into their midst. Norika rushed forward, her heart pounding, and flipped him over, recognizing him as the same rude individual they had encountered earlier that day. She pointed to him, her voice laced with disdain.

  “It's the asshole from earlier,” Norika declared, her voice seething with contempt.

  Anastasia, ever composed, approached the man's prone figure, her eyes narrowed with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. She leaned down, her fingers gently grazing his cheek before delivering a sharp slap across his face. “Get up,” she commanded, her voice laced with a cold authority.

  The man's eyes flickered open, fear flashing across his face as he scrambled to his feet, hastily retreating to the other end of the cell. His voice trembled with a mixture of anger and terror as he spoke.

  “Stay away from me, you monsters,” he spat, his words laced with venom.

  Norika fangs elongated, a threatening hiss escaping her lips as she took a step closer to the man, her predatory instincts on high alert. But before she could pounce, Anastasia positioned herself between them, a calm but firm barrier.

  “I will rip his throat out,” Norika growled, her voice dripping with primal hunger.

  Anastasia's voice cut through the tension, a voice of reason amidst the growing chaos. “That will not help us,” she said, her tone measured and composed.

  The man, sensing an opportunity to defend himself, pulled out a small pocketknife from his pocket. Norika eyes gleamed with a glimmer of hope as she saw the potential for escape.

  “We can use that to pick the lock,” Norika suggested, her voice tinged with urgency.

  In a desperate move, Norika lunged at the man, her fangs bared and ready to strike. But the man, quick on his feet, tossed the pocketknife beyond the cell's confines, just out of reach before Norika could reach him. The metallic object clattered against the cold, stone floor, echoing with the sound of missed opportunity.

  “Your foolish man,” Norika seethed, frustration coloring her words, “we could've used that to escape from this cell.”

  Defiance flashed in the man's eyes as he glared at them, his fear temporarily replaced with anger. “You are going to kill me anyway,” he muttered, his voice filled with resignation.

  Anastasia, ever the diplomat, stepped closer to him, her voice calm but tinged with a hint of sadness. “You and your colleagues are the only killers in this building,” she explained, her eyes searching his face for any flicker of understanding.

  “But you are vampires,” the man retorted, his voice trembling with disbelief.

  Anastasia's gaze hardened, her patience wearing thin. “You are ignorant,” she stated simply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

  In a final act of defiance, the man spat out one word, his voice laced with anger and frustration. “Shut up!”

  As Anastasia's frustration boiled over, she could no longer contain her anger towards the man who had dared to disrespect her. With a swift, forceful motion, she smacked him to the cold, hard floor of the cell. Her voice carried a venomous tone as she declared, “You will not talk to me like that.”

  Norika, always the voice of reason, gently pulled Anastasia away from the man, her touch calming and grounding. Turning her attention to the man, Norika spoke with a firmness in her voice, “Just stay on your side of the cell over there.”

  Time passed slowly within the confines of their cell. Anastasia and Norika sat on the small, worn-out bed across from the man, who had eventually succumbed to sleep, leaning heavily against the unyielding wall. The silence was disrupted by the familiar sound of the elevator, followed by the soft glow of light escaping through its open doors.

  Anastasia's keen intuition alerted her to the presence of someone approaching. She exchanged a glance with Norika, their eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The sound of high heels tapping against the cold, sterile floor grew steadily louder, causing Norika to roll her eyes in exasperation. “She is back,” Norika muttered under her breath.

  Melissa, the source of their frustration and despair, stopped in front of their cell, peering inside with a mixture of disdain and superiority. Anastasia couldn't help but tease her, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I thought you had a hot date.”

  Melissa's frustration became evident as she hit the cell bars with her open palm, the sound reverberating through the confined space. “I never have time to self-indulge,” she snapped.

  The man, jolted awake by the sudden noise, stumbled towards the cell bars, desperation etched on his face. He pleaded, “Please let me out. I will never fail you again.”

  Melissa's gaze shifted from the man to Anastasia and Norika, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “If you don't eat him, I will not bring you any more humans,” she taunted.

  Anastasia's eyes narrowed, her anger simmering beneath the surface. “I guess we will dry out and die then,” she retorted with a touch of defiance.

  Norika, ever the one to find humor in the darkest moments, looked at Anastasia, a mischievous smile adorning her face. “That does sound like an interesting plan,” she mused.

  Melissa's frustration peaked, causing her to strike the cell bars once more. “It would be wise not to annoy me,” she threatened.

  Anastasia, fully aware of her value to Melissa, couldn't help but challenge her captor. “You can't kill me, because you need my blood,” she asserted.

  Melissa's gaze shifted to Norika, her eyes gleaming with malice. “But, we don't need her,” she declared.

  Driven by a surge of anger and defiance, Anastasia lunged towards the cell bars, her fingers almost reaching Melissa before she stepped back, laughing cruelly. Anastasia's voice carried a chilling defiance as she whispered, “I hope all your days are filled with suffering.”

  As Anastasia stood near the cell bars, her heart pounded in her chest. The air felt heavy with anticipation, the atmosphere thick with the uncertainty of their situation. Melissa's cell phone rang once again, breaking the tense silence. With a quick and eager movement, Melissa retrieved her phone from her pocket, revealing her sister Anna's name flashing on the screen.

  Anastasia's voice cracked as she desperately cried out, “Help us! We're trapped in a cell!”

  But Melissa's response was not what Anastasia had hoped for. With a casual nonchalance, Melissa lifted the phone to her ear, her voice betraying a sense of annoyance as she spoke. “Hello, beautiful, it's one of my coworkers trying to be funny,” Melissa said dismissively into the phone. "I'll call you later." And with that, Melissa abruptly ended the call and turned her attention away from Anastasia.

  Melissa turned to face her, a wicked smile playing on her lips. The coldness in her eyes chilled Anastasia to the core. “Keep it up,” Melissa taunted, her voice dripping with malice. “And I will make sure your little friend pays the ultimate price. Next time I come down here, he better be drained of every drop.”

  Anastasia's glare intensified as Melissa walked away, a mixture of anger and fear consuming her. “I hate that woman,” she muttered under her breath, her voice filled with venom.

  Norika, who had been standing silently beside Anastasia, offered a small glimmer of light in the darkness. “You've only ever said that about one person before,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sympathy.

  Anastasia's eyes softened as she recalled the memory of her mother, or rather the monster her mother had become. “My mother,” she whispered, her voice heavy with sorrow. “She wasn't a person anymore, she was a demon. The monster gave her more power, twisted her into something evil.”

  Norika attempted to lighten the heavy atmosphere, her voice filled with gentle humor. “So, Anna is getting closer, isn't she?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her tone.

  Anastasia's eyes flickered with a flicker of hope. “Yes, she is,” she replied, a mix of anticipation and impatience coloring her voice. “But what is taking her so long?”