He hadn't slept in days; in fact he hadn't slept for years now. The air in the manor was thick, not with dust or heat, but
resentment. Something acidic. Something old. Morris sat alone in the study, sleeves rolled up, forearms speckled in drying blood. It wasn't his. It never was. His hands remained steady as he flicked through photographs—black-and-white surveillance shots of Giselle Reinhardt. Some from years ago, some more recent. None taken within the last year, it's as if she went under the radar entirely.
That was the problem.
She was gone. Hidden. And no one vanished like Giselle. Not without help. Not without an entire web of silence protecting her. And Morris hated that. He HATED her.
It wasn't just personal. It was sacred.
He stood slowly, dragging his fingers along the mahogany desk, past the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, past the glint of a scalpel still warm from interrogation. The man tied to the chair in the corner whimpered, barely conscious. Morris ignored him. "She was supposed to die," he whispered to the room. "Years ago, I left her there. In that hell. And she walked out like a goddamn phoenix."
His fingers twitched. Rage lived in his skin now. A parasite that feasted on patience.
He walked through the halls like a king in a cursed palace, his men keeping their distance. Everyone did. Morris wasn't normal, and his subordinates knew not to question him nor voice their thoughts. He was something older. Sicker. The kind of man who killed without blinking, not out of necessity, but because he liked it. Underneath his polite veneer — tailored suits, expensive cologne, well-manicured hands — lived rot. Controlled rot. But rot, nonetheless.
His subordinates called him "Sir." Never boss. Never leader. Only "Sir." Like he was a teacher in some demonic classroom, waiting for someone to get the answer wrong.
He entered the lower chamber — a place none dared tread without invitation. Bodies hung like meat. Not dead. Not yet. Every one of them had a connection to Giselle. One was her old pastry supplier. Another, a linguist, she used for translations. One had taught her Krav Maga. All insignificant. But they were bait. And he was starving.
"Tell me where she is," he crooned to the baker. "Tell me, and I'll let you see tomorrow." The man sobbed. Morris smiled.
There were no answers. Only screams. And still, she didn't come.
He slammed a table against the wall, shards of glass raining down like confetti. "She's mocking me!" he roared, voice cracking for the first time. "She knows I'm watching and she doesn't care!"
His second-in-command, Emil, lingered by the door. "Sir, we've tracked two of her cousins to a safehouse near Antwerp. We think she might—"
"I don't want her cousins," Morris snapped, turning with feral precision. "I want her. The woman who burned half my operation to the ground and still walked away with clean shoes. I want to hear her scream. I want her here beneath my shoe begging and pleading."
Justin didn't flinch. He'd seen worse. Morris had once ripped a man's ear off mid-sentence because he didn't like his tone. But even Justin was starting to realise — this wasn't just a vendetta. It was an obsession. One that bent logic and burned resources like fire through a dry forest.
And yet… Morris was terrifyingly lucid. Sane. Strategic. Just unhinged enough to keep people unsure if today would be their last.
Later that night, he sat in the garden with a glass of wine, watching the moonlight bleed over the rosebushes. "She's waiting," he murmured to the wind. "She knows I'll keep pushing until the world turns red. And that's why she's hiding. Because even she knows I'm the devil in this story."
A servant approached. "There's word that Giselle's husband was seen in Milan. He was dining with a member of the Cordon Bleu and someone from the Embassy—"
"Track him," Morris said without blinking. "I don't want the husband, but if I kill him in the right way… she'll feel it."
The servant swallowed. "Understood."
"And send a gift to the children's school. Make sure my girls don't see it. Something subtle. A letter opener, maybe. Silver. With her mother's name engraved. Just a little reminder that I'm still watching."
The servant nodded shakily and left.
Morris drained the last of his wine. "She'll come out eventually," he said, to no one. "They always do. You just have to start killing the right people."
Thunder cracked overhead. The sky matched his mood — violent and slow-burning. He tilted his head back and whispered like a prayer, "Come out, Giselle. Come out and play."
The next morning, Westdentia Academia security found a message carved into one of the perimeter trees.
"Sins always come home. Sooner or later."
No one knew what it meant.
But Giselle did.
And that was the point.
Lure her out one way or another.