Crossed wires

The morning sun had barely broken through the cracked windows of the decrepit house when David stirred from his bed.

Still shirtless and humming tunelessly, he padded down the creaking hallway, his thoughts already on breakfast.

After all, his darlings would be waking up soon hungry .

He stepped into the kitchen.

A flash of silver met him the moment his foot crossed the threshold.

A kitchen knife whistled past his throat, grazing the air a breath away from his jugular.

David blinked.

"Mm. Closer," he muttered, then walked in as if nothing had happened.

He reached for the fridge door.

Above him, the ceiling groaned.

THUD!

A hatchet dropped from a trap rigged above, nearly cleaving his shoulder. He sidestepped without looking.

With a casual yawn, he moved toward the knife block.

As he reached out, the knives flew.

Three blades shot toward him like angry arrows.

He leaned back slightly. They embedded themselves in the cabinet behind him.

Unbothered, he opened the microwave.

It exploded.

Sparks flew and a burst of heat grazed his face.

"Points for creativity," he mumbled, brushing off a glowing ember from his hair.

He continued his routine like a man walking through light rain.

Everywhere he stepped, something tried to kill him acidic water dripped from above, a flame burst from under a floorboard, a drawer snapped open with a spring-loaded blade.

David danced between them all like it was a ballet.

He cracked eggs. Sliced meat. Sautéed strips of glistening, dark red flesh.

Sharon's selection from last night, of course.

By the time the kitchen looked like a warzone of failed assassination attempts, breakfast was ready.

He plated the food with care flawless cuts of meat, warm toast, and blood-spiced tea—and set it on the long, scratched dining table.

Then he called out cheerfully:

"Ladies and gentlemen, breakfast! Wakey-wakey!"

Footsteps.

Sharon entered, arms crossed, her face the embodiment of nine-year-old disgust.

She stared at the unharmed man in front of her, then at the disaster she had engineered behind him.

Her eyes narrowed.

"You're supposed to be dead," she said flatly.

David smiled like a proud father. "Darling, I've told you before—you're improving, but the traps are still a bit... obvious."

She clenched her fists. "Obvious?! The microwave exploded in your face!"

"Yes, and it tickled. But lovely effort. I liked the knife rain. Very dramatic."

"You didn't even flinch!"

David leaned back in his chair, stretching with a smug grin. "You'll have to try harder, sweet pea. Maybe think bigger. A poison gas system, perhaps? Or a bear?"

"I hate you sometimes," she growled.

He laughed. "That's the spirit."

Sharon huffed and turned toward the staircase. "I'm going to wake Vincent."

She stomped up the stairs, but paused suddenly.

One of the steps was raised—slightly higher than the rest.

She stared at it.

Then shouted down:

"Nice try, David. I see your trick."

David peeked around the kitchen door, grinning. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You put the fake trap here. The raised step. I'm supposed to think this one will trigger something, so I avoid it... and step on the next one—which is actually the trap."

David raised an eyebrow. "My, my. You're catching on."

Sharon smirked.

Then stepped confidently onto the raised step.

The moment her foot landed, it rose higher.

Click.

The entire staircase groaned.

CRACK.

The floor beneath her feet flipped open.

The wooden stairs folded inward like a trapdoor, revealing a deep pit filled with upward-facing knives—sharpened to a surgical gleam.

Sharon shrieked as gravity claimed her.

Then—a hand caught her ankle.

Vincent, shirtless and half-awake, leaned over the edge of his bedroom doorway. "Morning, sunshine."

She dangled there, wild-eyed and fuming.

David cackled from below, practically doubled over with laughter.

"You actually thought you outsmarted me? Oh, Shari, you're adorable."

Vincent pulled her up one-handed and set her on the floor.

Sharon dusted herself off, cheeks flushed crimson with rage.

She didn't say a word.

Just turned, slowly...

And began planning murder

....

...

..

.

At the Breakfast Table

The morning air was thick with the scent of scorched meat and bitter coffee.

David sat at the head of the long, crooked table, sleeves rolled up, hands still stained from preparing the meal.

Sharon chewed absently, eyes half-lidded, fork scraping across her plate.

She looked bored. Unimpressed.

"So," David said suddenly, "what brings you crawling out of your haunted dollhouse this time?"

She didn't look up.

"Grandfather wants you to come home."

Silence.

David stopped cutting his food.

"He can choke on his own blood," he said calmly.

"He says you can bring your little toy with you," Sharon added, like reciting a shopping list.

"Exact words were: 'Tell him he can even bring that little toy of his... what's his name? Vincent?'"

David's jaw clenched.

Sharon glanced at him now, curious to see if he'd explode.

He didn't—at least, not immediately.

"He's not a toy," David said quietly.

"Of course not," Sharon replied without sincerity.

David pushed his chair back and stood abruptly, the wooden legs screeching against the floor.

"He's not some pet I drag around in a leash."

Sharon sipped her tea.

"You sure? Because from the outside, it's hard to tell who's holding the leash and who's wearing it."

He slammed his hand on the table, hard enough to rattle the plates.

"Say that again."

She raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

"Relax. I'm just quoting Grandfather."

David paced once, twice, his teeth grinding.

"They cast me out like trash. Now they want me back because the rest of the bloodline turned out worse than me."

"Well..." Sharon twirled her fork. "You're still the most tolerable monster in the box."

"Tell him no," David hissed. "Tell him he can take his offer and bury it next to the last heir he strangled."

Sharon shrugged.

"He said you'd react like this. He just wanted you to know... the throne's waiting. And Mother supports you, too."

David froze. Then laughed.

"Mother supports me? She used to wash her hands after touching me."

"Now she says at least you're efficient."

David walked to the window, staring at the overgrown garden outside.

"Why are you even here, Sharon? You don't care about thrones or legacy or family."

"I don't." She stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt.

"But I follow orders. I was told to deliver the message. And I did. What you do with it is up to you."

She started toward the stairs, then paused, glancing back.

"For what it's worth..."

David turned.

"...if you did go back," she said, her voice softer, "you could bring Vincent. And burn it all down from the inside."

A smile flickered—brief and dangerous—on her lips.

Then she vanished up the stairs.

David stood in the kitchen, the morning light sharp against the bloodstains on his hands.

His reflection in the dark window was motionless.

Behind him, Vincent was calmly finishing his meal

...

..

.

Outside – Late Morning

The wind was mild, carrying the scent of damp leaves and scorched wood from somewhere distant.

David walked ahead with his hands in his pockets, boots crunching softly over the gravel path.

Vincent trailed just behind, unlit cigarette between his fingers, flipping it absently.

They walked in silence for a while—until David finally spoke.

"I've been in a foul mood since breakfast."

Vincent didn't look up. "You're always in a foul mood after breakfast."

David scoffed.

"No, I mean it. She got under my skin."

"She's supposed to. That's her job. You're the one making it bigger than it is."

David stopped walking. Turned.

"He called you a toy, Vincent."

Vincent gave him a lopsided grin.

"I am fun-sized. Comes with the territory."

"I'm serious."

"And I'm telling you—don't let their rot infect your head. "

David looked away, jaw tight.

Vincent stepped closer, his tone light but purposeful.

"You're not like them, David. Don't crawl back into that coffin."

There was a pause. Then David muttered:

"She said sister supports me now."

Vincent raised a brow. "That woman would support a guillotine if it promised neatness."

David gave a faint, bitter smile.

Then Vincent added—without thinking:

"What would Caroline say if she saw you even considering going back?"

Silence.

Instant tension.

David's face darkened, the air around him seeming to still.

Vincent realized too late what he'd said.

"...Sorry. That was—stupid."

David turned away, voice low and cold.

"Don't bring her up."

"It slipped."

"Then let it stay buried."

They kept walking, the air heavy with unspoken memories.

No more words passed between them for minutes.

Eventually, the trees thinned out, the path widening into a clearing near a shallow stream.

And that's when they saw her.

A woman kneeling by the water, washing something dark out of her sleeves. Her coat was torn, stained. Her hands, scratched and red.

She looked up slowly as they approached.

..

.

By the Stream — Late Morning

David froze mid-step.

Like a beast smelling blood it once spilled but never got to taste.

She was there.

Soaking wet, up to the elbows, her sleeves clinging to her skin — streaked with something darker than water.

Victoria Rief.

Wringing her hands like she'd just finished scrubbing off a body.

Vincent narrowed his eyes.

"You told me she was dead."

David's voice came out low, almost reverent.

"I was told the same."

He took a breath.

"I saw the photos. Burnt wreck. Blood on glass. Charred bones in the front seat."

Victoria looked up.

Her eyes — pale and cutting — locked with David's.

"Guess they misidentified the corpse."

David smiled. A slow, sick curve of the lips.

Vincent snorted.

"You two are actual nightmares. Most exes leave bad reviews, not body counts."

Victoria gave a hollow chuckle.

"We never even got to be exes. He passed out before the real fun began."

David took a step forward.

"You jammed a drill into my thigh and played opera over my screams."

"You lured me to a church basement, slit my wrist, and tried to saw through my spine with piano wire."

"You stitched my mouth shut and poured bleach into my nose."

"You left me nailed to your garage wall with my blood dripping drop by drop"

Silence.

Even Vincent winced.

"Christ. You two really need a therapis."

David tilted his head.

"I should've killed you that night."

Victoria smiled.

"You tried. You just weren't good enough."

He stepped closer, boots crushing wet leaves.

"I thought you were dead. And that pissed me off more than anything."

Victoria arched an eyebrow.

"Oh? Touched by my loss?"

"No. Furious.

Furious that someone else got to kill you. Furious I didn't get to rip your throat out myself.

You don't get to die without me, Victoria."

She laughed. A dry, broken thing.

"Still romantic as ever."

Vincent muttered, "oh , young love "

David ignored him.

"You shouldn't have come back."

"And yet, here I am. Wondering if your hands still shake when you hold a blade."

He stepped so close now their breath nearly mingled.

"Do you want to find out?"

Victoria leaned in just a little. Her voice a whisper:

"Do you still scream when I break your ribs one by one?"

A silence.

Sharp. Bloody.

David grinned.

Vincent groaned.

"Great. Now I'll have to clean blood off the river rocks again."

Victoria pulled back, her eyes still locked

with David's.

"You won't kill me."

"Why not?"

"Because you're still curious."

She traced a finger slowly along her own neck.

"Still wondering what it feels like when I scream your name while bleeding out."

David's expression darkened with something hungry.

Not lust.

Not hate.

Something worse.

"I'm glad you're alive, Victoria."

He tilted his head.

"Because now I get to kill you right."