I Am Not The Only Monster In This Story

Harry Lennox stood before the estate's central surveillance hub, his features carved into a mask of rigid composure, though the quake in his clenched jaw betrayed the unease simmering beneath. The wall of monitors loomed, an immense, silent testament to a security breach of terrifying proportions.

Usually, a cacophony of live feeds and archived data, a constant watchful eye over every corner of his domain, now they offered only fragmented, distorted images too messed up to understand.

Frozen images flickered across the high-resolution displays: a rectangle of pure, unadulterated static, buzzing with a malevolent energy; a camera feed blown out to blinding white, as if something had stared into its lens with obliterating force; and then, simply, black.

Utter, absolute blackness that stretched across every screen, every camera angle. Between 3:40 a.m. and 3:50 a.m., all surveillance across the estate, the manicured gardens, the impenetrable perimeter, and the labyrinthine internal corridors had been excised.

Ten minutes. A perfectly executed blind spot, carved from the fabric of reality itself, leaving him to wonder just what horrors had unfolded within its suffocating darkness. The precision of it all suggested not a malfunction, a carefully orchestrated intrusion that left a frigid dread coiling in Harry's gut.

The physical evidence offered a grim, almost theatrical, echo of the technical data. Her favourite ceramic tea mug, the one she always cradled with such affection despite the slight, almost imperceptible chip on the handle, had been discovered brutally shattered upon the rug in her study.

Instead of comforting warmth, an unsettling image emerged: jagged white shards lay scattered across the Persian weave like fallen petals after a violent storm, each fragment a silent testament to a moment of sudden, inexplicable chaos.

The delicate floral pattern of the carpet seemed to recoil from the intrusion, the vibrant colours muted by the broken remains of something once so familiar and loved. It was a scene that suggested not just breakage, but a spiteful act of destruction.

The quiet was deafening, amplifying the void left by her absence. No hastily scribbled note offered a clue, no desperate scrawl to explain the inexplicable. Only the shattered remains of a porcelain cup hinted at a disturbance, a moment of chaos amidst the unnerving calm.

Every door and window remained stubbornly intact, defying any suggestion of forced entry, both before and after the city succumbed to the suffocating darkness.

It was as if the intruders, if intruders there were, had dissolved into the very fabric of the house, leaving behind no footprint, no stray hair, no whisper of their presence, nothing, that is, except the echo of a life vanished without a trace.

The only evidence of their passage was the missing woman herself, a phantom limb in the otherwise undisturbed reality.

The biometric chip, that ubiquitous, surgically implanted identifier mandatory for all individuals in her echelon, was gone. He could not pinpoint her location anymore.

Officially, Mara Lennox had simply disappeared from her locked, secure estate.

Unofficially, in the cold, hard calculation forming in Harry's mind, he thought her dead.

The burgeoning police theories meant nothing, nor did the justifications he might later be compelled to utter. The truth resided in the efficiency of the erased footage, the orchestration of every detail, a silent, clinical testament.

This wasn't the chaotic scramble of a typical abduction. The precisely timed blackout, that fleeting moment of total darkness. The entry during an impossibly narrow window. The calculated deployment of a paralyzing agent ensured that silence, ensured she couldn't scream. Each element spoke of something colder, deeper.

Not random. Not personal.

Professional.

Harry's stomach twisted. He had seen this pattern before; they had used it before. The White Angels prided themselves on discretion. On control. On making people vanish so seamlessly that they left no ripple.

And then, the final touch: the excision of her identifier chip, as if scrubbing her existence from the very fabric of reality.

He stared at the data void left in her wake. This wasn't just a message. It was a punishment. This was no desperate grab for ransom. This was a calculated severing, a professional silencing executed with precision. A removal, leaving behind an echo of a life that had been erased.

Maisie was lured into he mother's study by the hush. Her small feet, usually thunderous on the stairs, padded softly across the rug in her mother's study, the quiet amplifying the frantic beat of her own heart.

The shattered remains of the teacup glittered on the floor like malevolent jewels. She knelt, drawn in against her will, her fingers shaking as she traced the sharp edges of a familiar fragment. A smear of coral pink lipstick, her mother's signature shade, bloomed against the dull porcelain rim.

The vibrant, mundane mark felt obscene in the face of the growing dread. It was a ghost of normalcy, a cruel whisper of intimacy in a room that screamed absence. More potent than any scream, the lipstick was the truth: her mother had been here, sipping tea, breathing air, existing just moments before the impossible had occurred. And now, she was gone, leaving behind only this mocking echo of her presence.

Leo remained a stoic statue, a fragile dam against a flood of unspoken anguish. Tears threatened, but he wouldn't yield to their release. Certainly not before the cold, assessing eyes of the police, or the granite mask that had become his father's face. In the hallway outside the forbidden study, he stood rigid, fists clenched so tight his knuckles gleamed bone-white in the dim light.

His gaze, a haunted, vacant stare, clung to a point just beyond Harry's shoulder, a desperate avoidance of the grim tableau before him.

The years of simmering tension between father and son had, overnight, fermented into something venomous and tangible, a hard, bitter silence that tasted like ash. Grief, a suffocating blanket, mingled with fear, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with unspoken accusations, each one a phantom blade poised to strike. The hallway had become a haunted space, thick with the residue of tragedy.

The memorial service, a somber echo of a funeral held days after hope had finally withered, felt more like an official farewell to a ghost than a celebration of a life. An old family photograph served as Mara's stand-in, a silent testament to a past that now felt impossibly distant.

She wore a simple lavender dress in the image, her smile a delicate, almost sorrowful curve. The press, dutifully parroting the sterile pronouncements of the authorities, spoke of a tragic disappearance from a highly secured estate, a puzzle with no readily available answer.

The family, faces etched with a grief they were forced to mask, clung to the narrative of an unfortunate accident, a mystery the diligent police were still untangling. But in the eyes of Harry, Leo, Maisie, and Dash, a truth lurked, a grim certainty.

The shattered teacup, the clean incision, the ten minutes of absolute, suffocating blackness, these weren't pieces of a simple puzzle; they were fragments of a nightmare. They knew that Mara hadn't simply vanished. She had been taken, stolen away by a darkness they couldn't yet comprehend.

Dash stood at the funeral, a monument to unshed tears. While sobs echoed around him, a chorus of grief, his face remained a grim, desolate landscape. Not a single tear dared to break the surface.

His throat, thick with a sorrow too deep for words, refused to form the platitudes of mourning, the hollow echoes of remembrance. Eighteen, he knew the cruel permanence of loss, the gaping, irreversible void it leaves behind. But knowing wasn't accepting. He stood, rigid as an ice sculpture, flanked by Leo and Harry.

His hands, clenched into fists, were strained from holding himself together. His eyes, though dry, burned with a feverish intensity, their crimson rims a silent scream of sleepless nights. Each hour had been a brutal battle against the crushing weight of her absence, a relentless replay of "what ifs" that now echoed in the hollow chambers of his heart.

In the weeks after Mara vanished, a gaping void consumed him, leaving behind only the shell of the boy he once was. The vibrant spark that had animated him was extinguished. His laughter, once so boisterous, was a distant memory, his quick wit lost in despair. He retreated inward, seeking refuge from a storm that raged only within him.

School became an unbearable intrusion, each echoing hallway a painful reminder of what he'd lost. Skipping classes wasn't rebellion, but a desperate act of self-preservation against the crushing weight of his grief.

He found himself trapped in his darkened room or wandering the vast estate, now a desolate landscape mirroring the emptiness within. His footsteps echoed Mara's phantom presence, each path a haunting reminder of what could never be again.

He didn't voice his questions, not to Leo, not to Harry, not to the hushed adults who circled him with pitying eyes.

The house, once alive with the rhythm of their shared existence, had grown cold, its light dimming with each passing day. And Dash, who had been its loudest voice, its source of laughter and joy, had become a ghost, haunting the corridors of his grief-stricken heart.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Harry's Private Office

The video file possessed simplicity, a deceptive veneer of normality that belied the troubling truth within. A hidden camera, small and insidious, had captured a mundane moment in Mara's study.

There she was, on the screen, an eerie echo of her former self, seated at her imposing desk, the familiar tapestry of leather-bound books and gleaming awards looming behind her like silent witnesses. It was a self-recording, a message from the precipice, made sometime before the night she vanished without a trace.

The years seemed to have prematurely aged her; deep furrows, like cracks in porcelain, framed her eyes, hinting at sleepless nights haunted by unseen anxieties. Yet, her spine was ramrod straight, her expression fixed in a mask of grim determination.

When she began to speak, her voice, though steady, resonated with an unnerving calm, betraying none of the panic one might expect from a woman teetering on the edge. Instead, it carried a conviction that felt as if the very air in the room had turned cold.

"If you're watching this…" she began, her gaze fixed directly into the lens, meeting the unseen eyes of her future audience. "Then something's happened. Something I hoped to prevent, or at least postpone." A pause, a deep breath. "Maybe I've finally uncovered too much. Maybe I've pushed the wrong people too far. But listen to me, Harry, Maisie, Leo, Dash... listen closely." Her voice grew a little stronger, urgency threading through the calm.

"This world, you think you live in? It is lying to you. Everything you've been told, everything you see, especially about the Alucards, the White Angels… none of it is what it seems. It's a carefully constructed facade designed to blind you." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes intense. "Trust your instincts. Trust the things that feel wrong. And if I vanish from your lives. Know this. Know with absolute certainty that I didn't go willingly. I wasn't taken for money or power games, you understand."

She looked directly into the camera, her gaze piercing, sharing a silent understanding with whoever would find this message.

"They're watching," she whispered, the steady voice finally betraying a hint of weariness, of constant, unseen pressure. "They're always watching. Even now."

Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, she reached out and ended the transmission.

Harry's eyes remained fixed on the screen, his wife's face suspended in pale stillness, serene, almost graceful, yet beneath that calm lay the raw edge of betrayal. The truth she had confessed wasn't just dangerous, it was fatal. It didn't make sense. She knew better. She knew who they were and who he was. And still, she had chosen defiance.

A tremor coursed through his fingers as he reached for the keyboard. The room around him felt colder now, smaller, warped by the gravity of what this meant. Mara hadn't just wandered into danger.

She had picked a side.

And it wasn't his.

Each keystroke echoed like a sentence passed: "Mara – Final Transmission." The words branded the screen, stark and final. He sat back, throat dry, pulse pounding. If the White Angels hadn't taken her, someone else would have.

The click echoed in the suffocating silence, a grim punctuation mark at the end of his wife's desperate life. With that single action, he entombed her last words, her final, frantic warning, within the tangled depths of an encrypted drive.

He wasn't just sealing a message; he was burying a fragment of her soul, a voice reaching out from the edge of madness, or perhaps, from terrifying clarity.

Each layer of encryption felt like a shovel of earth cast onto her grave. Not for the world's protection, but for his. For theirs. Because he knew now.

This hadn't been paranoia. It had been precise.

The signs were unmistakable, familiar in a way that chilled him to the marrow. The White Angels had done this. Or someone even deeper within their hierarchy, someone capable of turning her into a loose end.

And as the final keypress confirmed the lock, a prickling unease burrowed beneath his skin. The game had changed. He felt it in his bones. He was no longer just a figurehead, merely complicit by silence.

For years, he felt like he had been in control. Now, he was outmaneuvered, a once-powerful piece trapped in someone else's chess game.