I Am Not The Only Monster In This Story

The room was state-of-the-art, soundproofed, and shielded, a central node in the carefully constructed network of control that enveloped the estate. Commander Hayes, though he preferred to be addressed simply as "Sir" within these walls, stared at the main display. This was his command center, and Subject 001 was the primary target.

The behavioral report was displayed prominently, generated by the team of outsourced analysts he kept on retainer. They understood discreet surveillance and psychological profiling better than the house staff.

FILE REF: H-ESTATE-S001-BAYRPT SUBJECT: Anastasia 'Maisie' Hayes (Designation: S001) REPORT DATE: [Yesterday's Date]

BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS SUMMARY: Subject S001 continues to exhibit the primary trait of high compliance when directly or indirectly reminded of paternal expectations and family legacy. This trait remains foundational to current control protocols.

RECENT ANOMALIES: A discernible increase in indicators of emotional instability has been observed over the recent 14-day period. Manifestations include: tearfulness during meal times, increased reclusiveness in private quarters, strained interactions with estate staff, and noted hesitancy when signing documents related to estate management walkthroughs. No overt challenges to authority were recorded.

RISK ASSESSMENT: Low (currently). Instability appears internalized. No external threat engagement was detected. However, elevated instability could potentially lead to unpredictable compliance fluctuations if unchecked.

RECOMMENDATION: Continue established protocol. Reinforce emotional leverage mechanisms, particularly concerning the well-being and dependency of Minor Subject [Dashel]. Do NOT alleviate psychological pressure until the inheritance ceremony is legally concluded and assets secured. Maintain a heightened surveillance posture. Any significant deviation in behavior patterns must be immediately flagged.

Harry's eyes nodded slowly. Thorne's analysis was precise. The girl was cracking under the pressure, just enough to make her malleable, not enough to make her snap entirely. The "emotional leverage" was the key, specifically, Dash. Maisie's protective instincts were fierce, a purity of emotion he found almost revolting, but incredibly useful.

He dismissed the report with a gesture and brought up the visual feed log. Days and nights compressed into flickering seconds as he scrolled through the vast catalog of her moments. Surveillance stills clicked across the screen, each one a meticulously captured frame from the hundreds of hidden cameras embedded throughout the property.

Maisie was in the formal garden, sitting alone on the stone bench, sunlight and shadow dappling her face, highlighting the unshed tears in her eyes. Maisie was in the north hallway, pausing by the antique clock, her reflection a pale, anxious ghost in the polished wood.

Maisie froze beside Dash's bedroom door, her ear pressed almost imperceptibly against the polished wood, her expression a complex mix of worry and fierce, protective love. She was listening for him, for signs he was alright, for confirmation he was there. The camera disguised as a smoke detector directly above got the perfect angle.

She moved through the house, this intricate, high-tech prison, utterly blind to the constant scrutiny. She didn't realize how closely she was being tracked, every movement logged, every whispered word (if any) analyzed, every facial micro-expression studied. She was Subject 001, and until the final papers were signed at the inheritance ceremony, her life was an open book being read by unseen eyes, dictated by a single, cold will.

Ignorance was protection. That's what he told himself, a mantra repeated in the silent corners of his mind whenever the weight of his hidden life pressed down.

It was the bedrock of his actions, the justification for every omission, every carefully constructed lie. What she doesn't know, the true stakes, the enemies he made, the razor's edge they walked every day, couldn't endanger her. Her innocence was her shield, crafted and maintained by his deceit.

But even that lie, polished smooth by years of repetition, was beginning to crack. The world outside their carefully constructed bubble was growing louder, its shadows lengthening. He could feel the pressure mounting, a slow, inexorable squeezing. The shield felt thin tonight.

A new alert flicked across the slate, a harsh, digital chime cutting through the quiet hum of the apartment. It wasn't a routine notification. Its color was wrong, and its signature was urgent. He felt a cold knot form in his stomach. The crack had just widened into a fissure.

A sharp, distinct chime, unique to the encrypted network, cut through the low background noise of Harry's command center.

On the main display, a stark, unignorable feed notification pulsed: INCOMING: Secure Line // CODE: WHANGEL-1 // Verified: Smack, Jack. The unique code, WHANGEL-1, designated this as Level Gamma clearance, reserved for only the most critical, unscheduled communications directly from Jack. Harry didn't answer immediately.

His hand, poised near the console interface, paused. Instead, he reached for the glass beside him and took a final sip of brandy, the fiery warmth a stark contrast to the cold, clinical readiness of the room.

He mentally cycled through the possible reasons Jack would use this channel now, bypassing standard protocols.

Setting the glass down with deliberate care, he leaned forward and initiated the connection sequence. The screen went black, absolute zero, for a beat that stretched into an eternity. Then, a storm of pixelated static erupted, a blinding white noise accompanied by a low, resonant frequency that made the bones in his jaw vibrate slightly.

It was the signature of the heavy-duty encryption handshake. Minutes seemed to pass in those few seconds of digital chaos. And then, abruptly, the static cleared, resolving into the high-definition image of Jack Smack's face.

It was a face Harry knew intimately, yet one that few others ever saw. Not the carefully constructed public persona, the smooth features, the reassuring smile, the air of effortless competence projected to the global networks.

This was the older version, stripped of its facade. The creases around his eyes were deep, permanent etchings of countless sleepless nights and impossible decisions. His cheeks were slightly sunken, giving his jawline a sharp, almost skeletal prominence, a testament to forgotten meals and relentless pressure.

Shadows were etched under the bone below his eyes, dark pools that seemed to absorb the light, speaking volumes about the unseen burdens he carried. It was the face of a man living on the edge of everything, revealed only when the masks had to come off, and Harry felt a familiar knot tighten in his gut.

The air in the stark, low-lit room hummed with the quiet thrum of hidden machinery. Banks of monitors displayed complex, shifting data streams; charts spiked and dipped like erratic heartbeats.

Jack stood stiffly before the main console, his face a mask of grim urgency in the cool, blue light. "Harry," he said, his voice a low, clipped blade cutting through the quiet. "We have a problem."

Harry, seated before his own smaller array of screens, tracking slightly different metrics, didn't look up immediately. His jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing visibly near his temple. "Do we?" His voice was level, bordering on passive-aggressive, carrying an unspoken challenge.

Jack spun, gesturing sharply at one of the main monitors where a line depicting "Igor's Psycho-Kinetic Model Stability" had just taken a violent, downward plunge.

"Look at this. Igor's model is cracking. The containment field registered a significant bleed-through; we got a trace spike near the city center." His voice rose slightly, fear creeping in. "A Class-4 energy signature, Harry. He was almost activated. You swore this facility was secure. That he was secure."

Harry finally turned, his eyes hard and unwavering. "He is secure within the parameters we established," he snapped, pushing back from his console slightly. His gaze flickered to a complex piece of equipment on his desk, the device they used to fine-tune Igor's restraints.

"But the mind control device's efficacy is degrading, just as the preliminary projections warned. The psychic feedback is intensifying. I warned you, Jack, this was always a short-term solution, a temporary dampener, not a permanent cage for something like him."

Jack took a step closer, leaning in over Harry's console, his face tight with accusation. "You said you'd handle it," he hissed, the volume dropping but the intensity spiking. "You gave us your guarantee. That's why we sanctioned this unorthodox approach. That's why we left, that walking catastrophe, in your care instead of dissolving the asset entirely."

Harry's fingers, resting near the reprogrammer, twitched. He didn't touch the controls, but the desire was evident. A cold, humorless smile touched his lips. "I've handled far worse than Igor," he said, his voice dropping again, a quiet, cutting reminder.

"And don't forget who spent three days cleaning up the fallout from the Vienna leak. Don't forget who scrubbed your files from the Committee's internal audit just last year. Don't push me, Jack." The implication hung heavy in the air: Igor wasn't the only volatile element in the room.

There was a long pause. Then, a slight nod from Jack.

"Keep it clean," he said. "Another rally is coming. If there's even a hint of an Alucard going rogue inside your house, it's not just you we lose. It's the entire directive."

Harry smiled thinly. "I know what's at stake, Jack."

The screen went black.

For a long moment, the only sound was the low ticking of the grandfather clock across the room.

Harry reached for the reprogrammer again. This time, he didn't flinch.

Harry sat back in the leather chair, pulse thudding behind his temples. The call had confirmed what he already knew, but hadn't wanted to face, Jack was nervous. And when Jack Smack was nervous, people disappeared. Entire buildings disappeared.

Harry had seen it before, back when the White Angels still wore civilian clothes and called their operations "containment experiments." That was long before the polished broadcasts and white-plated masks.

He stood again, pacing now, muttering under his breath. "Too many variables." He had spent decades building the illusion: the perfect estate, the perfect children, the perfect loyalty. But he had overlooked the boy's curiosity. He had underestimated Maisie's heart. And perhaps worst of all, he had overestimated Igor's limits.

The irony wasn't lost on him. That same Alucard, the one Jack had once wanted to be dissected for neurological mapping, had become the foundation of the Lennox estate's image. The quiet man in the background is perfectly trained and perfectly shaped.

Harry had argued for his preservation. Had lied about it. And now, it might all come undone by a few scattered memories crawling back into Igor's fractured mind.

Harry returned to the desk and opened it again, locked behind layers of encryption. It bore no name. Just a date, one Maisie didn't know, and Jack wouldn't dare say aloud. Her video. Mara's. Harry hesitated, his hand hovering above the screen. Not tonight. Not yet. But soon, if the memories were returning, he'd need to remind himself of what they all gave up to bury the past.