Sweet For You, Ruthless For Others

As Steffon and Niklaus dragged Dante toward the Lamborghini, Niklaus glanced back at the rider. He opened his mouth to thank him, but before he could say a word, the biker revved the engine and sped off into the night, the roar of the bike fading into the distance.

Niklaus stood there for a moment, watching the taillight disappear. "Well, that's one way to make an exit."

"You think they're from the party?" Steffon asked, struggling to keep Dante upright.

"No idea. And frankly, I don't care. Let's just get this idiot home."

Once they reached the car, Niklaus shoved Dante into the back seat with little ceremony. His younger brother flopped over onto the leather, mumbling incoherently about bikes and girls.

"You're such an embarrassment, Dante," Niklaus muttered, leaning in to buckle him up. He gave the back of Dante's head a light slap. "What were you thinking? Or were you even thinking at all?"

Dante groaned, his words barely coherent. "It's my birthday, man… let me live."

"Let you live? You're lucky I'm not leaving you out here," Niklaus shot back, his tone equal parts annoyed and concerned.

Steffon climbed into the passenger seat, shaking his head. "He's going to hate himself tomorrow."

"Good," Niklaus said as he slid into the driver's seat. "Maybe he'll think twice next time."

The car hummed to life, and Shanks expertly maneuvered them away from the estate and into the quiet night. 

Dante, half-asleep in the back, mumbled something about how the biker was a "legend."

Niklaus glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his irritation softening slightly. For all his ruthlessness with enemies and outsiders, he always made room for his people—even if they were drunken fools.

As the car sped toward home, Niklaus exhaled deeply. It had been a long day, and he wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the party or his brother.

But somewhere deep down, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.

>>>>>>>>>>>

Morning came—6:00 a.m.

The pale light of dawn seeped into Hermia's room, painting the walls in muted shades of gray and gold. 

The chirping of birds outside could barely be heard over the muffled hum of the house stirring to life. But inside Hermia's room, there was stillness—an eerie, suffocating stillness.

Hermia lay on her bed, her limbs heavy and her chest tight. Her eyes fluttered open, but her body didn't respond. Panic bloomed instantly, a familiar sensation she hadn't felt in months.

She tried to move her fingers—just a twitch—but they refused her command. Her head felt as though it were pinned to the pillow, her chest encased in an invisible weight. 

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and fast, and her heart pounded like a drum.

And then, she saw it.

The room, though bathed in early light, seemed to darken. In the far corner, a shadow began to grow. 

It stretched upward, shifting and writhing like smoke, forming into a figure that loomed over her. It had no face, only empty hollows where eyes should be. 

A deep, guttural whisper filled the room, unintelligible but insidious.

Not again, Hermia thought, her mind racing. Not now. Not here.

Her memories dragged her back to when it had all started.

She had been thirteen, just a child, when they sent her to the United States. Alone. 

Her father had said it was for her benefit, to give her the best education, but even at that age, she had known better. 

She was a problem they didn't want to deal with—a burden they could shift across an ocean.

The house they placed her in was enormous and cold, staffed only by an assistant who worked on her own schedule and barely paid her any attention. 

Nights in that house were the worst. The silence was oppressive, and the shadows seemed to stretch farther than they should.

At first, Hermia would try to sleep early, hoping to escape into dreams. But sleep never came easily. 

The loneliness twisted in her chest, and her mind would race with unanswered questions. 

Why hadn't her mother called? 

Did her father even care where she was? Her pillows were often soaked with silent tears by the time she finally drifted off.

And then the nightmares began.

She would wake in the dead of night, her heart pounding and her sheets drenched in sweat. Monsters lurked in the corners of her vision, shadows that felt all too real. 

Sometimes she would scream, thrashing against the fear, only to wake up moments later with no memory of falling asleep. 

Other times, she would curl into a ball, clutching her blankets as if they could shield her from the terrors.

But the worst nights were the ones like this—when she couldn't move, couldn't cry out, couldn't escape. 

The sleep paralysis came often back then, a cruel tormentor that left her gasping for air and terrified to sleep again.

Since she had returned home, those nights had grown rare. Being surrounded by people, even ones who disliked her, had lulled her into a fragile illusion of peace. 

But yesterday's occurrence had shattered that illusion. The events of the party, the taunts from Selena, and her stepmother's biting words—all of it had stirred the restlessness in her mind.

Now her body was paying the price.

Back in the present, Hermia lay frozen, her wide eyes darting to the shadow at the corner of the room. 

It was closer now, looming over her like a grotesque specter. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of voices that sent chills down her spine.

Move! she screamed in her mind, straining against the invisible bonds that held her down. She focused on her fingers, willing them to twitch.

For a moment, nothing happened. The shadow leaned in, its featureless face mere inches from hers. Her chest tightened further, her lungs screaming for air.

And then, her pinky moved.

It was a small victory, but it broke the spell. Hermia gasped sharply, her body jerking as if she'd been released from underwater chains. 

She bolted upright, clutching her chest and taking deep, ragged breaths. The shadow was gone, the whispers silenced, and the room was as it had been before—just a simple, sunlit space.

She pressed her lips together, her frown deepening as she rubbed her stiff limbs. Her body ached from the tension, her mind still reeling from the experience. She glanced at the clock.

6:15 a.m.

Hermia swung her legs off the bed, sitting on the edge as she steadied her breathing. She stared down at her trembling hands, her mind swirling with exhaustion and resignation.

"Welcome to Hermia Blackwood's life," she muttered under her breath.

Her voice was bitter, but it carried the weight of acceptance. This was her reality, a life where even sleep refused to grant her peace.