Monica took a deep breath, the heavy air in the room pressing around her like a rope about to snap. She sat motionless on the dark blue sofa, her legs crossed with a lightness that belied the growing tension inside her. Her fingers, however, betrayed her composure, drumming on the upholstered armrest—a clear sign of her mounting frustration. The room, spacious and well-decorated, felt paradoxically tight and suffocating.

Tyler, on the other hand, stood near the window, the afternoon light casting his shadow onto the polished wooden floor. His gray hoodie, worn and faded, hung loosely over his shoulders with the indifference of someone who didn’t care, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows weren’t just a style choice but a clear expression of his slouched posture. His jeans, frayed and torn, seemed made to match the rebellious nature of his attitude, and his scuffed sneakers tapped impatiently against the floor, as if each step were a reminder of his growing impatience. He stood in a defiant stance, arms crossed over his chest, chin raised as if ready for a verbal war that could stretch on for hours. His eyes, however, reflected a stubborn determination, like a flame that refused to be extinguished, no matter how hard the world tried to snuff it out.

Michelle, Monica’s mother, seemed like a reflection of everything Monica was fighting against. Seated at the dining table with perfect posture and elegance, she held a teacup with delicate grace, as if it were a daily ritual amidst the chaos. Her navy blue dress clung to her slender frame like a second skin, while her white hair was pulled back into an impeccable bun, not a strand out of place. Her eyes, with that piercing sharpness Monica knew all too well, fixed on Tyler with a mix of disapproval and exhaustion. The tension in the room seemed to mold itself around Michelle, who appeared to have complete control over the space, though her face, behind the mask of perfection, betrayed a silent weariness.

— You shouldn’t have let the boy get involved in this, Monica! — Michelle’s voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade, echoing through the room. Her posture, like a marble statue, reinforced the authority in her words.

Monica, unable to contain her exhaustion, rolled her eyes dramatically, as if the mere act of showing her exasperation was an involuntary reflex of her frustration. Her patience was wearing thin. Dressed in a fitted black shirt that accentuated her figure and dark jeans that seemed to match the state of her mind, she rose from the sofa. Her leather boots creaked with each step, as if urging her to do something, anything, to relieve the tension building in the room. She felt the eyes of everyone present on her, but only one gaze mattered in that moment—Tyler’s. Her short hair was tied back, and her arched eyebrows, raised in disdain, were the perfect representation of her mood.

— I’m the one who insisted — Tyler interrupted, pointing at himself with an exaggerated gesture, as if taking on the blame for the entire world. — Jake’s my friend! This is important to me...

A wave of anger washed over Monica. Her fists clenched, and for a brief moment, she considered the absurd idea of grabbing one of the books stacked nearby and using it as a weapon against her cousin’s stubbornness. But she knew she wouldn’t do that. Or maybe her mother was better suited for the job. Her eyes darted to the black bag in the corner of the room. With a fluid motion, she walked over and dumped a pile of books onto the floor, the muffled sound of the covers hitting the carpet contrasting with the precision of her action. The chaos of scattered pages and titles seemed like the only possible response to the rigidity of the room, a reflection of the internal struggle taking shape.

— It’s not what it seems... — Michelle said, her voice cold and cutting, her eyes still fixed on Tyler, unwavering.

Monica sighed, a heavy exhale that displayed her frustration more than words ever could. She stood up again, the creaking of her boots filling the space as she walked toward the pile of books. With precision, she picked up one of the volumes, examining the worn cover with a look that suggested she knew every line by heart. She turned to Tyler with an ironic smile that didn’t hide her irritation.

— Ow, is she gonna hit me now? — Tyler mocked, raising his arms as if to shield himself from what he assumed would be another physical confrontation with Monica.

She, however, maintained her composure, picking up a book with cutting grace. The act of lifting the weight of the book seemed to measure the value of her words before she spoke them.

— Hit you with a book? — She laughed softly, the sound of her voice slightly easing the growing tension. — I don’t think so… they’re valuable.

— You still have a lot to learn about Evocattio... — Michelle interjected, the impatience and frustration in her voice more evident than before.

Monica crouched down, agile as a shadow, and quickly began sifting through the books, her fingers gliding over each worn cover as if each volume were a piece of her soul, a reflection of her own journey. The pile seemed to grow before her, but she knew this chaos was manageable. Each book, with its ancient, well-handled pages, held something vital she had already learned and now needed to teach.

— Seems interesting... — Hyan’s voice interrupted, and she looked up to find him seated on the sofa, already immersed in the contents of the book he’d picked up. He was so absorbed, so serene, that he seemed like an island of calm amidst the chaos. His glasses, always so precise, slid slightly down his nose as he flipped through the pages with interest. His white shirt, impeccably ironed, and dress pants contrasted with the mess of the rest of the room. Hyan, with his calm and focused demeanor, seemed out of place in such a tense setting.

Monica couldn’t help but smile faintly. It wasn’t the kind of smile that expressed love or affection, but a silent understanding that, for some reason, Hyan’s presence made everything more bearable.

— Nerd... — Tyler commented with disdain, kicking the pile of books with his foot, as if it were a form of protest against all that knowledge.

Tyler’s gesture, dismissing everything around him, was the final straw. Monica stopped, her gaze fixed on her cousin, before letting the book slip from her hand and walking toward him with controlled anger.

— It’s not that simple, rat... — she shot back, her voice as sharp as a blade. — First, you need to understand what Grace and Karma are...

— Who? — Tyler asked, bored, his face now fully showing his impatience.

— Humans are made up of two forces: Grace and Karma — Hyan interjected, reading from the book he’d picked up, his voice calm, almost like an explanation that needed no further justification. Monica leaned against the wall, crossing her arms, feeling a momentary relief at the clarity of Hyan’s explanation, which made the chaos around her seem small, almost insignificant.

— Point for rat two... — she murmured with a slightly softer smile, but her mission was far from over. Tyler needed to learn, and she wasn’t going to give up. However, Tyler’s response, already preparing to leave, made it clear that his patience was far from being tested.

— What a load of nonsense... — he muttered, shaking his head before turning away.

Michelle’s voice echoed through the room, inevitable. Her words reverberated off the walls, intensifying the gravity of each syllable. The timid light filtering through the window seemed to wilt under the imposing gaze of the matriarch. Everything around felt darker, the shadows dancing on the antique furniture as if they came from a distant time.

— Pay close attention to this load of nonsense... — Michelle’s voice, cold as the blade of a knife, was directed straight at Tyler, her piercing red eyes making him involuntarily step back. Like an adult correcting a child’s insubordination, she controlled every movement, every word, with surgical precision. Michelle was the picture of elegance and control. Even the slight movement of her hand, holding the teacup, was calculated.

Monica, on the other hand, felt a pressure tightening her chest. She knew what her mother was about to say, but hearing it again felt like a condemnation. The room seemed to close in around her, the antique furniture growing heavier, as if they were sentinels guarding a secret buried under the weight of years.

Before any more words could follow, the door burst open, and Cassandra entered. The tension radiating from her erased any remaining calm. Her dark dress, simple yet sophisticated, seemed to weigh heavily on her shoulders, and her frantic gestures betrayed her anxiety.

— Tyler! — Cassandra shouted, her voice hoarse with desperation, each syllable laden with panic.

Everyone turned to her, and the atmosphere in the room shifted, growing even heavier, as if the threat had finally revealed its true form. Monica felt the impact of the interruption, a direct blow to the dense air of the room. Cassandra’s pale face and the tension etched in her features revealed that something darker and more urgent was coming.

— Not now, Cassandra — Michelle tried to interject, her voice controlled, but her hesitation was visible. The carefully maintained balance was unraveling in the face of something greater, something even she didn’t seem prepared to handle.

But Cassandra didn’t wait. The urgency in her voice, as if her very life depended on it, became immeasurable. She screamed, and her words came out as a desperate cry, as if they were tearing through her throat.

— I SAID TYLER! — she yelled, almost out of breath, her voice shattering the silence with the force of her panic. — AMELIA CALLED IN DESPERATION! SHE’S IN DANGER...!

The room was now consumed by tension, as if every word from Cassandra had summoned the storm that had long been brewing.