Midnight draped Ashenbrook in silence, the kind that made even the wind hesitate. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the wet clung to everything—gutters, rooftops, the edges of memory.

Inside the Valtor house, Richard was sunken deep into the couch like a man trying to disappear into the filth of his own life. His shirt stuck to his chest, sweat and whiskey blending into something sour. The nearly empty bottle dangled from his fingers, swaying gently with each drunken breath.

He squinted toward the hallway.

“Where’s the girl?” he muttered thickly. “She... She ain’t come back.”

Viletta didn’t look up. She was seated at the dining table, one leg crossed over the other, applying another coat of scarlet polish to her long fingernails. The fumes filled the air, mixing with the stink of alcohol and neglect.

“I said where’s Mavis?” Richard repeated, slurring harder this time.

Viletta blew on her fingertips.

“She’s probably dead.”

The words landed like stones.

Richard blinked, dumb and slow. “What?”

“She’s probably dead,” she said again, as if she were commenting on the weather. “Or maybe she got smart and ran away. Or maybe someone finally shut her up. Either way... not my problem.”

She inspected her pinky nail and added, without a flicker of emotion, “Girl never did know how to stay in line.”

Richard’s mouth opened, but no words came. Just a long, low grunt a growl of confusion, of helplessness, of useless rage.

Viletta didn’t flinch.

“She had that look, you know? That sad, ghosty little look. Like she was just waiting to be broken. And the world? Oh, the world loves breaking girls like that.”

The bottle slipped from Richard’s hand and rolled to the floor, splashing a few last drops onto the frayed rug. He didn’t pick it up. Didn’t move. Just sat there, breathing like a man too tired to try.

Viletta began on her other hand, humming softly.

The house exhaled.

And the night moved on.

At the Gourmet Garage, silence wasn’t peaceful it was poisonous.

Grubb Heishenwood stood in the center of the storeroom, bathed in the weak yellow light of a single overhead bulb. Mavis lay sprawled at his feet, her red hair soaked and matted, her blouse torn, her limbs slack. The blood beneath her head had stopped spreading, but it hadn’t dried. It wouldn’t, not in this cold, damp tomb of oil and mildew.

He stared at her.

His hands shook.

His mind refused.

“No,” he whispered. “She’s not... She’s not dead.”

He knelt beside her, slapped her cheek. Once. Again.

“Wake up, you stupid little brat.”

Nothing.

“She was already broken,” he said louder, to the walls, to the shelves, to the buzzing light above. “Already dead inside. Everyone could see it.”

His voice cracked.

He stood again, pacing now. Running his fingers through his greasy hair. Muttering.

“This wasn’t my fault. She pushed me. She lied. She made it all up. She....she wanted this. She always did. Why else would she walk around like that? Quiet. Like a damn saint.”

His mouth twisted.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” he asked the corpse. “Even now. Even lying there like garbage.”

He crouched.

Spat in her face.

Then stood again, walked to the butcher’s table, and pulled the biggest knife from the block. His hands trembled, his breath came in ragged gasps, but still he walked back.

The blade gleamed faintly.

He stared at her for a long, long time.

Then began to cut.

The knife met resistance. It tore more than sliced. Flesh split. Tendons snapped. Bones cracked. He grunted with each pull, each push, each sawing motion that stripped away what was once a girl.

Blood sprayed. It coated his sleeves. His boots. It seeped into the cracks of the floor.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He wrapped the pieces in old meat paper, the kind used for spoiled ribs and bad ham, and shoved them into a burlap sack. One by one. Like discarding scraps.

When he was done, he tied it shut with twine. His hands were slick. His breath was a wheeze.

The door to the backyard screeched open.

He dragged the sack behind him.

The lot behind the Gourmet Garage was soaked and soft. Gravel mixed with mud. Dead weeds brushed his knees. He grabbed a rusted shovel and began to dig, breath fogging in the cold night air.

No prayers, no tears.

Just dirt.

When the hole was deep enough, he shoved the sack in. It thudded at the bottom with a grotesque finality.

He shoveled the earth back in. Fast. Sloppy. Kicked it down with his boots. Smoothed it over.

Then stood above it.

Breathing heavy.

“You think this makes you special?” he spat. “You think someone’s gonna name a street after you now? Build a damn statue?”

He laughed. Harsh. Hysterical.

“You were nothing. A sewer rat. A freak in a coat three sizes too big.”

His voice dropped into a growl.

“No one’s gonna come looking.”

He lit a cigarette, hands still trembling, and turned to head back inside.

But there, sitting silently on the edge of the garage roof

A black cat.

Soaked. Still. Watching.

Its yellow eyes glowed against the dark.

Grubb froze.

“What the hell…”

The cat didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared.

Grubb flicked the cigarette in its direction. The ember landed short.

“Get outta here,” he barked.

But the cat remained.

Silent, Judging.

He looked back toward the patch of dirt, now just another part of the yard.

A chill ran down his back.

For a moment, he thought he heard something.

Not wind, Not traffic.

A whisper.

But no one was there.

Only the cat, Only the grave.

And a darkness that refused to lift.