The truck rumbled down the interstate. Alice kept her eyes locked on the writhing black mass clinging to the back of Byron's neck. The curse was feeding on his vitality, thick and aggressive. Her eyes grew cold.

Byron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the weight of her stare. He cleared his throat, desperate to fill the silence.

"So," he started, his voice gruff. "What subjects do you like at school?"

"History. Philosophy," Alice lied smoothly, leaning her body slightly forward. She closed the physical distance between them.

Byron's fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles turned white.

"Those bastards probably didn't let you study properly," he said, his voice thick with suppressed anger. "Don't worry. Even if I have to sell scrap metal, I'll put you through college."

A genuine pang of warmth hit Alice's chest. She reached out her right hand.

"You have some dust here," she said softly, brushing her fingers against the shoulder of his flannel shirt.

The moment her skin made contact with the fabric, Alice silently chanted an ancient exorcism syllable in her mind.

A surge of invisible, razor-sharp arcane energy shot from her fingertips. It pierced directly into the core of the black curse.

The dark energy let out a silent, agonizing shriek. It dissolved instantly, melting away like snow hit by boiling water.

Byron suddenly gasped. He rolled his shoulders. The chronic, crushing migraine that had plagued him for months vanished in a split second. The heavy weight on his spine was just gone.

He cracked his neck, looking confused. He figured slamming that guard onto the hood must have popped a kink out of his back.

Alice pulled her hand back, leaning into the worn seat. She took another small bite of the dry sandwich.

Byron glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes were soft. "Like I said, we might be poor, but I swear to God, you'll never suffer again."

Alice smiled and nodded. In her head, she was already calculating how many high-paying exorcism jobs she needed to take to buy her uncle a better truck.

The Ford exited the highway, merging onto a tree-lined boulevard on the outskirts of Boston. The traffic began to thicken.

Suddenly, a metallic scent flooded Alice's nose.

It wasn't physical blood. It was the scent of a fate line snapping.

She dropped the sandwich. Her hand dove into her pocket, pulling out three ancient copper coins covered in green patina.

Byron caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He thought she was playing with a toy. "I'll buy you the newest game console when we get home," he chuckled.

Alice didn't answer. She cupped the coins in her hands and shook them violently three times.

She tossed them onto the rough denim of her jeans.

The coins settled. The hexagram was absolute. Absolute death. A bloodbath.

Alice's head snapped up. Her eyes locked onto the massive intersection a hundred meters ahead.

The traffic light was green. Byron's foot shifted, pressing down on the gas pedal to speed through.

"Brake!" Alice screamed, her voice cracking like a whip. "Now!"

Byron jumped in his seat. The sheer authority in her voice shocked him. He turned his head, his mouth opening to ask why.

Alice didn't wait. She lunged across the console, her hands clamping onto the steering wheel. She violently jerked it to the right, aiming the truck toward the shoulder.

Byron panicked. Fearing the truck would flip and hurt her, he slammed his heavy work boot down on the brake pedal with all his strength.

The tires shrieked against the asphalt. The massive truck violently lurched forward, stopping less than three feet from the intersection's white line.

Horns blared behind them. Drivers screamed curses out their windows.

Byron's heart hammered against his ribs. He turned to Alice, his face red with anger, ready to scold her for grabbing the wheel.

He opened his mouth.

A massive, heavily loaded dump truck blew through the red light from the left. It was doing speeds well over the legal limit, its engine roaring with an unnatural, mechanical fury.

It didn't even brake.

The truck plowed directly into the intersection, violently T-boning three sedans that were crossing perfectly legally.

The sound of tearing metal was deafening. One of the sedans was pushed sideways, its gas tank rupturing as it scraped against the asphalt, sending a shower of sparks into the air that ignited a terrifying fireball.

Right in the exact spot where Byron's truck would have been.

Thick black smoke billowed into the sky. Car alarms shrieked in a chaotic chorus. The pungent smell of burning rubber and gasoline seeped through the truck's vents.

Byron sat frozen in the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were bone-white. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head to look at the passenger seat. His Adam's apple bobbed hard.

Alice's expression hadn't changed. She calmly picked up the three ancient coins from her lap and slipped them back into her pocket, as if she had just finished a crossword puzzle.

Byron's brain short-circuited. He was a man of logic, of concrete and steel. He tried to rationalize it. A coincidence. A blind spot. A lucky guess.

But he remembered the absolute certainty in her eyes when she threw those coins. The foundation of his materialism cracked.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Within seconds, cruisers and fire trucks swarmed the intersection.

A traffic cop walked up to the truck and rapped his knuckles against Byron's window.

Byron flinched. He rolled down the window, his hands shaking slightly.

"If you're witnesses, pull over and wait for a statement. If not, back up and clear the lane," the cop barked over the noise.

"We're leaving," Byron said, his voice hoarse.

He threw the truck into reverse, navigated around the shattered glass on the road, and turned down a quiet detour route.

The silence in the cabin was suffocating. Byron kept stealing glances at Alice, his mouth opening and closing, unable to form words.

Alice stared out the window at the passing trees. "It's just basic fortune telling," she said, breaking the silence.

Byron let out a shaky breath. "Where... where did you learn parlor tricks like that?"

"I had a lot of free time locked in the Wallace's attic," Alice said smoothly. "I read some old books."

The word attic hit Byron like a physical blow. The shock of the crash vanished, replaced instantly by a burning, protective rage.

"Nobody is ever locking you up again," Byron ground out, his jaw tight. "I swear it."

The truck pulled into an upscale, heavily wooded neighborhood. It stopped in front of an old, red-brick mansion. Byron cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish as he killed the engine. "My older brother, Daryn, works as the live-in caretaker and property manager for this place. The owner is overseas for the year, so he lets us stay in the servant's quarters and use the main floor. Don't let the size intimidate you, we're just keeping the dust off." It looked unassuming, but Alice's trained eyes instantly spotted the military-grade security cameras hidden in the eaves. She noted the lie immediately-caretakers didn't usually have access to this level of security-but chose not to press him.

Byron grabbed her light canvas bag and pushed open the heavy oak front door.

The interior was classic, understated luxury. But the air inside was thick with tension.

An elderly man with sharp, intelligent eyes sat in a wheelchair near the fireplace. Horatio Morrow, the patriarch.

Beside him stood a tall man in a perfectly tailored bespoke suit. Daryn Morrow, her eldest uncle.

Daryn's eyes locked onto Alice. His brow furrowed into a deep, hostile knot. He didn't hide his disgust.

Horatio sighed heavily and struck the hardwood floor with his cane. "Bring her here, Byron."

Byron felt the hostility. He immediately stepped in front of Alice, shielding her. "What the hell is with that look, Daryn?"

Daryn sneered. He picked up a thick manila envelope from the coffee table and hurled it at Byron's chest.

The envelope burst open. Dozens of high-definition photographs scattered across the Persian rug.

The images were crystal clear. They showed Alice sitting in a dark room, viciously stabbing needles into voodoo dolls with the names of the Morrow family members written on them.

Byron stared at the photos. His pupils shrank. But he turned to look at Alice, his eyes still holding a desperate trust.

Daryn pointed a manicured finger at Alice. "She's a rabid dog raised by the Wallaces! She's been cursing her own blood!"

Alice looked down at the photos near her boots. The corners of her mouth twitched upward into a mocking smirk. A strange, unfamiliar word floated to the surface of her mind, pulled directly from the original Alice's fragmented memories of late-night internet scrolling. It took her a fraction of a second to grasp the concept, but it fit perfectly.

"Deepfake," she said softly.

The living room fell dead silent.

Daryn's frown deepened. He clearly thought the word Deepfake was just a pathetic excuse.

Byron bent down, his knees popping, and snatched one of the photos off the rug. He squinted at it. "The lighting is wrong on her face. Alice wouldn't do this."

"They were sent to my private, encrypted email server," Daryn said, his voice cold and clinical. "A normal person can't do that. It's premeditated."

Horatio sat in his wheelchair, his wrinkled hands gripping the armrests. He looked at Alice, his eyes filled with a heavy, exhausting sadness. "Do you have anything else to say, child?"

Alice didn't rush to defend herself. She walked slowly to the coffee table and picked up the clearest photograph.

She tapped her finger against the image of the girl holding the voodoo doll.

"Look at the right hand," Alice said, her tone completely flat. "The fingers are smooth. The nails have a fresh French manicure."

Daryn leaned in, his eyes tracking her finger. He saw the manicured nails. He scoffed. "So what? That proves nothing."

Alice didn't argue. She simply raised her right hand to the buttons of her hospital gown.

Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned the cuff. She rolled the sleeve up past her elbow. The fabric felt heavy, sliding over her skin.

Under the warm glow of the floor lamp, her arm was exposed.

It was a landscape of horrors. Jagged, raised burn scars overlapped with dark, purple whip marks. Her wrist bone protruded at an unnatural angle from an old fracture that had healed wrong. The skin was rough, calloused, and broken.

The silence in the room became absolute. The air stopped moving.

Horatio's pupils dilated. His pale lips trembled violently. A choked, agonizing whimper escaped his throat.

Daryn's cold, CEO facade shattered. His face froze. He stared at the mangled flesh, his eyes wide with a shock so profound it looked like physical pain.

Byron, who had seen glimpses of the bruises earlier, now saw the full extent. He let out a roar of anguish and slammed his fist into the wooden load-bearing pillar next to him. The wood cracked. Blood instantly seeped from his split knuckles.

Alice held her arm up, standing perfectly still.

"The Wallaces never let me keep my nails long," she said quietly. "It made scrubbing the floors too difficult."

Daryn stumbled backward. His heel caught the edge of the rug. A tidal wave of guilt crashed over him, suffocating him.

Horatio struggled, trying to push himself out of the wheelchair. His hands reached out, shaking violently, wanting to touch her but terrified of causing her pain.

Alice walked over and knelt beside the wheelchair. She let the old man's trembling fingers gently stroke a small, unscarred patch of skin near her elbow. His tears dripped onto her arm.

Daryn spun around. He ripped his phone from his pocket. His voice was hoarse, raw with fury. "Trace the IP address of that email. I don't care what it costs. Find them."

Byron walked over, his chest heaving. He picked up a heavy cashmere coat from the sofa and draped it over Alice's shoulders, carefully hiding the scars from the cold air.

Daryn hung up the phone. The ruthless corporate emperor walked over to Alice and bowed his head deeply.

"I am so sorry," Daryn choked out. "I let my prejudice blind me. I will make the Wallaces pay in blood."

Alice shook her head. "I'll handle my own revenge. I just wanted to come home."

The word home shattered the last of the men's defenses.

Daryn reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick, slightly crumpled paper envelope. He pressed it firmly into Alice's hand. "For clothes. Pocket money."

Alice looked down. Inside was a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills, easily five thousand dollars.

She raised an eyebrow, looking at Byron. Weren't they a poor, blue-collar family?

Byron didn't miss a beat. He kept a straight face. "Daryn just got his year-end bonus from the property management company. And I chipped in some overtime pay. We've been saving up for when we finally found you."

Daryn nodded firmly, his eyes filled with a desperate earnestness. "Yes. It's just a little spare cash. Take it."

Alice looked at the two grown men, clumsily lying to protect her feelings. Her mind, sharpened by decades of surviving the occult underworld, easily cataloged the glaring inconsistencies: the military-grade cameras outside, the impeccably tailored suit Daryn wore, and the sheer amount of disposable cash they handed over without a second thought. They were hiding something massive. Yet, as she looked at their anxious, hopeful faces, she recognized the raw, unfiltered protective instinct underneath the deception. They weren't trying to harm her; they were terrified of losing her again. For the first time since she woke up in this body, a real, relaxed smile touched her lips. She slipped the envelope into her pocket, deciding to let them keep their secrets for now. She would uncover the truth on her own terms.