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.

Alice folded the thick envelope of cash and slipped it into her pocket.

Suddenly, Horatio convulsed. A violent, wet cough erupted from his chest.

The sound was hollow, as if his lungs were tearing apart. The old man's face turned a terrifying shade of purple. He gasped for air, his hands clawing at his throat.

Daryn panicked. He dropped to his knees, patting his father's back. "Medicine! Get the medicine!" he screamed at the hallway.

Horatio hacked violently and spat a mouthful of thick, black-streaked phlegm onto the rug. He slumped back into the wheelchair, his breathing shallow and rattling.

Alice's eyes turned lethal. She stepped forward, pressing her two fingers firmly against Horatio's wrist.

The moment her skin touched his, a freezing, bone-chilling energy shot up her arm. Death aura. She immediately severed her spiritual connection to protect herself.

She stood up straight. Her eyes swept the massive living room like a radar, hunting for the source of the rot.

The sharp click of stilettos echoed from the foyer.

A young woman strutted into the room. She wore a brand-new Chanel tweed suit and carried several luxury shopping bags. Felicity, Alice's cousin.

Felicity stopped, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she looked at Alice. "Why does the house smell like a thrift store?" she sneered.

"Watch your mouth, Felicity!" Byron roared. "This is your cousin."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "I am not claiming some trailer park trash as my family."

Alice ignored the insult. Her eyes were locked onto Felicity's chest.

Resting against the expensive silk blouse was a black, wooden pendant carved with jagged runes. It was practically vomiting thick, black death aura into the room.

Alice pointed a finger at Felicity. "Take that off and throw it away. Now."

Felicity gasped, clutching the pendant defensively. "Are you crazy? You want to steal my things already?"

She lifted her chin proudly. "I paid a fortune to a top psychic for this. It's a high-level blessing amulet to protect Grandpa's health."

Alice let out a short, harsh laugh. "That is a Death Mark. It feeds on the vitality of blood relatives. That's why he's coughing up blood."

Felicity's face turned red with anger. "You uneducated fraud! Don't try to scam us with your ghetto ghost stories!"

Daryn stood up, torn. He trusted Alice now, but he couldn't believe his own daughter would bring a curse into the house.

"Let's just put it in a drawer for now," Daryn said gently, trying to mediate. "We'll call a doctor for Grandpa."

"No!" Felicity shrieked, stomping her foot. "You're all brainwashed by this stray dog!"

She spun on her heels and ran toward the grand staircase, refusing to surrender the necklace.

Byron lunged forward to chase her, ready to rip it off her neck himself.

Alice threw her arm out, blocking his chest.

"Don't," Alice said coldly. "Forcible removal triggers a violent backlash. Let her learn the hard way."

Horatio gasped, his breathing slightly easier now that Felicity was further away. He weakly squeezed Alice's hand. "Forgive her... she's spoiled."

Alice patted his wrinkled hand. "I don't hold grudges against idiots being used as pawns."

From the second floor, the sharp sound of shattering glass echoed through the house.

A second later, Felicity screamed.

Alice looked up at the ceiling. The corners of her mouth curled up. "The show begins."