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."

Daryn jumped to his feet, his face pale. He rushed toward the stairs to check on his daughter.

Alice didn't move. She sat down gracefully on the leather sofa, picked up a cup of black tea the maid had just brought, and took a slow sip. "Relax," she said to Daryn. "She won't die."

Upstairs in the hallway, Felicity stared at the puddle of liquid on the floor. Her limited-edition perfume bottle had just slid off her vanity table for absolutely no reason.

"Damn it," she cursed, crouching down to pick up the largest shard of glass.

As her manicured fingers reached for the shard, the black wooden pendant on her chest pulsed with a faint, sickly red light.

A wave of intense vertigo hit Felicity's brain. The room spun. She pitched forward, her knee slamming violently into the jagged glass.

The sharp edge sliced right through her expensive pantyhose and deep into her flesh. Blood instantly welled up, dripping onto the floor.

Felicity let out a piercing scream.

Panicking, she scrambled up and limped into her en-suite bathroom, desperate to wash the blood away.

She blindly slapped the faucet handle upward.

She didn't notice that the hot and cold indicators had somehow been reversed.

Boiling, scalding water blasted out of the tap, pouring directly over her hands.

Felicity shrieked, violently yanking her hands back. The skin on her knuckles instantly turned furious red, blisters bubbling up in seconds.

The compounding pain broke her. Sobbing hysterically, she ran out of the bedroom, desperate to find her father.

She reached the top of the grand staircase. She was moving too fast. The heel of her stiletto, weakened by her frantic running, gave way.

Snap.

The heel broke clean off. Felicity's ankle twisted brutally. She lost her balance entirely.

She tumbled down the carpeted stairs like a broken ragdoll, bouncing off the steps until she crashed onto the marble floor of the foyer.

Daryn and Byron sprinted to her. Daryn fell to his knees, pulling his battered, sobbing daughter into his arms.

Felicity's hair was a mess. Her makeup was smeared with tears. She pointed a shaking, blistered finger at Alice, who was still sitting on the sofa.

"She cursed me!" Felicity wailed. "She used voodoo on me!"

Alice set her teacup down. She walked over slowly, standing over Felicity, looking down with zero sympathy.

"The perfume fell because your aura is chaotic," Alice stated clinically. "You burned yourself because bad luck blinded you. You fell because the curse is heavy."

Alice pointed at the necklace. "That 'amulet' absorbed enough negative energy and is now feeding it back to you."

"Liar!" Felicity screamed, clutching the pendant. "The psychic is famous!"

As she yelled, a hairline crack appeared on the surface of the black wood.

A thin tendril of visible black smoke hissed out of the crack and shot straight up Felicity's nostrils.

Felicity's eyes rolled back. She started convulsing, coughing violently, her face turning the exact same shade of purple Horatio's had.

Daryn panicked. He finally believed Alice. He reached out, his fingers hooking around the necklace's cord, ready to rip it off.

Alice's hand shot out like a viper, clamping onto Daryn's wrist with iron strength.

"Stop," Alice commanded, her voice echoing with arcane authority. "The death aura is inside her. If you rip it off now, you'll tear her soul in half."

Felicity choked, unable to breathe. The arrogance was gone. Pure, unadulterated terror filled her eyes. She reached a trembling, blistered hand out toward Alice, letting out a pathetic whimper for help.