The black Mazda glided through the quiet streets of Mount Ronmit. The driver hummed a tune he couldn’t quite place, a small smile playing on his lips as he anticipated the surprise he carried. It was late, the hour when the roads usually lay empty, silent.
He glanced at the box containing a chocolate cake. *She doesn’t even like cake,* he thought, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. *But I do. And she’ll know I thought of her.*
Reaching the Wyvern mansion, he was immediately struck by an anomaly: no guards at the gate. Unusual. He scanned the surroundings as he drove into the parking lot, his eyes sweeping across the empty expanse.
He parked the car and stepped out, cake box in hand. A flicker of unease ran through him. This was the day of celebration, and perhaps some had been granted leave. But the thought felt hollow, a denial of the cold truth he knew well. No man of Wyvern ever received leave, not even on holidays.
He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and walked into the mansion. Something felt profoundly wrong. The silence wasn’t merely the quiet of late night; it was a suffocating emptiness.
He placed the cake on a nearby table and drew his weapon, moving cautiously through the rooms on the ground floor. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs with each empty room he cleared.
He ascended to the first floor, his grip tightening on the gun. His mother’s room. The door was closed. He pushed it open, weapon raised. The room was pristine, untouched. The bed neatly made, the lights on. The bathroom door was shut. He moved to it, peeked inside, and found nothing.
Leaving her room, he moved to his father’s, repeating the search. Empty. The same chilling emptiness permeated every room. Panic began to claw at the edges of his mind. He called out his parents’ and little brother’s names, his voice echoing in the cavernous halls.
He raced to the roof, then to the dining hall, the kitchen, the laundry room, the training hall, the library, the swimming hall, the theatre hall, even the torture basement. All empty. Utterly, terrifyingly empty.
He was alone in the mansion. A reality that had never occurred before. He pulled out his phone, dialing his father’s number, but it went straight to voicemail.
He swore under his breath and dialed Jade’s number, his fingers trembling.
“Jade, something’s wrong. Get to the house right—" His voice died in his throat as he opened the door to his room.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Jade’s voice was laced with concern.
“Dylan? Hello?”
The scent hit him first: the cloying sweetness of decay, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. He looked down at his mother, father, and little brother.
His brother stared blankly up at him, not moving, not breathing.
His gaze moved to the wall, and his heart lurched. Scrawled across the surface, in thick, crimson letters, was a message:
‘Happiest Birthday, LATE GERALD.’
His phone slipped from his numb fingers and clattered to the floor. A scream tore from his throat, a sound of pure, animalistic pain. He was alone. And they were all dead.