The blooming night was silent still, unmoving, untouched.
Like the morbid body lying in front of her.
She stood at the foot of the regal staircase, her pure white nightgown now tarnished with crimson specks, her trembling hands stroking at her own face, streaking her childishly plump cheeks with blood, sticking strands of virgin chocolate hair onto her face. The pair of miniature feet that stood anchored to the cool marble floor beneath her felt unresponsive, disconnected.
An eerie blue hue seemed to swirl endlessly around her, like poison that lingered bitterly in the air, like gun powder that remained after the damage had been done, just to assure destiny that the job had, indeed, been completed.
Her young eyes stayed fixated on the man in front of her, despite her heart's eager tugging to look away.
The man's once pale blue eyes were now pale with something else, something empty, something void.
Death.
The moon reflected its silver reign upon his skin, like she was eager to curl her fingers deep into his meat and succumb him to the warm earth waiting below.
His expression was still fresh with life. Something between sick surprise and horrid realization, his frown bent in an inhuman pattern.
Everything around her now seemed strange, distant, like it belonged to someone else, in another world foreign to her own.
The mansion sitting in stunned silence around her that had once felt of comforting embrace now felt like endless suffocation, like someone else's last name was printed on the pearl black iron gate that guarded the family fortress.
Like the initials emblazoned on the small deadly knife lying guiltily on the floor, belonged to someone else's mother. Like the man with outstretched hands and an outstretched mouth lying lifelessly on the floor, was someone else's father.
The furniture, the family portraits, the framed awards, the open door, the curtains that billowed wildly as the fierce night wind blasted in, the memories, the laughs, the love, it all belong to someone else. It had to.
It had to...
As she swallowed vigorously and settled her nude body further into the depths of the still tub, she clamped her eyelids shut over the vivid irises that conjured her utmost intimate of memories. The ones that haunted her every nightmare, the ones that chilled her blood into pools at the pit of her stomach every time they rose to the surface of her mind.
She let the silence settle into the room, into the still water, into her glimmering skin, into the tension that she so desperately wished to melt, to drain into the white foam that clung to her body until it was white no more, but held the color of pain, of frustration.
A small bubble elevated itself unto the surface of the water and met her now open eyes as she heaved out a heavy sigh. The glossy surface of the bubble reflected her own eyes peering in, her worn expression filling the insides of the small capsule, as if she could empty herself into the foreign world with just one gaze.
She watched the few strands of chocolate hair that coiled from her bun and slithered unto her bare neck, the one that creased into prominent clavicles that dug almost immediately into heaps of foam. She watched the small quiver of her rosy lips, the lost gaze that traveled the rainbow contour of the bubble, tracing it endlessly only to return to the same pair of eyes.
As she let her stare fuse with the one in her reflection, she couldn't help but feel someone else's presence in it, something that belonged to another being.
His striking resemblance in her features crept into her skin, up her throat in fear and evaporated unto her skin in the form of effusive goosebumps.
Seto Kaiba.
Remarkably silent, yet remarkably loud, just like her father had once been, just like every man in her family had ever been, as far as she could remember.
He spoke only a few words upon their introduction years ago, mostly commands and instructions about the clandestine shade of their new found familiarity, only to admit to it years later when realization sunk in that surely, being pitiful with a weak family member he didn't even know existed would boost the humane said that many doubted he had.
Still, everything his lips did not translate, his eyes spoke in the clearest of tones to her.
Their opaque shade told of the long hours of work they'd been submitted to, the creases that rounded them told her of the process of thoughts that eternally ran through his mind like a river rushing through a valley until it wore through the mightiest of mountains. The rasp in his voice gave testimony to the old wear of young years.
It didn't take her to long to map him out in her mind, his blind spots, his strong spots. His secrets and his tactics to wind the world around his fingers only to let it slowly unfurl deep into his consent and desires. He was a rational man, nothing ever crossed his lips, his heart, his ears, until it crossed his mind first.
Everything in his path either aided him, served some benefit in his life, or it simply did not exist to him.
One of said things was her.
He provided her with a lavish room, decorated with impeccable taste, daunted with a perfect gamma of colors that clashed in utter harmony. Everything was set in the right place, in the right size in an almost intimidating form. The bathroom was on its own, the size of another large bedroom, elegance carved into every marble detail.
His intentions were all too clear to her, provide the teen with a home, with a shelter to reside in, and keeping her out of his hair would be a no brainer.
The words he had spoken to her earlier were only a cautious echo of what she already felt circling her whenever she was in his presence, his menace, his threat.
Walking alongside him was similar to walking along shards of the sharpest glass, gently pricking the soft underside of her bare feet in a mighty reminder of what precautions she was to heed.
Another lonely sigh escaped her rasp lips, her gaze carefully rolling across the room that extended itself before her.
Feeling so alone, so desperate in a home that contained so much poisoned her sanity with a horrible juxtaposition that she could never escape no matter how fast she crawled herself away.
The skylight that hugged the vertices of every angle of the cathedral imitating ceiling, poured in little light, for daylight was beginning to drown itself in the depths of the oncoming night, taking with it the last energetic breaths of the city that slowly tucked itself into the tender colors of twilight.
Every day that folded itself into and end was but a reminder of another fragment of sand that drained itself unto the other half of the hourglass, slowly slipping out of her hands.
As the only Kaiba child in her family, the family's vast collection of lavish hotels and banks were left in her hands only, although she was not yet of age, she was due to begin paperwork for their administration and monthly tours to attain knowledge of their innermost works, none of which she had the courage to even begin, something Seto Kaiba was fond of bringing up at every opportunity that rose upon his horizons.
Just yesterday he had blatantly informed her that it was her and only her duty to ease the bank's primary investors preoccupations concerning the large sums of money that dangled dangerously in her hands, in the form of a press conference, the likes of which she simply loathed.
For spouting lies and jumbling words together until they appeared nothing but firm promises did nothing but remind her of just how dark and murky the depths of her future were.
One long delicate finger reached out and penetrated the shimmering bubble with a fierceness that erupted into a small pop as the shards flew into all sorts of directions and she wondered if she too, would break and scatter with one single push.
The strong pounding of his own heart revived his senses. It seemed to throw itself against his chest and skull in loud protest to the events of the night before, willing him to awake and assess the damage for himself.
As he tore apart his eyelids, a calming darkness greeted his sore orbs, familiar surroundings easing his newborn confusion.
Heavy curtains had been hastily thrown over the windows, blocking even the smallest rays of sunlight from the lavish chambers of the young heir.
Clothing, pillows and bed sheets lined the polished floor as exotic fragrances lined the indents of his bare chest, both a testament to the events of the previous night. A torn fragment of paper with a series of rapidly scribbled numbers was the only presence to awake next to him.
A deep groan escaped his lips as he eased his body upward, the turbulent rush of expired alcohol pulling his senses towards the ground like a rushing waterfall crashing down on his body.
A spinning clock in front of him flashed dark red numbers that wound together to form what seemed like an infinite equation that he was in no condition to solve. His hands raised themselves and took hold of his head, as if to stop the endless motion, if only long enough to make out the time.
Yami Motou, famous heir to the Clearbridge Country Clubs, only and eldest son to Melanie and Augustus Motou, with three little girls trailing behind, meaning he was to be the center of the spotlight.
Reckless nights and long slept days were well amongst his playboy reputation. After entire summers spent in the company of his father, aiding and assisting in the management of the clubs, Yami was now granted an assortment of liberties as his adult age rapidly approached.
It seemed now that those liberties were taking their expenses on him and his life decisions, for more often than not, he found himself wound up in the arms of a strange woman, in a strange bed and with an estranged heart inside him, growing more and more everyday. It didn't particularly bother him, but it also didn't very well suit him nor his future plans in life, the likes of which were as tangled as his love affairs.
A delicate knock on the door seemed to ripple the effect and break into the swift tide of nausea that began to waver in his stomach. A croaked response was as much as he could muster from his sore chords.
Matthew, the family housekeeper, entered the dark bedroom with a silver tray in his hands, a gleaming set of fine porcelain perfectly placed among it, a small folded letter placed gently between the sugar and cream.
"Master Motou, I trust you're awake." He announced in his deep gravel voice, his firm hands placing the tray on the coffee table that sat in the middle of the large bedroom.
With the velocity that his expertise promised, a steaming hot cup of coffee was prepared, an elegant swirl of cream expressing the careful art with which it was created.
Far too many times had Matthew found Yami in this state, far too many times had he simply brought up coffee and kept quiet about it, this time he would no doubt, follow suit.
"Thank you." Came the muttered response as his trembling fingers took hold of the porcelain cup that clinked against his teeth as he slowly brought it up to his desert dry lips.
The strength of the caramel liquid rapidly began to churn his insides, activating the torrent of blood and oxygen his body so helplessly seemed to lack. The leftover alcohol and diligent caffeine seemed to struggle with one another for flashes of time, one overpowering then the next, absorbing all of Yami's energy in retreating stillness to his turbulent system.
After a few cautious sips and a few quiet minutes, Matthew retrieved the envelope that had been patiently positioned on the silver tray.
"This arrived last night and seeing as to how your parents have not yet arrived from Aspen, I thought to bring it to you, Master Motou."
Yami set down the lilac porcelain on the small nightstand beside him and took the crisp envelope between his fingers, his curiosity gently peaked.
The world had stopped spinning and everything seemed to seep back into is original form. The clock now announced late hours of the afternoon and the slight disarray of his bedroom only exposed what he already knew occurred.
Distant sounds of play emerged from the room down the hall, the girl's room he was certain. A pungent aroma of beaking bread crept in through the small creak of the open door and outside he could hear the distant sounds of afternoon traffic.
Clearing his head and straining his pupils to meet with the object at hand he realized the cream colored envelope between his fingers bore an all too familiar insignia on the front. In simple cursive, the name of St. Bartholomew Hospital was etched above his own last name.
Carefully he peeled away at the sticker that bound the letter closed, finding inside an invitation to a charity dinner that very evening, honoring all of the hospital's primary donors, those of which included his parents.
A quick skim of the letter raised no interest to the young man, for it merely sweetened the offer by praising his parents and their hard work at achieving the region's finest country clubs, those that produced the money the Motou's had "so selflessly donated to those that were most in need."
It had been signed and stamped by the Charity Coordinator and included a small but detailed map of the location and how to reach it, as well as a list of the night's most important guests.
Names that were to easily forgotten to his untrained mind filled the edges of his amethyst irises, none sparking particular interest to him, none but one.
At the very end of the list was one last name that no person on Earth was ignorant to, one that easily ignited a variety of emotions, thoughts and opinions upon being mentioned. Though the name written in elegant cursive, plain and simple as it may be, it ignited but one special interest to this young man.
The Kaiba's.
"Matthew, arrange for the nanny to sit tonight for the girls, I'm afraid I won't be home." He stated, his swelling confidence quickly shattering the effects of overnight toxicity, his mind racing in an endless maze of thoughts.
"I have a date."