Loki took a deep breath, approaching the stairs and looking up towards Sophia's room. Her transformation into Lucy was perfect, from physical appearance to voice, like all her previous transformations. She had never made the slightest mistake, nor was she going to make one now. It was her power; she could trust it just as she trusted that when her brain sent the command, her arms and legs would move. She was just nervous, but she had to overcome it, push it aside.

She climbed the stairs step by step, wondering what exactly she would say if she woke the little sister or the older brother. But apparently, she wouldn't have to. Loki stopped in front of Sophia's door, reached a hand towards the knob.

Until now, her plans had been essentially infallible, risk-free, but this could go wrong in so many ways. That's why she was so nervous. It was important to recognize the source to fight against it. Irrational feelings against which there was no defense were the truly bad thing, yes, irrational. Like, for example, what would her mother think if she could see her now? Shame. Immediately, she felt a knot of shame in her stomach, deep and black, which was more than enough of a clue.

Mom had always been a kind woman with strong principles. She had always done everything possible to do the right thing, to leave the world a little better than it was before she was born. She was one of those few truly good people, and Loki would be proud to be like her, but it was too late now, wasn't it? She had crossed the line long ago, and there was no turning back.

She couldn't regret it at this point. No, it was impossible in general.

Sophia, Emma, Madison, all those rats had to pay, right?

But... would Annette approve?

Lost in thought, she suddenly remembered an anecdote. Annette had told her, being, of course, no more than a brat, because the world had snatched her mother away too soon. She had told her about another professor at the university, a middle-aged man who was going bald.

Not just another professor, the head of the department, although who exactly he was didn't matter, nor did his ridiculous hairstyle. She had told her he had ended up like that, that she should see it from his perspective, that he had ended up like that, losing his hair little by little, before realizing it. And nobody dared to mention it so as not to hurt his feelings. Of course, that had been an explanation for a child, because Annette wasn't going to tell her: he's the fucking head of the department, nobody would dare mock his hairstyle. Not with their job on the line. Anyway, the point is that Taylor herself had encouraged her to be the one to open his eyes, to rip off the band-aid, and in the end, the man thanked her mother and got a new hairstyle. She might have hurt that man's feelings, but ultimately, she had been the only person truly willing to help him.

She had done well.

Wasn't this the same thing, after all?

Sophia could keep pretending to be a star student-athlete in the mornings and a superheroine in the afternoons, and everyone would be happy. Everything running smoother, without interruptions. People liked to buy pretty lies, but however funny it might seem coming from her, wasn't it better to stop lying, wasn't it better to rip off the band-aid and expose the lies to the light, even if she had to take a risk? To be the only one willing to do what everyone knew needed to be done?

Yes, yes, exactly like that. Loki opened the door, closing it behind her, throwing the bolt. Then she approached Sophia's bed where she slept peacefully, as if she hadn't done a single bad thing to anyone in her life, while Loki herself struggled to fall asleep every night. For a moment, she saw herself with her hands on her neck, squeezing, trying to snap it like a dry branch. Instead, she grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her awake.

"What now?" Sophia mumbled with half-closed eyes, shifting amidst the sheets that enveloped her like a cocoon.

"Wake up!"

"Are you crazy?"

Loki slapped her across the face without hesitation, quite the opposite, with great pleasure. Sophia gasped, her eyes snapped open, the drowsiness vanishing instantly.

"Don't talk to your mother like that, you ungrateful bitch. I thought about leaving you alone, letting you hide in this room again, unwilling to tell me anything or to change, but I've had enough. Now you're going to listen to me."

"I'm listening," Sophia murmured, clearly making great efforts to suppress her natural instinct, violence.

She supposed even that damned bitch was a mommy's girl deep down. But that didn't stop her from using Emma to destroy me. Information about me, about my mother, when the wound was still bleeding and red hot. She felt a brief spark of doubt, but frowned, clenching her teeth. Taylor clenched her teeth. She had brought this on herself, she deserved it.

"What's the excuse for all your bad behavior? That I'm not mother of the year, that sometimes I drink and slap you?" She made sure to say it in a tone that practically screamed: maybe you turned out this way because I didn't slap you enough growing up.

"Maybe," Sophia replied, and that made Loki smile, although it obviously wasn't an answer to her thoughts.

"You know perfectly well that you started this. And why? Because of Steven. I almost wish he had touched you or something, so at least you'd have good reasons to be such a fucking disaster."

"Mom," soft, almost inaudible, she sounded like she was going to cry.

"Or am I wrong? Did you want him to fuck you? A bit of an Electra complex. Huh? Is that it?"

Sophia shot up with clenched fists, but to Loki's surprise and disappointment, she didn't try to punch her. Taylor would have let herself be hit. She was used to being pushed and hit and many other things. At least now it would be worth it.

"Don't get cocky with me, brat. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it." A cliché, but well, clichés existed for a reason. She was having fun with this. Writing the story that suited her best.

"Stop," Sophia said with a trembling voice. Was it pain or rage? Did it matter? Of course not. "You're drunk."

"I am. That's why I dare to say things I wouldn't say sober. We both know I'm telling you what I think. And it's true, isn't it?"

Sophia pushed her. Loki staggered back a few steps.

"You don't know what you're talking about. Get out!"

There it was, pushing her and insulting her had given Loki the perfect excuse to go a step further, because she was furious and "drunk." Loki slapped her again, and this time it had enough force to knock her to the floor. She retained greater than normal human strength in this form, but she hadn't used much of it; it was just that Sophia hadn't expected it, hadn't braced for the blow. That was all.

Loki threw herself on top of her, straddling her. Her hands found Sophia's neck, while Sophia resisted uselessly, pulling, elbowing, and kneeing.

"Who do you think you are to talk to me like that, to give me orders?" she began to squeeze. "I gave you life, your education, even your powers, which you're so proud of, which you think let you do whatever you want. Even that, in part, was because of me. What do you have, Sophia? What do you have that's truly yours? Really? You have nothing, you are nobody. I should have aborted you."

At first, the role of a hysteric, completely out of control, but as she spoke, she softened her voice. By the last sentence, it had become almost inaudible. But undoubtedly, Sophia heard it like a shotgun blast in the small room.

And Loki got the reaction she had expected, desired. Sophia could have easily used her powers to escape the grip, becoming intangible for instance, and achieved a similar effect. But Sophia didn't do that. She went a step further, slid her arm under the bed, and pulled out the crossbow she carried when she went around lurking in the shadows, thinking herself some kind of heroine, believing herself the only sane person on the planet. The only one who understood how things were. Also believing that was justification enough for her actions. Haha.

Sophia aimed and fired.

Taylor gritted her teeth, the jolt of pain reaching her fingertips. She had shot her in the shoulder, not the neck, not the heart. She hadn't tried to kill her, but it didn't matter. She had hurt her, that's what mattered. She staggered back, loosening her grip. On purpose. Fuck, how it hurt. For a moment, the disguise was about to unravel, ruining the whole plan, because of the pain. She hadn't known that would make it harder to maintain another form, it hadn't even crossed her mind. She should have tested it, but luckily it was okay. If Sophia saw her mother's face contort in unnatural ways before returning to normal, she surely attributed it to the fear, rage, or pain caused by the shot. Nor had they been drastic movements that screamed: this thing isn't your mother, haha.

Sophia got up, panting heavily, the crossbow still raised.

"Are you going to kill me? Go ahead, you ruined my life from the moment you came into the world anyway."

Sophia frowned, and for a moment Loki thought she would actually try it, but then she dropped the crossbow, turned around, and escaped into the night through the window. Back to the shadows she was destined to lurk in since birth because the game was rigged.

So what if Sophia had a shitty life? She had made her own choices; life hadn't forced her to do anything. If the Wards knew what Loki was doing, if even her own father knew, they wouldn't shake her hand, they wouldn't smile, they wouldn't congratulate her. Loki was well aware of that, but she took responsibility for her own decisions. She didn't look away, didn't flee into the shadows.

Taylor left the room, pretending to stagger. There was no audience, but well, it didn't hurt. In some room of the house, she heard Sophia's little sister crying; she assumed she had heard the commotion. Taylor didn't bother to quiet her, to comfort her. She was worried about the older brother, but he didn't show his face. Where the hell was he? Maybe elsewhere, maybe out of town, maybe even working. She highly doubted Lucy was the only one who worked too much.

Taylor returned to the living room where the real Lucy remained, still sleeping it off. And then Loki pulled the bolt from her shoulder and stabbed the woman in the same shoulder. The real Lucy woke up with a jolt, gasping in pain, writhing. But by then Loki was gone, vanished. As had her blood, which had never been real in the first place. Of course, the tip of the bolt hadn't actually penetrated her, so neither the Protectorate nor the police would find evidence that things weren't as they seemed. And Lucy, between the rage she felt for her daughter, the sadness, the exhaustion, and the alcohol, would convince herself that it made sense. She didn't remember it, but she could have done it. She had gone too far, being so drunk she didn't remember, nothing more.

That would be the official story, the truth now and forever. Because only she knew a different story. And she was like the storyteller of this little piece of reality. Truth and lies were what she decided.

The serpent smiled, returning to its den.