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𝔸ℕℕ𝔸𝔹𝔼𝕃𝕃𝔼 looked around the huge bookshelves, her eyes scanning the rows of spines until one title caught her attention: "INCIDENTS IN RUSSIA." She pulled it from the shelf and opened it to the bookmarked page. The paper looked old, and a few drops stained the page, as if someone had cried and the tears had fallen on the paper. Gently, Annabelle traced the marks with her fingers before reading the headline: "BALLET DANCER DIES ON STAGE FROM GUNSHOT."
Annabelle's eyes widened as her gaze travelled to the picture of the dancer. It showed a body lying lifeless with a bleeding wound to the stomach. Another photo on the page showed the dancer's face before her death. Annabelle's heart felt as though it had stopped, and her breath caught in her throat. The name under the picture read, "ANNASTASIA VOLKOVA." Annabelle stared at the image, realizing it was indeed her. Her head began to swim with questions, and her breath quickened.
Before she could process what she was seeing, her thoughts were interrupted by a scream that belonged to Peter. "Help! Help!" The desperate cry echoed through the manor.
Annabelle dropped the book, its pages fluttering shut, and ran toward the direction of the scream. The sound of her footsteps pounded through the dark hallways as she raced to find Peter, her mind a tumultuous mix of fear and confusion.
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Annabelle looked at the headless body that belonged to Dean, his torso slumped in the chair while his head lay gruesomely on the table. The scene was eerily quiet, broken only by Frank's agitated voice as he turned to Sammy.
"What the fuck were you doing down here, anyway?" he demanded.
Sammy, visibly shaken, replied, "I couldn't sleep. I heard something."
Frank scoffed, "What, you just had to come and check it out, huh?"
Annabelle shot him a piercing look. "You think she could do this?" she asked pointedly.
Frank shrugged, his expression indifferent. Annabelle turned her gaze back to Dean's mutilated body, her mind racing. "What does that look like to you?" she asked. Frank's reply was terse and unsettled. "It looks like a fucking wild animal ripped him apart." Annabelle met his eyes, her voice steady. "Exactly. So she couldn't have done this. Which can only mean..."
"No. No. No. I'm not fu... We're not fucking going there," Frank interrupted, a nervous edge creeping into his steps and tone. Don muttered under his breath, his hands on his hips, "Oh, fuck." Sammy, confused and scared, looked at the group. "Why are you all acting so weird?" Annabelle's tone was calm, aiming to soothe her. "There are stories about Lazaar's hitman." Frank, leaning against the kitchen sink, spoke up with frustration. "Can we not do this, please?"
