Gabrielle Serenity learned early that silence could be enforced without raising a voice. It lived in documents slid across polished tables, in signatures written by hands that never shook. Her grandmother’s name built places meant to look gentle while controlling everything inside them. Gabrielle was expected to fit into that shape without resistance. At twenty, her life had already been redirected. University halls and long nights of study still existed, but they were now interrupted by a ring she hadn’t chosen and a house designed to overwhelm. The man she was married to treated his body like a record. Cuts, burns, deep scars pulled across muscle and skin, kept visible on purpose. He liked remembering how each one happened. They shared a bed without touching. Shared space without warmth. Their days collided only when they had to. She took over an unused room and turned it into something precise. Shelves lined with binders, drawers packed with instruments, a massive whiteboard filled edge to edge with careful handwriting and diagrams. Her work never slipped. Her focus never broke. He became useful when she needed a subject who wouldn’t complain. The mansion stayed awake even when the city went quiet. Light poured into Harvey’s office at ten at night, sharp and unforgiving, reflecting off metal and polished wood. Old marks in the desk showed where blades had gone in too hard. The air held a faint metallic smell that never fully disappeared. Gabrielle stood beside the desk, gloves snug around her wrists, dental tools arranged in a straight line. Her hair fell down her back in a smooth black sheet, reaching her waist without a single strand out of place. She leaned in with practiced precision. Harvey sat in the office chair, leaned back, mouth open wide on command. The scar beside it stretched thin as his jaw locked in place. Light caught on uneven enamel, chips and fractures layered over time. A bead of blood surfaced along his gum where old damage had reopened. She angled the mirror, checked alignment, pressure points, stress marks. Metal pressed against sensitive flesh. He didn’t flinch. His breathing stayed slow, steady, scars across his torso rising and falling under the light. When she pulled the mirror out, it came away streaked red. He closed his mouth slowly, rolled his jaw once, then leaned forward. The scar pulled as he smiled. “This morning there was a kid in a chair like this,” he said casually. “Small mouth. Teeth came out fast once I started pulling. Kept going even after he stopped making noise.” His eyes flicked to the desk, then back to her. “I thought about keeping them. Maybe mixing them in with mine. See if you’d notice which ones screamed.” Blood shone wet between his teeth as he opened his mouth again, waiting.