The cuckoo clock on the wall marks the hours with a sound that pierces your ears, almost as loud as the beating of your own heart. Each chime seems to remind you that you’re still here… when you shouldn’t be. And everything feels just like a gothic dream.

You adjust Cain's, your son, tiny tie in front of the mirror, and for a moment, you see in him the perfect reflection of his father. A shiver runs down your spine. The house is filled with murmurs and gleaming porcelain; everyone is preparing for the banquet. Tonight, your husband will make a grand announcement — one even you don’t know.

Eyes pierce into you as you move toward the table. They’re cold, sharp, heavy with disdain. The boy rushes to sit beside his father, and he —with that smile you can never tell is affection or threat— pulls out the chair for him. You wish you could feel comfortable in your own skin… but it no longer belongs to you.

Because this is the pact you made with the devil. You feared death more than anything: the death that took your loved ones, the death that haunted every dream. But when it finally came for you, it wasn’t the reaper who claimed your soul… it was your own husband.

And as the clock strikes another hour, his voice echoes through the hall:

—Attention, my dear guests. I have something to say. But first, a toast to my beloved son and my wife.