The morning light barely reached the lower corridors of the mansion. Even with torches mounted on the walls, their flames dancing and flickering, the space felt suffocating, heavy with the stench of blood and despair. Michael moved through the dim halls, barking orders at the slaves as they scrubbed floors and polished furniture. His voice cut through the silence like a whip, sharp and commanding.

"Keep moving, you lazy wretches! I want to see my reflection in that floor, or you'll regret it!" he snarled at one particularly slow worker, a frail young man whose hands trembled under the weight of a mop.

Yet, even as he barked commands, his mind wandered back to his conversation with Elias the day before. His words lingered like a poison in his thoughts: "Why are you like this, Michael? Why do you take their side?"

Michael clenched his jaw, trying to shake the memory, but it clung to him like a curse. Why am I like this? The answer came unbidden, sharp and cruel—his sister's face, pale and lifeless, staring up at him from a pool of her own blood. He had failed her. He had been too weak to save her. And now he punished everyone else for his own inadequacy.

He pushed the thought aside, replacing it with the cold, detached efficiency he had mastered over the years. "You, there—faster! And you, stop slouching!"

But no amount of shouting could drown out his thoughts. The image of his sister's death faded, replaced by something else: Elias's face, the fire in his eyes as he spoke of rebellion. Michael shook his head. Fools. All of them. They'll die like the others. Just like she did.

As Michael was mentally berating himself, a vampire servant appeared at the doorway, her voice cold and clipped. "The Mistress summons you, Michael. Now."

He felt his stomach drop. The Mistress—Lady Elara Nightveil, the cruel overseer of the pets—was not someone to be kept waiting. Without a word, he followed the servant through the winding corridors of the mansion.

The air grew colder as they approached her quarters, the dim light replaced by an eerie, unnatural glow. The door to her chambers loomed ahead, heavy and ornate, with intricate carvings of fangs and thorned vines. The servant knocked once before pushing it open.

Inside, the room was a mix of decadence and horror. A single cage sat in the corner, its bars bent slightly out of shape, and the floor beneath it was stained with blood. The metallic scent was overwhelming, and Michael's eyes lingered on the crimson puddle. Another pet had met their end.

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Lady Elara stood near the cage, her pale hand idly toying with a silver whip. Her piercing gaze landed on Michael the moment he entered, and a cruel smile spread across her lips.

"Michael," she said, her voice soft but laced with venom. "You're late."

Michael bowed his head, his fists clenched at his sides. "My apologies, Mistress. I came as soon as I was summoned."

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Enough with the groveling. I summoned you for answers. The slaves—what are they whispering about? What little schemes are they plotting now?"

Michael hesitated, the words forming on his lips. He knew exactly what she wanted to hear. He had heard Luke and Jake's whispers, their plans for rebellion. He could tell her everything. He should tell her everything.

But something stopped him.

For the first time in years, a flicker of doubt entered his mind. He thought of Elias's words, of the fire in his eyes. He thought of Luke, defiant even in the face of despair. And he thought of himself, of the blood on his hands, of the countless slaves and pets who had been executed because of his intel.

"I... haven't heard anything, Mistress," he said finally, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he thought she might see through him. "Nothing?" she repeated, her voice dangerously low.

"Nothing, Mistress," he said again, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

Her expression darkened, and before he could react, she lashed out with the silver whip, the sharp crack echoing through the room as it tore through his shirt and skin.

"You think I'm a fool, Michael?" she hissed, striking him again.

He staggered back, the pain searing, but he didn't cry out. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"I'll ask you again," she said, advancing on him, her eyes blazing with fury. "What. Do. You. Know?"

Michael hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, and she struck him again, this time sending him crashing into the wall. The impact left him dazed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

When he didn't respond, she kicked him, her strength far greater than any human's. The force sent him sprawling across the floor, his body screaming in agony.

"You're useless," she spat, turning away from him. "Get out of my sight."

Michael somehow managed to drag himself back to the slaves' quarters, his body battered and broken. The other slaves avoided his gaze, their eyes filled with a mix of fear and pity.

He found Luke near the back of the chamber, For a moment, Michael hesitated. He had spent years hating Luke, resenting his strength, his defiance. But now, he felt something else—something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Respect.

"I need to talk to you," Michael said, his voice hoarse.

Luke turned to him, his eyes narrowing as he took in Michael's bloodied appearance. "What happened?"

Michael shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Just... listen."

He took a deep breath, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I know what you're planning. I've known for a while. And... I haven't said anything."

Luke stared at him, his expression unreadable. "Why?"

Michael looked away, shame burning in his chest. "Because I'm tired. Tired of being their dog. Tired of getting people killed. I've been responsible for the deaths of dozens—hundreds, even. But not this time."

He met Luke's gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and desperation. "I don't know why I didn't say anything to her. Maybe I'm going soft. Maybe I'm finally growing a conscience. I don't know. But I'm not going to stop you. Not this time."

Luke studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Then help us," he said simply.

Michael hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. "I'll think about it," he said finally, before turning and walking away.

As he left, he felt a strange sense of relief. For the first time in years, he hadn't betrayed his own kind. For the first time, he had chosen to stand against the vampires, even if only in a small way.

And for the first time, he felt hope.