The air was choked with the pungent scent of sulfur, suffocating heat bearing down upon Federica as she found herself ensnared by the clutches of a nameless demon. Surrounding her were thousands of vessels, each inhabited by the arch demon Abaddon, robbing their occupants of their free will.
With her aetheric azure blade in hand, Federica assumed a battle stance, her determination evident despite the overwhelming odds.
"Let's have some fun!" echoed Abaddon's voice simultaneously from his numerous forms, “Ars Maleficarum : daemonificatio,” his numerous forms incanted as each sprouted horns preparing for the confrontation.
With a swift dash, the possessed Federica lunged towards the elven-like figure of Abaddon, her blade slicing through the air, only to miss its mark as Abaddon effortlessly evaded her strike. Suddenly, a hulking vessel crept up behind Federica, entangling her in a hold. In an instant, three magic circles materialized around them, pulsating with pure Aether that ignited into azure flames, consuming the vessel.
Launching herself into the air, Federica dodged a barrage of arrows unleashed by several possessed bodies as they incanted “Ars Maleficarum : daemonificatio.” To her horror, the arrows twisted in mid-air, transforming into malevolent entities with wicked grins and horned shafts. Federica conjured nine arcane circles, forming a portal that swallowed the sinister projectiles whole.
One of Abaddon’s vessels quietly incanted “Ars maleficarum: Theatrum Macabrum.”
An agile host, resembling a pale woman with bat wings and a bloodied robe whose smile betrayed her vampiric nature, engaged Federica in a frenzied swordfight. Despite Federica's deft maneuvers, more vampiric vessels joined the fray, overwhelming her with relentless attacks, drawing blood from her uncrystallized flesh.
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Summoning her arcane prowess, Federica conjured eight more circles, enveloping herself and her adversaries in a cloud of pure Aether. When the mist cleared, the vampiric vessels lay defeated, leaving Federica battered but standing, her uncrystallized form marred with bloody gashes.
As a female fallen angel approached, Federica questioned, breathless, "How? We dybbuk cannot possess the dead. How did you possess the vampires?"
Abaddon, speaking through the fallen angel, chuckled wickedly. "You dared to challenge me without knowing my demonic arts. I'm torn between calling you brave or simply foolish."
“Ars beneficarum: sanctum armamentum,” with a flick of her hand, Abaddon conjured a glowing holy chain, ensnaring Federica's foot with burning, holy fire, eliciting screams of agony. With lightning speed, Abaddon plummeted to the ground, dragging Federica along with the chain and smashing her into the earth with bone-shattering force, the impact creating a billowing cloud of dust. When the dust cleared, Federica was nowhere to be seen.
"Disappointing," Abaddon uttered with contempt as she pulled back the holy chain, revealing Federica's severed foot at its end.
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The heart monitor's incessant beep filled the hospital room with an unnerving rhythm, while the cold atmosphere seemed to press down on Stephen's shoulders as he sat by Kyle's bedside, clutching his hand tightly, hoping for any sign of awakening. His mind drifted back to the earlier moments when he had witnessed the gut-wrenching sight of Thomas's missing arm – an image he couldn't bear to associate with his own sons.
A faint thud from somewhere down the corridor snapped him out of his reverie, prompting Stephen to rise and investigate. Emerging from Erick's room, a woman appeared, visibly exhausted, followed by Solomon.
"Sorry, I’m afraid this might be beyond my capabilities. You'd need an Arch Magus to help them," the woman confessed, her breath strained.
Solomon frowned. "And I assume that comes with a hefty bill?"
The woman narrowed her eyes. "Your concern is the bill when it's your son's life at stake?"
Rolling his eyes, Solomon replied, "Thank you for your assistance. I'll explore other options. Your payment will be arranged shortly."
"I'll inform the doctor of what’s really going on with them," the woman said curtly before storming off, clearly irked by Solomon's demeanor.
Solomon's gaze shifted to Stephen. "Detmer, it's been a while. Theo mentioned you two still keep in touch."
"Occasionally. You haven't changed much," Stephen remarked, his disappointment evident as he looked away.
"It's a powerful demonic art, as Yuki just discovered," Solomon explained.
"But what could have led to this?" Stephen inquired.
"Does it really matter? I'll find a solution, or my son will pull through. This is hardly worse than what we've faced," Solomon asserted.
Stephen tensed, feeling a nerve struck by Solomon's words. His once genial expression now grew even more somber.
"Join me and Theo. You'd have the means to fix your son's arm," Solomon offered.
"I left all that behind—" Stephen began, but Solomon cut him off, already walking away.
"You're a sentimental man, and this is for your son. Do you really have a choice?" Solomon's voice trailed off as he left Stephen to ponder.
Returning to Kyle's room, Stephen sank into a chair, contemplating Solomon's proposition. Perhaps with Theo's resources, he could afford an Arch Magus to save his sons. But Theo wasn't like Solomon – he might do it out of friendship rather than business. After several minutes lost in thought, Stephen finally reached for his phone, deciding to call Theo.
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In the ethereal embrace of an azure light, Federica, still possessed, found herself transported to another realm of hell. A shroud of darkness enfolded her, illuminated only by a faint scarlet moon hovering in the desolate sky. Crimson wisps of flame danced around her, a spectral symphony heralding her descent. Yet, as she attempted to rise, her missing foot betrayed her balance, and she met the floor in an undignified collision.
Undeterred, she conjured five arcane circles, weaving them into existence, crafting a crystalline foot of Aether to replace the absent limb. In a burst of determination, seven more circles materialized, and she unleashed a torrent of pure Aether into the umbral heavens, her frustration echoing in a scream that resonated through the shadowed expanse. This unfolding chaos contradicted the demon within her; possessing this new formidable form, it should have triumphed over Abaddon. Yet, the power it now wielded was unfamiliar, manipulating Aether—an unnatural dance for demonic entities.
From the obsidian depths emerged the haunting cadence of footsteps on wet ground. Swiftly, Federica erected nine arcane circles, propelling an Aetheric star into the inky sky, revealing the ground beneath her not as dampness but as a dark, viscous liquid concealing a myriad of soulless bodies. However, her apprehension was heightened not by this unsettling revelation but by the presence of Sir Crowley, enveloped in the same scarlet wisps.
Sir Crowley, extending his arm towards the possessed teenager, uttered “Taking in possession of another's corporeal form and thus stripping them of their autonomy, you demons of the eastern realms exhibit a most unseemly and grotesque manifestation.”
Now enveloped in an inky miasma, Federica struggled to breathe, and within this shadowy baptism, the rightful owner of the body reasserted control. Gasping for breath, Federica felt the weight of her liberation, courtesy of Sir Crowley. Yet, wisdom prevailed over naivety.
“Why? What do you want from me,” Federica's voice trembled.
“You appeared remarkably composed despite having been recently afflicted with possession,” noted Sir Crowley.
Federica’s breath turned to chuckles. "Pray, forgive my impertinence, but might I inquire if all is well, my lady? It appears that your mental equipoise may be in a state less steadfast than heretofore presumed,” responded Sir Crowely.
“No, it’s just I really fucked up, didn’t I? I killed all those people and I think I even killed Cynthia too, shit I even almost got killed by a demon hive mind,” Federica admitted, struggling to regain her composure.
Sir Crowley’s eyes widened; this took him aback.
“Do you suggest, madam, that you retain recollections of the occurrences that transpired during your moment of possession?” he inquired, trying to contain his astonishment.
Federica took a deep breath and held it before slowly releasing it again and again, Sir Crowley, ever the polite Archdemon, patiently waited. Federica then finished and centered herself.
“Do not fret Mr. Archdemon. I'm something of a genius, now what do you want from me? I'm sure you didn’t release me from the kindness of your heart,” said Federica.
Sir Crowley's smile, once benign, twisted into a sinister expression, and he extended his hand with an air of malevolence. "Ah, my dear lady, your spirited demeanor captivates my admiration. I discern the essence of a sage within you, which elucidates much. Now, I perceive your desire for power and knowledge. All can be bestowed upon you, should you be amenable to a modest arrangement."
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In the serene stillness of her room, Cynthia sat in a meditative pose. Its sterile ambiance, characterized by white walls and grey furniture meticulously arranged, seemed devoid of human presence, save for a lone picture on her nightstand featuring herself, Kyle, and Amber, radiating a faint warmth. As Cynthia delved into her meditation, she sought to recollect her recent experiences, only to be met with flashes of malevolent imps. Each attempt to remember inflicted searing pain, as if her synapses were ablaze. Yet, she persisted, only to witness the haunting vision of imps tearing through the flesh of her classmates in the kitchen.
Her trance was interrupted by the doorbell's chime. Wiping sweat from her brow, Cynthia descended the stairs to greet the visitor. Galatea opened the door for Stephan, whose eyes widened at the sight of Cynthia awake.
"Cynthia, you're... awake. Did your father do this?" Stephan inquired.
Theo's footsteps resonated as he entered the room. "I simply repaired her. She emerged from her comatose state on her own," he clarified.
Approaching Cynthia, Stephan asked eagerly, "How?" Thoughts of his sons consumed his mind.
Cynthia's response was uncertain. "Honestly, I don't know. I can't even clearly remember what happened. Apparently, we went to hell," she admitted.
With a soft exhale, Stephan glanced at the floor. "At least you're okay," he murmured before following Theo to his study.
In contrast to the rest of the house, Theo's studio exuded warmth, adorned with brown wooden bookcases and a cluttered desk bearing various alchemical tools. Seated in an armchair opposite Theo's desk, Stephen contemplated.
"So, you're ready to join the company?" Theo inquired.
"I didn't say that, but I need a lot of money to hire an arch magus to break my sons out of the demonic art they're under... if it was just Thomas's arm, my insurance would cover that but-" Stephen's words were cut short by Theo.
"No need to continue. I would have liked you to work with me, especially now, but if you're that opposed to it, I'm not going to force you. I'll look for an arch magus and cover the fee," Theo assured.
Stephen exhaled deeply, closing his eyes to maintain composure. "Thank you," he said.
"It's the least I could do for an old friend, plus I owe you for using a lot of your work to build Cynthia," Theo acknowledged.
"Speaking of Cynthia, she said she doesn’t remember what happened, doesn’t that alarm you?" asked Stephen.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Theo leaned back in his chair. "When it comes to cases like this, I prefer to see how she handles herself. When we were just a little older than them, we had our own mortal encounters."
"Which you and Solomon love reminding me of," said Stephen before standing up. Theo followed suit, and they shook hands. "Thank you," uttered Stephen, his face slowly reverting back to its jovial state.
As Stephen left the home, Cynthia watched him from her window, feeling a sense of awkwardness. Stephen was a man who had a hand in her creation but wasn’t her direct creator. She never knew the proper way to interact with him. As Stephen’s car left the driveway, Cynthia couldn't help but dwell on what could have happened. The list of the deceased from the incident had been released, and Amber was among them. Fortunately, Kyle was still alive but unresponsive. Amber’s death should have brought immense sadness, devastation even, she thought. But why did she feel so detached? Would she never be able to feel like a regular person?
Unbeknownst to Cynthia, lost deep in thought, tears had already begun to well up in her eyes. However, her expression remained statuesque. The one thing she was sure of was that she had to remember what happened. She owed that much to her friends. With determination, she walked up to her bed to resume her meditation.
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Diana stirred from her slumber, her face appearing refreshed as she slowly emerged from her bed, beginning her morning routine. Before diving into her tasks, she switched on the news for background noise, then brewed herself a comforting pot of tea and settled down with a book. Despite her attempts to focus, her thoughts couldn't help but drift to the students' uncertain fate, though she reminded herself that it was now beyond her control. Still, she welcomed the brief respite until the tranquility was shattered by the persistent ringing of the doorbell. With measured steps, Diana made her way to the door, revealing Richard on the other side with a grin.
"Case is closed," Richard declared.
"I'm aware, and it's Sunday, so if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate some peace and quiet," Diana responded.
"Ah, come on. When's the last time we just hung out like old times from college?" Richard pleaded.
"I would, but I've got a date tomorrow, and I want to be well-rested," Diana explained.
Richard's expression fell. "I didn't mean it like that."
Diana chuckled softly before closing the door in his face. "Catalina's probably free," she called through the door.
"Yeah, but she's annoying," Richard muttered before departing defeatedly.
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In the vast expanse of the infernal west, Abaddon stood upon the ebony peak, surrounded by an array of vessels, awaiting the return of the nameless demon that had claimed Federica. A prophetic certainty swelled within Abaddon as a celestial rift unfurled in the firmament, and Federica emerged, a cocky grin etched upon her countenance. Sensing an unsettling dissonance as Federica materialized, Abaddon, propelled by her fallen angel's wings, ascended to meet her.
"What happened? Your infernea is strange, did our bout really damage you that much?" Abaddon taunted.
"Infernea?" queried Federica, tilting her head.
Abaddon's gaze narrowed. "Wait, who’s in control in there?"
" Oh, Federica Martel, I understand names are a big deal down here," replied Federica, now the sovereign of her corporeal vessel.
Abaddon's laughter erupted, malevolent and wicked, reverberating through the darkened mountain range.
"It’s just that little bitch thought he could defeat me when he couldn’t even keep his own vessel in check, well now it seems that you’re still powerful in your own right since that worthless ant was using your power, and it looks like you’re not quite mortal anymore judging from the infernae still in you, tell you what you would make a great subordinate, I could give you the title of duchess, even get you a demonic art of your own, what do you say?" proposed Abaddon.
Federica cast her gaze upon the mountain. "231 werebeasts, 160 undead, 139 magi, 171 elves, 778 humans—I didn’t know those actually existed—134 elementarius, and 1 fallen angel. you were really holding back uh?" she observed.
Abaddon marveled, "Wow, you can sure count quickly."
"Well, I am a genius, and I did start counting when you fought the other guy, " retorted Federica.
Abaddon's eyes narrowed, disquieted by this revelation. Federica should not retain memories of her possession. "So, genius, what is your response to my proposition?"
"I’d rather have your title," announced Federica with a sly grin, as twelve arcane circles wove around her being. The azure flames of Aether flickered and swirled around her form, casting an ethereal glow, and in the blink of an eye, she vanished. Above the black mountain, she reappeared, releasing a surge of Aether, its cerulean tendrils engulfing the once menacing peak. Abaddon, veiled in her Angelic vessel, unfurled wings like a protective cloak against the impending shockwave. Just before the cataclysmic blast, one of Abaddon's vessels leapt away, narrowly escaping the destructive dance. The aftermath revealed the black mountain transformed, a colossal crater with crystallized Aether at its core.
Abaddon surveyed the aftermath, realization dawning—a miscalculation had occurred. The nameless demon had yet to assimilate fully, and Abaddon now faced a formidable magus wielding the unbridled might of Aether. The lupine vessel that had eluded the blast brandished an oversized cleaver.
"Ars Maleficarum: daemonificatio," Abaddon intoned through the lupine form, morphing the cleaver into a demonic countenance adorned with horns.
"Ars Beneficarum: sanctum armamentum," she chanted in her defected angelic vessel, hands raised toward the heavens. A cascade of divine swords descended, a lethal rain of heavenly weaponry. Federica, flames of Aether still coursing through her, looked up with eager anticipation.
Abaddon, in the lupine guise, struck the ground with the demonic cleaver. The very essence of Hell transformed, a demonic visage lunging at Federica. Unfazed, she remained composed, the flames of Aether intensifying. With ethereal speed, she dashed toward the lupine Abaddon, piercing his heart with her hand, igniting him from within with Aether's radiant flames.
"Ars Beneficarum: Sanctum armamentum," Abaddon chanted in her final vessel. Enveloped in a divine glow, she adorned herself in a golden holy armor, wielding a golden holy shield and a golden holy glaive.
Federica gazed intently at Abaddon, her nose bleeding from the uncrystallized part of her form. The spell proved overwhelming.
" I am Ruler Abaddon Atrox archdemon of the dybbuk, and I will not be defeated by the likes of you MAGUS! " Abaddon's proclamation echoed, a stark contrast to the grace of the angelic form she inhabited.
Federica traced the air with ten arcana circles, conjuring a familiar azure sword, now grander in its ethereal splendor. Intensifying the azure flames that enveloped her, she readied herself for the final dance. They surged toward each other with transcendent speed, the clash of their blades echoing in a resounding boom—a force so potent it thrust them apart. Ascending to the heavens, they gathered momentum to clash once more, repeating the celestial ballet. The very foundation of Hell trembled beneath the echoes of their thunderous blows. In the conclusive clash, Federica's blade yielded, succumbing to Abaddon's glaive that impaled her. Pulling away, Federica screamed in agony, conjuring nine arcane circles that wove Aetheric chains around Abaddon.
"What is this supposed to accomplish, you’ve already lost," Abaddon chuckled.
Clutching her wound, gasping for breath, Federica found the once-intense flames of Aether had dissipated. With strained breath, she conceded, " You... You're right I can’t defeat you, but... I’m sure... your vessel’s old buddies can."
Ten arcane circles materialized around Abaddon, and in an ephemeral moment, she vanished. Descending from the heavens, exhausted and spent, Federica was caught by Sir Crowley, who gently placed her on the ground where the black mountain had once loomed before silently departing.
Abaddon reappeared in a celestial expanse, encircled by flaming wheels spinning upon themselves. Multiple sets of eyes adorned their rims, glaring upon Abaddon with disdain as she reciprocated in terror.
"BE VERY AFRAID!" their voices resounded like celestial trumpets.
Abaddon screamed as an internal burst of light consumed her, disintegrating from within, leaving nothing but echoes in the celestial void.
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Sir Crowley found himself once again in the umbral expanse of the northern realms of hell, standing stoically upon its obsidian sea and gazing upon the crimson moon. Flaming wisps gathered to illuminate his surroundings with their otherworldly glow, prompting a wicked smile to grace his lips.
"Verily, the die has been cast, and the chess pieces are arranged in perfect order. Ere long, I shall attain my destined glory, don’t you concur, my dear Bastet?" he addressed, and she materialized behind him from the shadows with feline grace.
“I don’t know, Crowley. Does my opinion really matter? After all, demons of the eastern realms exhibit a most unseemly and grotesque manifestation,” replied Bastet, grooming herself with a hint of disdain.
Slightly embarrassed at his previous choice of words, Sir Crowley said, “Ah, my sincerest apologies for the misapprehension. The dybbuk, not thee, was the subject of discourse. Clearly, you, dear Lady Bastet, embody the epitome of grace and eloquence.”
“Sure,” Bastet narrowed her eyes.
A scream echoed from the umbra above them, as someone descended into the viscous black sea, only to emerge again a few moments later and stand upon it.
“Oh, Amon, how delightful it is to behold your presence,” said Sir Crowley in moderate surprise.
“Sorry for the disgraceful entrance, Sir Crowley. I was just unsummoned you see,” confessed Amon with a nervous smile.
Amon seemed to resemble Sir Crowley in appearance though his appearance was more sun kissed and less ghostly, he wore a similar suit, though lacking grace. His shirt was untucked, a few buttons were undone, and his tie was quite loose. He wore a katana on his back held by a tied thin rope. Despite sharing Sir Crowley’s demonic eyes, his face bore a certain innocence, very disarming and dangerous, for he remained a demon.
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“You arrive at an opportune moment, my youthful duke. Lady Bastet was on the verge of departing, and I find myself in need of an attendant. Pray, lend me your esteemed company,” requested Sir Crowley.
“She is?” asked Amon.
“I’m not your attendant,” said Bastet.
“I convey my sentiments in the utmost politeness. Now, I extend my sincerest wishes for success in your endeavor. Farewell,” said Sir Crowley as he clapped his hands causing Bastet to vanish.
“Are you sure you should antagonize Lady Bastet? She’s an archdemon too,” warned Amon.
“Ah, fret not, my youthful attendant, for we engage in naught but playful banter,” assured Sir Crowley.
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Meanwhile, Stephen drove back to his home as the evening sun was surrendering to the horizon, his mind tired from a long dreary day. After parking his car, he stumbled upon a collapsed black cat on his walkway.
“Hey, you,” said Stephen gently, caressing the cat as it meowed back.
Stephen picked up the feline. “Come on, you look hungry. Let’s see if I have something for you to eat,” he said as he brought the cat into his home.
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Upon the desolate ground, Federica lay, drained and battered, as the aetheric crater she had carved pulsed with ethereal energy. Its stones, once solid, now flowed like liquid, ascending heavenward in a graceful dance beneath the hellish sun's gaze, casting a wondrous tapestry of light—a fleeting beauty in these forsaken lands. As the celestial cascade converged upon her, Federica absorbed its azure essence, her crystalline form aglow with renewed vigor, though still dazed from her recent ordeal.
Abruptly, darkness descended, a shroud of ominous mist cloaking the realm. Federica tensed, anticipating another trial. Had she truly vanquished Abaddon?
A chorus of voices, somber and commanding, echoed through the obsidian veil. "Abaddon has been felled, fret not my new child, you will replace him."
From the stygian depths emerged shadows, their crimson eyes piercing the gloom—some humanoid, others bestial, a few monstrous, and others beyond mortal comprehension. Federica quivered, then steeled herself, drawing strength from within.
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"I am sovereign of the eastern realm of hell, Prince Paimon Shichut," proclaimed the voices.
Federica hesitated before asserting, "I am Federica Martel."
"No more," decreed the voices, as they spoke, the flames of infernea surged within her as fervently as her screams, the nameless entity within her pleading for release as its existence waned.
The mist ascended, its echoes reverberating across Hell's domains.
"Hear me, denizens of Hell! Abaddon's epoch has ended. Welcome Federica La Mortel, Archdemon of the dybbuk," proclaimed Prince Paimon Shichut.
In the distant northern reaches of Hell, the tidings reached Sir Crowley and Amon. A cunning smile graced Sir Crowley's lips.
"Did you hear, Sir Crowley? A new Archdemon," innocently remarked Amon.
" My dear young duke, I fervently aspire that one day you shall revel in the exquisite delight of a meticulously woven scheme unfolding. Now, let us embark upon the next stage: emerge from the umbra and facilitate my ascent," declared Sir Crowley, his hands clapping with certainty.
Amon regarded him, bemused. Despite their time together, the depths of Sir Crowley's cryptic wisdom remained a mystery.
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Kyle found himself plummeting deeper into the abyss, surrounded by infernal flames licking at his skin. In the darkness, he struggled to grasp his identity, only to be tormented by demonic shadows emerging from the depths, tearing at his flesh. His attempts to scream were futile as he realized he had been robbed of a mouth. Amidst the chaos, his body was mercilessly torn apart, leaving only his disembodied, mouthless head intact. Within the ominous silence of the abyss, a chilling voice echoed, uttering the cryptic phrase, "Ars Maleficarum: Diablo ex Machina."
Suddenly, Kyle jolted awake in a dim hospital room, gasping for air, his senses overwhelmed with the reality of his body's intactness. Confusion clouded his mind as he struggled to piece together the events leading to his current state. Emerging from his room, he encountered Penelope in the hallway, seeking answers.
"Penelope, what happened?" Kyle inquired, his voice laden with uncertainty.
"I don’t know. Are you alright?" Penelope responded, her concern palpable.
"I’m fine. I just... can’t remember much after the party. Did we get into an accident or something?"
As more students emerged from their hospital rooms, each awakening from their comatose state, Erick surveyed the scene, recognizing familiar faces among the bewildered crowd. Questions lingered in his mind, especially regarding Federica's whereabouts. Before he could voice his concerns, a nurse intervened, signaling for medical attention and ushering them back into their rooms for examination. Amidst the chaos, Thomas remained secluded in his room, grappling with the surreal sight of his severed arm.
"What the actual fuck," Thomas muttered in disbelief, his mind reeling from the grotesque reality before him.
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Meanwhile, Cynthia was abruptly roused from her slumber, her body drenched in a cold sweat. With trembling limbs, she stumbled towards the bathroom, her heart racing with an intensity rarely experienced. Gazing into the mirror, she watched in horror as her reflection began to distort, morphing into the likeness of another.
"Amber?" Cynthia whispered, her voice barely audible amidst the turmoil of her thoughts.