The chapel was silent, echoing with the solemn weight of candlelight and the faint scent of incense. Jack sat beside Jackelin, his posture relaxed, almost careless, though his sharp gaze hinted at something darker. His fingers drummed idly on the pew, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Jackelin looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “Enjoying yourself?”
He shrugged, that roguish charm flickering across his face. “It’s not about enjoyment, really,” he said, though his tone betrayed him. “It’s… satisfying. Simple.” His gaze drifted, settling on the altar, as if he saw something far beyond it. “The Church says ‘cleanse,’ and I cleanse. No questions. Just… purpose.”
Jackelin let out a low laugh. “A good little dog,” she murmured, her voice dripping with irony. “You know, it would almost be sweet if it weren’t so–”
“Efficient?” Jack interrupted, his grin widening. “You’re just as much a part of this as I am, sister. You might think you’re above it, but I see that look in your eyes. That same satisfaction. We’re both dogs; only difference is, I enjoy the leash.”
Jackelin leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I enjoy the leash because I know I could break it any time I want. You, on the other hand… you wouldn’t even try, would you?”
Jack tilted his head, considering her words. He shrugged, unbothered. “Why would I? The Church points, I go. I handle things. They call it salvation, or forgiveness, or whatever makes them sleep at night. Me?” He flashed her a grin, all charisma, all ease. “I call it a good night’s work.”
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Jackelin’s lips curled into a smirk. “And here I thought you might have some deep, hidden motive, some grand moral stance.”
Jack laughed, low and rich. “Why complicate things? I live well, I dress well, I kill well. The Church gives me orders, and I follow. Simple.” He stretched, almost lazily, his gaze settling back on his sister. “It’s all part of the dance, Jackelin. And you know I love to dance.”
Jackelin rolled her eyes, but a hint of amusement softened her expression. They understood each other in that strange, twisted way–both shaped by the Church’s hypocrisy, both thriving in the shadows it cast, both reveling, in their own ways, in the blood and silence of a job well done.
In that silence, she murmured, almost to herself, “It’s all ironic, isn’t it? Out there, we’re the Blackwood Twins, glamorous, untouchable… whispers on the street, envy in the eyes of strangers.” Her gaze turned sharp, bitter. “They’d never guess where we came from. Or how the Church keeps us as close as they do to her memory.”
Jack’s smile flickered, but he kept his easy posture. “The irony’s the best part, Jackelin. We’re dressed to the nines, the Blackwood name draped over us like royalty, and no one suspects. We might have crawled out of back alleys, but now? They want us as their saints. Only we know they’ve hired their own sins.”
Jackelin’s smirk softened, eyes glinting with that same hidden satisfaction. “So we keep dancing, keep pretending. To them, we’re not children of a harlot; we’re miracles. And as long as they believe that, the Church’s secrets stay safe… as do ours.”
They sat in silence, bound by blood, purpose, and a mutual understanding forged from darkness and survival. Jack and Jackelin had long accepted that their public lives would never reveal their origins. To the world, they were the Blackwood Twins–untouchable symbols of wealth and enigma. And if that lie kept their past buried, so much the better.