Perfect Silence, Perfect Decay

I wake up before the sun.

Not because I want to.

Because the sun is loud.

It presses through the curtains like an unwelcome guest—intrusive, arrogant, insistent on being acknowledged. I don’t acknowledge it. I never do. The curtains stay drawn, the room stays dim, and the world outside remains exactly where it belongs: out there.

I sit up slowly, already aware of the faint tightness in my chest. Not pain. Just pressure. A reminder. My body has a habit of remembering things I’d rather it didn’t.

Hypertension.

The word sits in my mind like an unpaid bill.

I reach for my mask before anything else.

Always first.

The familiar texture of the surgical fabric settles over my face, the elastic loops slipping into place behind my ears with practiced ease. Gloves come next—black, fitted, precise. Only then do I breathe properly.

It’s quiet again.

Perfect.

Safe.

I glance at the clock. Early enough that no one outside this house is awake. Not that it matters. Even if they were, they wouldn’t be here. They never are. People like that don’t belong here.

People like that don’t last long around us anyway.

I stand, adjusting the sleeves of my pajamas, and move through the hallway with careful, measured steps. The manor creaks softly beneath me—not in protest, but in familiarity. It knows me. Every inch of this place does.

The walls are lined with dark wood and older things—portraits, shelves, quiet relics that don’t demand attention. Nothing here screams. Nothing here begs.

Unlike the outside world.

I pause briefly as I pass one of the windows. The faintest sliver of morning light tries to slip through the edge of the curtain.

I pull it tight completely.

There.

Much better.

The kitchen is already occupied.

Of course it is.

Diana doesn’t sleep like normal people either.

She stands by the counter, back turned to me, draped in black like she always is even off the clock—her bathrobe loosely tied, dark hair cascading down her back like something out of a painting that would make most people uncomfortable.

Lavender.

Nightshade.

The scent reaches me before she does.

“You’re staring again,” she says, without turning.

I freeze for exactly half a second.

“…I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

There’s a pause.

Then, deliberately:

“I can feel it.”

Of course she can.

I don’t respond. There’s no point. She’s already decided the truth.

She turns then, slowly, a cup of something warm in her hand. Tea. Herbal. She’s been trying to get me to switch more lately.

Her eyes land on me immediately.

Sharp. Amused.

Fond.

“Good morning, Becky.”

I exhale softly behind the mask.

“…Morning Di.”

She walks toward me, unhurried, completely unconcerned with personal space in a way that would make anyone else deeply uncomfortable.

I don’t move.

I never move when it’s her.

Her fingers brush lightly against the edge of my mask, nudging it just slightly.

“You put it on before even greeting me,” she notes.

“…Yes.”

“Mm.”

Another small nudge.

“You’re consistent.”

“It’s hygienic.”

“It’s obsessive.”

“It’s preventative.”

“It’s adorable.”

I look away.

She smiles.

I can feel it without needing to see it fully.

Before I can react, she leans in and presses a soft kiss against the fabric of my mask.

My entire body locks up.

“…Diana.”

“Yes?”

“You—”

“I did.”

“That’s—”

“Harmless.”

“That’s not the point.”

Her fingers slide under my chin, tilting my head just enough that I’m forced to meet her gaze.

“I can see you, you know,” she says quietly. “You don’t need to hide from me.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are.”

“…I’m minimizing exposure.”

She hums, unconvinced, but lets it go.

For now.

“Drink,” she says, handing me a glass.

Cold.

Condensation beads along the surface.

Frozen lemonade.

Of course.

I take it carefully.

“…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A pause.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“…It’s cold.”

“Mm.”

She doesn’t push further. She never does past a certain point. That’s part of why—

No.

I take a sip.

It’s exactly how I like it.

From down the hallway, there’s silence.

Not the empty kind.

The occupied kind.

“They’re awake,” Diana says.

“I know.”

We both do.

A moment later, two small figures appear at the entrance of the kitchen.

Persephone and Hades.

Perfectly composed.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly… them.

Dressed in black, of course. Persephone in layered gothic lace, Hades in something simpler but no less deliberate—dark tones, subtle accessories that already mirror my own preferences.

They don’t yawn.

They don’t stretch.

They simply stand there, observing.

“…Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning, father,” Persephone replies.

“Morning,” Hades adds, tone flat but not unfriendly.

Diana leans casually against the counter.

“And what have you two been doing?”

A pause.

Persephone answers first.

“Reading.”

“Observing.”

Hades follows.

“People are already arguing online.”

Of course they are.

“About what?” Diana asks, mildly amused.

Another pause.

“…Grammar,” Persephone says.

“…And misinformation,” Hades adds.

I close my eyes briefly.

“…Of course.”

Diana lets out a soft, satisfied hum.

“Breakfast and a show, then.”

I sit at the table, laptop open, stylus in hand.

Work waits.

It always does.

Freelance means control. Control means distance. Distance means peace.

I don’t need an office.

I don’t need coworkers.

I don’t need—

A notification pops up.

New client.

I hesitate.

Diana notices immediately.

“Problem?”

“…Potentially.”

She steps closer, glancing at the screen.

I don’t stop her.

I never do.

The message is… long.

Unnecessarily long.

Filled with excessive punctuation.

Inconsistent capitalization.

And several statements that contradict each other within the same paragraph.

Diana reads it once.

Then again.

Then she smiles.

Ah.

I know that smile.

“…No,” she says calmly. “Not a problem.”

I stare at the screen.

“…This is going to be a problem.”

“Mm. For them.”

She straightens slightly, arms crossing.

“Go on,” she says. “Respond.”

“…Now?”

“Yes.”

“…I haven’t even—”

“Exactly.”

I hesitate.

Then, slowly, I begin typing.

Careful.

Polite.

Neutral.

Professional.

I ask for clarification.

I outline boundaries.

I simplify their request into something workable.

I send it.

We wait.

Not long.

The reply comes almost immediately.

More contradictions.

More demands.

More… confidence.

Unfounded confidence.

Diana exhales softly, almost pleased.

“There it is.”

“…There what is?”

“Human hubris.”

Right.

Of course.

I scroll.

It gets worse.

They begin insisting.

Correcting me.

Explaining my own profession to me.

I stop typing.

“…I could decline.”

“You could.”

A pause.

“…Should I?”

She tilts her head slightly.

“No.”

“…No?”

“No.”

Her smile sharpens, just slightly.

“Let them continue.”

From across the room, Persephone speaks.

“They will escalate.”

Hades nods.

“They always do.”

I stare at the screen.

At the message.

At the inevitable trajectory of it all.

“…Right.”

Diana places a hand lightly on my shoulder.

Warm.

Steady.

Certain.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs.

“They’ll handle it themselves.”

I take another sip of frozen lemonade.

Cold.

Sharp.

Grounding.

Outside, the sun continues to rise.

Inside, everything remains exactly as it should be.

Quiet.

Controlled.

Perfect.

And somewhere, inevitably—

Someone is about to ruin their own life.

Again.