bonus chapters

ntry #1 — On the Inevitability of Other People Ruining Themselves

I woke up at 6:03 a.m., which was already a mistake.

Not because of the time. Time is harmless. Time does not breathe near you in a checkout line, or sneeze without covering its mouth, or attempt small talk about the weather like it’s a shared personality trait.

No, the mistake was waking up before Diana.

That meant I had six whole minutes alone with my thoughts.

Tragic.

I lay perfectly still, surgical mask already in place—of course it was, I sleep in it—and stared at the canopy above our bed. Black velvet, embroidered with silver thread that twisted into thorned vines. Persephone picked the pattern. Hades insisted on the thorns being “anatomically defensive.”

They are seven.

I am very proud.

A weight shifted beside me. Then a familiar, soft, dangerous voice:

“Prince,” Diana murmured, half-asleep, “why are you awake before me? That feels like a personal attack.”

“I regret everything,” I said honestly.

A hand slid lazily across my chest, fingers hooking into my shirt collar and pulling me closer. She smelled like lavender and something darker—nightshade, probably. She’s committed to the theme.

“You’re tense,” she said.

“I exist,” I replied. “It’s a chronic condition.”

She huffed, amused, and nudged the bottom of my mask upward just enough to press a brief kiss against it. Not removing it. Never fully removing it without permission.

We have boundaries. We also have… exceptions.

“I’ll allow it,” she said. “But only because you’re mine.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good answer.”

From the doorway, a small, flat voice cut in:

“Mother, Father, your morning ritual is disrupting the hallway’s emotional ambiance.”

We both turned.

Persephone stood there in full black gothic lolita attire, holding a sketchbook. Hades leaned against the doorframe beside her, already wearing fingerless gloves and an expression of mild disappointment in humanity.

“The ambiance,” Hades added, “was somber. Now it is… uncomfortable.”

Diana didn’t even look embarrassed. She rarely does.

“You’ll survive,” she said smoothly. “What is it?”

Persephone flipped her sketchbook around. “We redesigned Aunt Faye’s comic panel layout. Her pacing was inefficient.”

“It was atrocious,” Hades clarified.

I sat up immediately.

“Show me.”

Diana sighed dramatically. “Ah. Replaced already.”

“You knew what you married,” I said.

“I did,” she replied. “A man who would abandon me for panel composition.”

“Correct.”

By 7:12 a.m., we were all seated in the dining room.

Breakfast was simple: herbal tea for me, frozen lemonade for emotional stability, and dark chocolate because life is fragile and I refuse to suffer unnecessarily.

Diana had coffee. Black. Of course.

The twins had… something that looked like toast but had been arranged into a diagram critiquing punctuation errors.

“Who are we targeting today?” Diana asked casually.

“Group project submissions,” Persephone said.

“Grammar violations,” Hades added. “Severe.”

I nodded. “Good. Strike decisively.”

This is what people misunderstand about us.

We don’t cause problems.

We simply… allow them to reach their natural, idiotic conclusions.

Case in point: at exactly 9:46 a.m., Diana received an email.

She read it once.

Then again.

Then she smiled.

That was never a good sign—for anyone else.

“Colleague?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said lightly. “Mr. Halpern has decided to CC the entire department on a complaint about ‘overly harsh grading standards’ and ‘intimidating classroom atmosphere.’”

Hades looked up. “Fatal error.”

Persephone nodded solemnly. “Public miscalculation.”

I sipped my tea. “What’s your approach?”

Diana stood, already typing on her phone.

“I’ll reply-all, of course.”

Naturally.

She paced slowly, dictating under her breath as she typed:

“‘Dear Mr. Halpern, how delightful that you’ve chosen transparency. I quite agree—clarity benefits everyone. For instance, your own grading records, which I’ve attached for context…’”

She glanced at me.

“I’m including his unreviewed assignments and inconsistent scoring.”

“Elegant,” I said.

“‘…as well as student feedback logs highlighting concerns about instructional coherence.’”

Persephone raised a hand. “Add the one where he misspelled ‘curriculum.’”

“Already included,” Diana said.

Hades smirked faintly. “Checkmate.”

She hit send.

And just like that, another human being began the slow, inevitable process of collapsing under the weight of their own incompetence.

We didn’t even need to leave the house.

Around noon, I had a client call.

I don’t like client calls. They involve people.

This one, however, was… educational.

“I just think,” the client said, “that the design should, you know, pop more. Like, make it viral.”

I stared at the screen. My camera was off. My profile picture—an anime girl I’ve used for years—stared back in my place.

“What specifically would you like adjusted?” I asked.

“Just… make it better.”

Silence.

Then I shared my screen.

“I’ve prepared three versions,” I said calmly. “Each based on the contradictory feedback you provided.”

I clicked through them.

“Version A follows your original brief. Version B follows your revised notes. Version C follows your last-minute voice message where you changed everything again.”

Another pause.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” I said. “Oh.”

Diana, passing behind me, rested her chin briefly on my shoulder.

“I adore when you do this,” she whispered.

“I documented everything,” I murmured back.

“Of course you did.”

The client cleared their throat. “I… think Version A works.”

“Excellent choice,” I said. “Your original instinct was correct.”

It rarely is. But people love hearing that.

Call ended.

Problem solved.

No drama.

Just quiet, methodical exposure of inconsistency.

By evening, the manor settled into its usual rhythm.

The twins were sketching. Diana was reading something deeply questionable under the guise of “literary analysis.” I was finishing a logo commission.

The rain started outside—soft, steady, perfect.

Diana looked up from her book.

“Peaceful,” she said.

“Yes.”

“No chaos.”

“None.”

A pause.

Then my phone buzzed.

I checked it.

A message from my extended family group chat.

Cousin Claire: You will not BELIEVE what happened at my studio today—

I closed the phone.

“No,” I said. “I will not.”

Diana smiled.

“Good. Let them spiral.”

I leaned back, watching the rain trace slow paths down the tall gothic windows.

People out there would argue, gossip, sabotage themselves for attention, claw for relevance, collapse under their own egos.

Here?

We had tea. Art. Silence. Each other.

And the quiet, undeniable certainty that no matter how chaotic the world became—

We would remain untouched.

Not because we fought it.

But because we never played the game to begin with.

story

Web Novel Side Story: The Day They Let Her Roam

—as recorded by Diana Bloodbriar

I was not meant to substitute.

Let me clarify: I can substitute. I am more than qualified. I am, in fact, overqualified in ways that make administrators vaguely nervous and deeply regretful.

But I am not meant to.

There is a difference.

It began, as most regrettable decisions do, with desperation.

“Diana,” the vice principal said, standing at the threshold of my carefully cultivated shadowed corner of the staff room, “we’re short three teachers today.”

I did not look up from my book.

“How tragic,” I said.

“We need coverage.”

“I cultivate minds,” I replied calmly. “I do not babysit chaos.”

A pause.

“You’ll be compensated.”

I turned the page.

“And?”

Another pause. Longer.

“…and we’ll owe you a favor.”

Now that was interesting.

I closed the book slowly and looked at him.

“A favor,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“Unspecified?”

He hesitated.

“Within reason.”

I smiled.

“Of course.”

First Period — History (The Industrial Revolution)

The classroom smelled like synthetic citrus and poor decisions.

Thirty students. Half-interested. Half-feral.

I wrote three words on the board in neat, deliberate script:

PROGRESS HAS A BODY COUNT.

A hand went up immediately.

“Uh, Miss—”

“Bloodbriar,” I said. “You may call me that, or you may remain silent. Both are acceptable outcomes.”

The hand lowered.

I turned back to the board.

“The Industrial Revolution,” I began, “is often described as a period of innovation, advancement, and societal growth.”

I paused.

Then added, beneath it:

—and mass suffering politely rebranded.

A few students shifted.

Good.

“Factories,” I continued, pacing slowly, “did not appear in a vacuum. They were built on labor. Cheap labor. Replaceable labor.”

I tapped the board lightly with my pen.

“Children, for instance.”

Now they were listening.

“Small hands,” I said, almost thoughtfully. “Ideal for machinery. Also ideal for being caught in it.”

A visible wince from the front row.

“Workdays exceeding twelve hours. Air thick with particulates. Safety regulations… nonexistent.”

I turned, meeting their eyes one by one.

“And yet,” I said softly, “we celebrate it.”

Silence.

One student raised their hand, hesitant.

“Wasn’t it… necessary? Like, for progress?”

I smiled.

“Ah,” I said. “The classic justification.”

I walked closer.

“Tell me—if progress requires suffering, who decides whose suffering is acceptable?”

They didn’t answer.

“They didn’t either,” I said lightly. “They simply benefited.”

I let that sit.

Then, almost kindly:

“Do take notes. History tends to repeat itself when people insist on romanticizing it.”

Third Period — Science (Biology, Technically)

The teacher had left a lesson plan.

I ignored it.

“Today,” I announced, “we will be discussing the nature of death.”

A student in the back laughed.

“Oh, this is gonna be weird.”

“It already is,” I replied.

I drew a simple diagram of the human body.

“Death,” I said, “is not an event. It is a process.”

I circled the heart.

“When this stops, people panic.”

A circle around the brain.

“But this,” I tapped it, “is where the real conclusion occurs.”

A hand shot up.

“Isn’t this, like, not in the curriculum?”

“Neither is your attention span,” I said. “And yet here we are.”

A few stifled laughs.

I continued.

“Cells begin to break down. Oxygen deprivation leads to irreversible damage. The body—so meticulously maintained—begins to fail in quiet, predictable ways.”

I walked between the desks.

“Do you know what’s fascinating?” I asked.

No one answered.

“Everyone believes they are exempt.”

I stopped beside a student scrolling under their desk.

“They assume death is distant. Abstract. Something that happens to others.”

The phone disappeared instantly.

“It is not,” I said gently. “It is simply patient.”

Silence settled, heavy and complete.

Then, almost as an afterthought:

“Any questions?”

A girl in the front raised her hand slowly.

“…why are you telling us this?”

I considered her.

“Because,” I said, “understanding reality tends to improve decision-making.”

A beat.

“And reduce stupidity.”

Fifth Period — Mathematics

By now, word had spread.

They were… attentive.

I wrote an equation on the board:

L = f(G, H, C)

“Life expectancy,” I said, “as a function of genetics, habits, and chance.”

A student squinted.

“That’s not standard.”

“Neither is life,” I replied.

I began breaking it down.

“Genetics: predetermined variables. Habits: your personal contributions to your own decline. Chance: everything else that does not care about you.”

A few uneasy chuckles.

I added numbers. Variables. Hypotheticals.

“If an individual engages in consistently harmful behavior—say, poor diet, lack of sleep, reckless decision-making—what happens to L?”

“It… goes down?” someone offered.

“Correct.”

I underlined it.

“Now,” I continued, “factor in overconfidence.”

I wrote:

H + EGO = Accelerated Decline

That got a reaction.

“Is that real?” someone asked.

“Emotionally,” I said, “yes.”

I turned back to them.

“Mathematics is often used to create comforting illusions of control. But in truth, it merely highlights how little control you actually have.”

I paused.

“Especially when you make poor choices.”

A boy raised his hand.

“So… what’s the point, then?”

I smiled faintly.

“To make fewer of them.”

After School

I was called into the vice principal’s office.

He looked… tired.

“I’ve received some feedback,” he said carefully.

“I would hope so,” I replied.

“A few students described your lessons as… intense.”

“How generous.”

“Parents have called.”

“Of course they have.”

A long pause.

“We won’t need you to substitute anymore.”

There it was.

I inclined my head slightly.

“As you wish.”

He exhaled, relieved.

“Thank you for helping today.”

“Mm,” I said. “About that favor—”

His expression tightened.

“Yes?”

“I’ll collect it later.”

And I left.

Evening — Home

The manor was quiet.

Perfectly, blissfully quiet.

Beckett sat in the living room, tablet in hand, mask on, posture relaxed in that careful way he only allowed at home.

He looked up as I entered.

“You’re back,” he said softly.

“I am.”

“How was it?”

I removed my blazer, setting it aside.

“They won’t ask me again.”

A pause.

“…what did you do?”

I crossed the room, hooking a finger lightly into his scarf and pulling him just close enough.

“Educated,” I said.

He made a small, flustered sound behind his mask.

“I see.”

“You would have enjoyed it,” I added.

“I already do,” he murmured.

I nudged his mask just enough to kiss him—brief, deliberate.

“My prince,” I said softly, “the teacher is off the clock.”

He leaned into me, just slightly.

“Good.”

Across the room, Persephone glanced up from her sketchbook.

“Did they fail?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Hades didn’t look up from his work.

“They always do.”

I settled beside Beckett, the quiet wrapping around us like a familiar, welcome thing.

No noise.

No chaos.

No desperate need to perform, impress, or pretend.

Just us.

And the comforting certainty that some environments simply… do not deserve you.

The English department, however—

That was exactly where I belonged.