Fei Se

Have you ever eaten "Reptilian" meat? My grandfather said he had. Creatures that looked exactly like us on the outside, but were fundamentally different on the inside. Extremely dangerous, yet incredibly delicious. Before he died, my grandfather left behind a notebook. The first page read: "Reptilian look exactly like humans, but human instinct can tell them apart." The moment my cousin Braden returned for my grandfather's funeral, my gut told me: he wasn't human!

My brother, at the whim of his new girlfriend, fired our entire security team, leaving my mother and me alone in our isolated lake house. I had a premonition of a violent attack, but he just laughed and called me a drama queen. That night, my vision came true. Intruders stormed our home, and my mother took a crowbar to the chest to save my life. I escaped through the blizzard, bleeding and desperate, to my fiancé Cristofer' s cabin. He met me with a cold smirk. "Broderick warned me you'd pull a stunt like this." He accused me of faking it all for attention, then beat me until I tasted blood, leaving me on the floor. My brother and the man I was supposed to marry had branded me a liar while my mother was dying. They had chosen to believe a fantasy over my reality. But as I lay there, broken, Cristofer's phone rang. It was the sheriff, confirming a 911 call about a home invasion and a critically wounded victim at our address. Their world of lies was about to come crashing down.

I served the Dunlap family for six years, managing their dark accounts and raising children that weren't mine, all while waiting for my husband to truly love me. But when the "real" mistress returned, my devotion was rewarded with a death sentence. My husband, Gavyn, didn't just ask for a divorce; he dragged me to a cliff edge. He stood next to Iliana, the woman who stole my life, and looked at me with cold indifference. He called me a thief. He called me an "incubator"—a temporary vessel used to hold his place until his princess came back. Then, he ordered his hitman to finish it. I managed to bribe the hitman and jumped into the freezing ocean, but the fall cost me the only thing that mattered. Alone on a desolate beach, shivering and broken, I miscarried Gavyn's child—the baby he didn't even know existed. I lay in the sand, hollowed out by grief. I couldn't understand how the man I worshipped could discard me like trash. He didn't just break my heart; he tried to erase my existence. But fate wasn't done with me. On that same beach, I found a wounded young man hiding in the woods. He wasn't just a stranger; he was the lost heir to the Sosa crime family—Gavyn's mortal enemies. When the Don, Daniel Sosa, came to claim his nephew, he offered me a hand. Now, the world thinks Alex Dunlap is dead. But tonight, I am walking into the Grand Gala on the arm of the most dangerous man in the city. And I’m going to burn Gavyn’s empire to the ground.

My husband, Mark, was in the shower when a message from an unknown number buzzed, "Your husband says I'm way more exciting than you, his dead fish, and now I'm pregnant with his child. Who do you think he'll choose?" It was Chloe Miller, Mark' s assistant, the one I' d personally recommended. My breath caught as a video downloaded-Mark, wild and untamed, saying something I couldn't hear over the pounding in my ears. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the shower. Humiliation washed over me, and my decade-long world crumbled. I found a drafted divorce agreement in Mark' s desk drawer. He had been planning this. Then Chloe sent more photos-Mark kissing her in a honeymoon suite in Iceland, taunting me with, "How long has it been since he touched you, old hag?" Every image was a fresh stab of pain. At a charity gala, Chloe, visibly pregnant, clung to Mark. He whispered to her, showing genuine worry. He then bought her a diamond necklace right after buying me a spa voucher. Later, his phone lit up with a message from her, "Is the old hag mad? Don' t worry about her. Come back to me. The baby and I need you." He typed back instantly, still holding me, pretending to comfort me. How could he feign concern for me while being so blatantly connected to her? How could he lie so effortlessly, acting the part of a loving husband while planning to discard me and our entire life? The hypocrisy was suffocating, the cruelty breathtaking. I looked at his smiling, deceitful face, and felt nothing but a vast, empty wasteland where my love for him used to be. My heart, once a steady flame, was extinguished. Now, all that was left were the ashes, and I was ready to become the storm.

The doctor' s words hit me like a cold gavel: six months left to live. My life's purpose, my son David, would inherit everything I' d worked for. My life was dedicated to him, every penny saved, so he and his family would never worry. On Christmas Eve, after preparing a giant feast, David called, claiming they were stuck in traffic. Then I overheard his wife, Jessica, and David himself, laughing about my "stuffy little house" from his biological father Daniel's mansion, discussing how they needed to ensure David was in my will. A cold dread seeped into my bones as I listened to them tear me apart. Jessica hissed that I held David back, keeping him from his "real, successful father." David, my son, replied with a deep resentment, wishing he were a Hayes, not a Miller. The phone clicked dead. The love that had defined my existence went cold. I had worked two jobs, sold my mother' s jewelry, and sacrificed my retirement for him, only to be called selfish and an obstacle. If I was just a will to him, then I would write a new one. My quiet rebellion had begun.

The system's cold, mechanical voice echoed in my head: "Elimination in 24 hours. Affection and love values from all targets remain at zero. Final task failed." My life, spent trying to win a game of affection I was designed to lose, was ending. Then the phone rang. It was my husband, David, frantic. "Olivia, where are you? Get to the hospital. Now. It's Emily." My twin sister. Always Emily. Her kidneys had failed, she needed a transplant, and as her twin, I was the perfect match. My heart didn't even flutter. They demanded my last kidney, just as they always demanded sacrifices from me. My mother called next, yelling, "How can you be so selfish? Your sister needs you! We've given you everything... the least you can do is save her life." They called Emily "delicate," their excuse for endless favoritism, while seeing me as "the strong one" who endured and gave without complaint. I had already secretly given my father one of my kidneys years ago, letting Emily take the credit and the love. I signed the consent forms for the surgery, a final act of surrender. My family promised David a down payment on a house and offered me "forgiveness for all the trouble I'd caused"- a veiled threat for a lifetime of perceived defiance. I was a tool, a means to Emily's end, and now, a vessel to be emptied. I had chased their love for ten years, following the system' s tasks, sacrificing my dignity for worthless points. But every time I earned one, Emily found a way to make me lose two. David' s score never even reached one. Now I knew the truth: the system was a curse, a reflection of my desperate need for their approval, and it was killing me. Just hours before the surgery, a new nightmare began. Emily's latest design was leaked, traced to my IP address. The press swarmed; my mother slapped me; Emily, the perfect victim, cried for me to be forgiven. My family ordered me to confess, to take the blame for something I didn't do, to protect Emily's reputation. And I did it. I publicly admitted to being the jealous villain, sacrificing my name, my dignity, my entire being for the family that never loved me.

The last thing I remembered was the blinding glare of headlights. When I woke, my world was darkness and pain, my hands - my tools - shattered. My fiancé, Liam, the city's celebrated neurosurgeon, became my rock, his voice a soothing balm. He claimed the drunk driver was caught, our unborn son Leo was safe, and he' d be my eyes and hands until I healed. Months blurred into a fog of physical therapy and his suffocating care. My hands were slow, my blindness absolute, a constant reminder of my helplessness. But then, a flicker. A shape. Color. My sight was coming back, a miracle I couldn' t wait to share with Liam. But as I approached his operating room, voices drifted out, shattering my illusion. "Dr. Miller, Mrs. Chen' s hands are showing signs of recovery again. Do you really want to break her fingers again? This is the eighth time." Eighth time? And then… "Ben, Leo was killed by you. You want to protect Charlotte, but you don' t need to destroy Ava!" Charlotte? Leo was killed? By Liam? This man, my savior, had murdered our son and systematically tortured me to protect his mistress? The joy in my heart turned to an icy dread. He thought I was blind, helpless, and broken. He had no idea the woman he tried to destroy was meticulously cataloging his every lie, his every atrocity. He thought I was his victim. He was wrong. I was his judge. And the trial had just begun.

Eight years of marriage, white tablecloths, and soft candlelit dinners. My husband, Liam, the man who once promised forever, took my hand across an expensive restaurant table. But the perfection shattered when he pulled his hand back, revealing his family' s relentless demand for an heir. Then Chloe, a "good, healthy girl" from the countryside, appeared in our living room, brought by his iron-willed grandmother. Soon, I overheard the whispers: Chloe was pregnant. Liam' s baby. When I confronted him with divorce papers, he begged, "I thought it was you." I believed his pleas for one more chance, for him to "handle" Chloe. But the real test came in a dusty warehouse: his business rivals, a choice to be made. "You can only have one," a cold voice stated. "Your wife, Ava, or your other woman, Chloe, carrying your heir." I held my breath, knowing he should choose me. "Let Chloe go. Protect the child. I need the child," Liam' s voice echoed, cold and distant. Then came a frantic whisper, "Ava, I promise. I' ll come back for you." The last thing I saw before the metal pipe struck was his empty promise, his true betrayal. I woke in a hospital, three days later, battered and abandoned. He didn' t come. He never called. He arrived later, no remorse, only self-pity, declaring, "I had to protect the heir. It was the only choice." His grandmother dismissed me as a barren failure, while Chloe, playing the innocent martyr, cried, "I told Liam to choose you… but he insisted on saving the baby… our baby." Watching him fuss over her, over their baby, something clicked. I was pregnant. Seven weeks. And he had just sacrificed our child, draining me for her, for a lie. My father's factory burned, his heart giving out from the shock, and Chloe, playing the sympathetic helper, framed me for arson. Then Liam had me committed to a psychiatric facility, where I barely survived a head injury. I finally understood: this wasn't about love, or even an heir. It was a calculated, ruthless game of power and betrayal. A cold, clear rage settled in. I would not just leave. I would make them pay. I would burn his kingdom to the ground.

Hurricane warnings flashed across my screen. My "family"-my adoptive mother Jennifer, my brother Matthew, and my beloved sister Sabrina-drank champagne, scoffing at my warnings. But when the storm hit, and the grand mansion began to collapse, it was me, Nicole, the "hick" from Appalachia, who dragged their dead weight from under crumbling ceilings. I broke through walls, tore my hands digging a tunnel, all to save them. Yet, as first responders arrived, Matthew smirked, accusing me of abandoning them, while Sabrina feigned innocence. They both pointed paramedics away from me, towards their "trapped" daughter. I fell, impaled by rebar, bleeding out in the rubble, completely alone, as they rescued Sabrina, showering her with concern they never once gave me. They never saw the blood soaking my hands, the growing stain on my abdomen. Why would they choose her, time and time again, even as I sacrificed everything for them? Why did they leave me to die in a pile of concrete? They just made a huge mistake. Because my father, Andrew Clark, is about to make them watch exactly how I died. And the truth will shatter their perfect world.

I was Evelyn Reed, a senior litigator, standing in my office. Everything felt chillingly familiar, as if I' d lived this exact moment before. Because I had. Just moments ago, I recalled the cold New York air, the city lights blurring in betrayal, as my husband Damien pushed me from our penthouse roof. He did it after his men had their way with me, a brutal punishment for his lover, Isabelle's, death. But then, I blinked, and I was back, staring at the exact clock on my desk where my old life began its final, downward spiral. The doors to our main lobby burst open, and a group of angry, suit-wearing men, the "family" of a pro bono client, stormed in. They were here because Damien had failed to file a critical injunction, initiating a terrifying lockdown of the entire floor. When my loyal paralegal tried to call him for help, Damien' s arrogant dismissal over the phone led to him being brutally knocked unconscious. The bitter irony: he thought he' d silenced me forever, but I was back, a ghost with one singular, burning purpose. No longer the compliant wife, I would use every lesson from my past demise to orchestrate his downfall, piece by agonizing piece. This time, he wouldn't just lose; he would suffer.

For years, I lived in the hallowed halls of the Blackwood estate, a shadow. My supposed mother, Agnes, systematically siphoned my spiritual energy, gifting it to her own daughter, Claire, who reveled in every stolen blessing. I was the family's "cursed" child, scarred and suffering, my true, ancient Silvercreek power suppressed, biding my time. My life, a lie, a carefully constructed illusion of weakness. Then came the Founder's Centennial Gala. Agnes, consumed by hubris, decided this was her stage. She orchestrated a twisted plan: publicly declare Claire her biological child, and use me as live bait to lure a mythical beast, the Old Man of the Mountain, to steal its powerful Heartstone for Claire. I endured the unimaginable: dragged to sacred peaks, brutally mauled, left for dead, then hauled back to the glittering ballroom, bleeding and broken, a grotesque spectacle. Guests gasped, recoiled in disgust. Agnes beamed, ready to deliver her grand, self-serving revelation, believing her triumph was at hand. They thought me a pitiful, broken creature, a mere pawn in their twisted game. Did they truly believe I had endured decades of torment, of stolen life and power, only for a final humiliation? Did they think my silence was weakness, my downtrodden gaze surrender? I watched and waited. No. The pain was my fuel, the injustice my fire. As Agnes began her smug confession, I rose, not as a victim, but as a force. The Gala wouldn't be Claire's crowning; it would be the Blackwood family's absolute reckoning. I would unveil every single one of their dark, bloody secrets, starting tonight.

"Not until when she got pregnant did Nora realize that she was not the one Martin really loved. All of his sweet words were nothing but a romantic illusion. As she got the news that he would be engaged to another woman, she finally gave up and left away with his child. When she came back with their baby, he went back to her, trying to win her back. This time, she had no way to run away from his love tricks and deep affection."

Laura was a bold, courageous, gorgeous, intelligent young lady who always stood out for herself. She always fought for her right and never allowed anyone to look down on her , her family nor her friends. She was known as the most brilliant and talented student in her class. This irritated some of her mates and led to the plot of her attack to tame her. " Hold her, let's see how her intelligence works this time...", Ben exclaimed, landing a huge slap on her cheek. Patrick and Fred held her tightly, chuckling and teasing. They molested and bullied her until she passed out. " Wait, Ben, I think we killed her....", Fred cried " Shut up, what do you know? She's just doing that to scare us...." " No, Ben...I think he's right...we killed her..." " Oh, my God...what should we do..." Join me on this journey while we find out what they did to her body and the outcome of their action. ENRAGED SOUL;The revenge of a traumatized girl

It started on the one-year anniversary of my return, a day meant for joy. Instead, my family, devout and God-fearing, brutally murdered me. My brother, my protector, became a "defiler" screaming monster, my father, a man of God, cut off my hand with a rusty saw, and my mother, once overjoyed, called me an "abomination." They threw my bleeding body into a silo, sealing the hatch, and as I died, I only had one question: Why? It was the locket. The small, carved wooden locket my sister, Esther, had given me moments before, a "welcome home" gift that instantly turned my loving family into rabid killers. Somehow, I woke up. It' s the same day, the same anniversary. Esther is coming up the stairs, the locket in her hand, about to give me the gift that will trigger their bloodlust again. This time, I refuse. But Esther is cunning, and soon, I'm dodging my family's crazed attacks, desperately trying to expose their dark beliefs to the authorities. They look at me like I' m simply a troubled girl with an overzealous family. Knowing the law won't stop their fanaticism, I have no choice but to use their own twisted faith against them, no matter the cost, to finally break free.

During a college retreat, we hosted a storytelling competition. They just kept egging me on, completely oblivious to the terrifying disaster it would invite. I said, "The story I'm about to tell is a curse." "Everyone who has ever heard this story has died." "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

The last thing I saw was Thunder’s bloodied jaws, closing in on me. My daughter, Sophia, lay broken a few feet away, already gone. Pain, then darkness. Then, with a gasp, I bolted upright, my heart hammering like a drum. I was back on the same rough porch, facing the same smug smirk of Old John. At the end of his chain was Thunder, the Australian Cattle Dog who had butchered my child and me. “Heard you were back in town, Isabella,” Old John rasped, his voice a cruel mockery of a welcome. “Brought you a little housewarming gift,” he added, pulling the chain as Thunder whined, straining to reach me, just like that first time. The memory crashed over me: Thunder’s lunge, the searing agony as his teeth tore my thigh, the hot gush of blood, and then, Sophia’s petrified screams followed by chilling silence as he turned to her. Old John had known my paralyzing fear of dogs, yet he had specifically brought this hulking beast to torment me. He had laughed when I pleaded, ignoring the danger, using the dog as his personal weapon. Every horrifying detail, every agonizing moment of Sophia’s brutal death and my own demise, flooded my mind with chilling clarity. But this time, as Thunder lunged forward once more, I forced my trembling legs to stop. No. Not again. This time, things would be different.

My name is Sarah, and I remember the cold. Not the chill of winter, but the stainless-steel table against my back. My sons, Michael and Gabriel, were gone, their screams replaced by silence. My husband David, blinded by ambition, led us to that abandoned clinic. His sister, Veronica, craved an heir for her powerful husband, Senator Harrison. She believed my "Legacy Fertility" and my children's "vital essence" could help her. A quack "expert" performed monstrous acts on my seven-year-old twins. Then it was my turn; they brutally harvested my ovarian tissue. I was left to bleed out on a filthy floor, my insides torn. I died there, a vow of revenge frozen on my lips. Later, I saw Veronica on the news, pregnant and glowing with what she stole. But then, warmth. Sunlight. My eyes snapped open to my own familiar bedroom. Michael was on my chest, Gabriel curled beside me, both alive, young, and whole. The calendar read October 14th—the very day it all began. The memory slammed into me: David's averted eyes, the isolated building, Veronica's cold voice, Michael's terror, Gabriel's whimper. This wasn't a dream; this was a second chance. Veronica, triumphant in my first life, had risen on my family's ashes, her belly swelling with a lie while mine was emptied by her greed. No. Not again. This time, I wouldn't just survive. I would take everything she had, everything she wanted. Her husband. Her position. Her future. My revenge would be absolute, and my children would live. The game had begun.

Veronika McAllister have lived a sad life and a life full of secrets. After the death of her mother during a robbery gone bad, her father blames her for her mother death and her family hates her for reasons she doesn't know. When accepted into Caston college also known as bloodyville because of the series of murders committed by the red ghoul which was later killed in 1990. Now a series of murders is done in the exact manner as the red ghoul the day Veronika stepped into Caston. Are this murders connected to Veronika or has the red ghoul awaken to finish where it left off.

The smoke burned my eyes, thick and acrid, as my three-year-old son, Caleb, coughed weakly beside me. My wife, Jennifer, stood at the wine cellar door, her gaze fixed on her brother-in-law, Ryan. "It's for Molly's sake," she said, her voice chillingly devoid of warmth. "The guru said Caleb's energy caused her asthma attack. We have to cleanse it." She slammed the heavy oak door shut, the bolt thudding into place, trapping us. My son, who had a severe peanut allergy and sensitive lungs, was left to suffocate in the toxic smoke. Days bled into a hazy nightmare until Jennifer' s brother, Wesley, appeared, revealing Jennifer never loved me; I was just a rebound. He then callously threw more sage onto the embers, sealing our tomb deeper. I clawed our way out, just barely, carrying Caleb' s limp, blue body to a hospital, clinging to a desperate thread of hope. But Jennifer arrived, not for us, but demanding Caleb's O-negative blood for Molly' s minor fender bender injury, ignoring doctors' pleas. "He's my son. Do it," she commanded, her eyes cold. Then, with a casual glance at Caleb, a nurse, obviously bribed, fed him a peanut granola bar. The flatline screamed, and Caleb arched, his tiny chest still. Jennifer, with Ryan' s arm around her, turned her back on our dying son to comfort Molly' s fake tears. My world shattered. Ryan' s venomous whisper echoed: "You and your son, you were always in the way." How could a mother abandon her child to such a horrifying death? How could she choose a niece over her own son, then murder him without a second thought? Something inside me didn't just break; it turned to dust, then reformed into steel. Andrew Wright had to die, so the man who would take everything from them could be born.

I spent three years locked away by my husband, Ethan, in a soundproof panic room. My legs, shattered in the "accident" he orchestrated, were useless. He stole my songs, my career, my life, and gave them to Chloe, a talentless fraud he built into a star. Then, they wheeled me out-a prisoner displayed for the "happy family": Ethan, Chloe, and my son, Leo. Leo, who looked at me like a monster, holding Chloe's hand and calling her "mom." Ethan ordered me to confess to plagiarism, to blame my own "jealousy" for his intricate web of lies that destroyed me. But the ultimate cruelty came later. Chloe, supposedly dying from a heart condition, needed a transplant. "You're a match," Ethan stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "You will donate your heart to Chloe." It wasn't a request; it was my execution. My heart for hers, the last piece of me carved out and given to the woman who stole my life. As the scalpel touched my skin, Chloe whispered, "This is for stealing my life, you bitch." I closed my eyes, uttering one word to the mysterious "Pact" I made years ago. Then, I left my body to die. Yet, I woke up. Not gone, but back. And the Pact whispered a new bargain: return to stop Ethan, who, shattered by my death, was becoming a true monster. The deal was clear: save him and save my sister. I stepped back into hell, but this time, the chains were broken, and I was ready to fight.

Samantha a young photographer is given an old camera that may hold something haunting on the inside of her pictures

I woke up to the hum of the office lights, keyboards clattering. This was my desk at Visionary Films. I was alive, and it was October 14th – the day before everything went to hell. Last time, my identical twin sister Jessica stole my script, getting me accused of plagiarism, leading to my parents disowning me and my career's ruin. It ended with my death at the hands of a crazed fan. Now, I was inexplicably back, but the horror was far from over. I soon realized Jessica didn't just steal finished work; she could pluck ideas straight from my mind, instantly. Even a simple drawing, conceived moments before, would appear on her social media, claimed as her own. My entire creative future was being systematically looted by this parasitic twin. How could she reach into my thoughts, my unformed dreams, and claim them? The injustice burned, the confusion maddened me. This wasn't just sibling rivalry; it was a soul-sucking tether. Desperate, I fled LA, burning every piece of my work. But a frantic phone call from Jessica revealed her creative well had run dry without me. This led me to Mama Martha, who confirmed a dark Hoodoo binding: a cursed doll, made with my essence, stealing my life force. Now, armed with a powerful gris-gris bag, I'm back. I'm ready to expose her and shatter the source of her stolen talent on the biggest stage imaginable.