Orphans of Janus

“Red suits you,” the girl said, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder as she came to stand beside her.

A smile curved her lips as the ruffles at the hem of the red skirt swayed, their vivid color almost dazzling her eyes. “You look like a Disney princess.”

Today was the most beautiful day of her life, and the dress belonged to such a day as perfectly as the cherry atop a cream-covered cake.

The sight of her innocent smile reflected in the mirror made the girl giggle.

With all the childish joy of a seven-year-old, Cara twirled before the mirror, trying to tie the red ribbon in her hands around her hair. The scent of roses drifting in from the garden mingled with the vanilla fragrance of the fresh cake their mother had baked, while the fading daylight of evening filled the room one last time.

Vera smiled as she watched the red ribbon in her twin sister’s hair, then tightened the matching red thread around her own wrist.

Back then, red meant birthdays, ribbons, and the sweetest part of an apple.

But now, in the study of a gloomy manor in North London, red was about to become a warm, viscous stain spreading between the maps scattered across an oak desk.

When Bishop realized that the dark red seeping between his trembling hands pressed against his throat was the end of him, the arrogance in his eyes gave way to pitch-black terror.

To the Society, he was one of the city’s most respected philanthropists—a saint who funded orphanages. The only reason he was here was supposedly an international charitable fund.

But behind the hidden room in his study, ledgers concealed the numbers and wagers he had placed on human lives.

When lightning outside illuminated the room in a sudden flash of brilliance, the storm within had already gone silent.

Vera slowly peeled the bloodied glove from her fingers.

She took a step toward the desk where Bishop had collapsed.

The comfortable cocoon he had spent years weaving from guards, steel doors, and multimillion-dollar security systems had been torn apart by a meticulously crafted plan of revenge—a chain of events set in motion by a single mistake calculated down to the smallest detail.

There was no hatred in her eyes. No trace of the crude rage that demanded screams or fury.

Only a glimmer of a frozen hell, hidden somewhere in their depths.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small, heavy object.

Its smooth surface caught the dim light of the room.

A jet-black chess knight, carved from marble and adorned with silver details.

Vera slowly placed the piece beside the fresh red stain on the desk.

Its weighted base touched the expensive oak with a faint click.

“You buried me beneath the ashes of that night, Bishop,” Vera said.

Her voice was as still as the rain outside, yet as sharp as the dazzling flashes of lightning that occasionally pierced the room.

“But there was something you failed to notice.”

As the last flicker of life slowly faded from Bishop’s eyes, Vera looked at her first victim on the desk, then at her own silhouette draped in black.

The first piece of the Janus Society had fallen.

She walked toward the window and swiftly opened it with her slender fingers.

Cold wind and rain poured into the room as she whispered,

“You cant bury something that was never dead.”

Before the guards could arrive, she had vanished into the night and the rain, disappearing like a shadow that had spent years swallowing itself whole.

The first chapter of her revenge had been written in blood, seeping from the red ribbon of her childhood.