The Hudsons’ Incident described a tragedy that occurred one night more than a decade ago. The family had visited their castle in early summer; Elena had felt suffocated yet expectant the whole day, acting absentmindedly as she accompanied Alistair to fish in the lake. This was no ordinary vacation; they were scouting the location for an extravagant wedding—her wedding.
As the eldest daughter of Mary and Albert Hudson, Elena was engaged to Donald Spencer, the only son of the family’s lawyer, Fredrick Spencer. Donald was a successful investment banker—or so it seemed— known as a kind, smart, and trustworthy man capable of protecting the "jewel" of the Hudson family.
That day, the soon-to-be son-in-law walked the estate with pride, greed filling his eyes with every step.
The sunset was a blaring, bloody red. Elena dragged Alistair to the flower garden behind the castle, where they spent a long time discussing which blooms to use for the ceremony. Suddenly, a sound tore through the warm atmosphere: multiple gunshots, one after the other. Alistair nearly jumped, spinning around to look at the castle. He missed the look of rejuvenation on Elena’s face as she took a breath, as if it were her first real breath in this world.
Another shot rang out. Alistair shook off his shock and ran toward the house, shouting that it didn't sound like a hunting rifle. Elena raised her gaze to the open window of her father’s study. She pinched her cheeks to control the unstoppable stretching of her lips, a smile she couldn't suppress, and followed Alistair, ignoring the horrified screams echoing from within.
It was a catastrophic scene. The servants later told the police that they had heard Donald fighting with the couple. The argument was apparently over inheritance and wills; David had demanded a large share of the wealth to fund an "unmissable" investment, since he is a part of the family. Sounds of shattering glass had echoed in the corridors. The butler had attempted to check on them but was sent away.
When Fredrick Spencer, Donald’s father, arrived, the butler asked him to intervene. As they approached the study, they heard the gunshots and burst inside. Mary and Albert lay on the floor, bleeding out. David stood over them, holding a gun and staring at it in shock, his brain finally registering what he had done. As David raised the gun toward Mary, who was still gasping for air, clutching her abdomen as blood gushed through her fingers—his own father quickly drew his weapon and shot him dead.
Three bodies were collected that night. Even Mary didn't make it; the castle was too far from the city for the medical teams to reach them in time. Alistair, witnessing the aftermath, suffered a violent relapse of the illness that had been stable for a year. While they waited for emergency doctors, Elena had to force his jaw open to drop pills down his throat, watching as the life they knew crumbled into red, ready to be rebuilt into a better version
The alarm clock rang, shattering the silence of the dark cabin. Elena was dragged from a heavenly dream and, with a heavy sigh, reached out to silence the noise. Another life awaited. The final blocks were ready to be set, stuck together by a red, viscous liquid—the blood of lowly lives reaching their far-belated end.
At 10:35 PM, John stepped into the music room. Most of the guests were already there; some sat in armchairs arranged in intimate clusters, while others toured the room across a thick, cream-colored wool carpet. Low cocktail tables were crowded with drinks of all kinds.
Instead of sitting immediately, John paced the perimeter. In the center of the room sat a Steinway baby grand piano, gleaming like a mirror. Rather than a raised stage, the performance area was defined by a sophisticated marble inlay beneath the piano’s brass-capped feet and the warm, dramatic glow of a crystal chandelier as bright as the midday sun.
In the corner, a dedicated alcove held instruments that remained ignored; the invited musicians had brought their own. John walked past a couple of paintings propped on canvas stands, impressed by the results of rushed work. He then took a quick look at the poems and short stories hanging on the wall, displayed as if they were ancient relics.
At 10:40 PM, Elena entered. The performance officially began with a violinist taking the center. The notes were dark and suffocating. John sat by Elena’s side while almost everyone else stood up, wandering to discover the art around them while listening to the quickening notes. The music pierced their ears like a victim stabbing a monster.
John peeked at the notebook Elena was focused on, but he couldn't understand a word of her writing. Attempting to provoke her, he struck up a conversation.
"Won't you ask where Alistair is?"
The pen stopped sliding across the page. She turned to him, her voice cool. "He has the manners to inform the host before retreating to rest. I understand your family left early, but you spent so much time glued to him—why have you still not learned proper manners?"
She was used to—or rather, unbothered by—his troublesome nature. To her, he was yet another ant; his stepping out of line wasn't even worth a glance. She simply wanted to rub salt into old injuries that still refused to close.
John understood her purpose, yet he still felt aggrieved. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand until his knuckles turned white. He bit his tongue until he tasted copper, then gulped down the rest of his drink before repeating the same question back to her, changing the word 'family’ to ‘parents’. The taboo topic was one way to anger her and he wouldn't miss the chance since Alistair isn't around to stop him.
But Elena ignored the repetition and changed the topic. "Revenge... what do you think of the theme?"
"Very intriguing," John replied. "Your choice was unexpectedly 'not bad,' though your handwriting needs some real hard work."
As the flute played the final breaths of a tortured soul, Elena stood up. She gave him a side-long glance, echoing his own words back to him.
"Indeed... very intriguing."
She stepped away, her notebook and pen still gripped firmly in hand.
Seeing that he had failed to land a blow, John felt the urge to hurl his glass at her. He held back, remembering a single truth: an ant colony can make a house crumble. He watched her go, thinking to himself: Just wait. One bite from a bullet ant and you will fall, right where more bites await.
He rose and followed her from a distance; after all, he was on surveillance duty. The final music performance began, Sierra Maurice took her seat at the piano. As her fingertips pressed down on the keys, a devilish voice began to whisper in John’s ear:
Revenge! Tear the facade down! Strangle them. Don’t you want to avenge those straying tortured souls? Can’t you hear their agonizing screams? Shed your helplessness and take my hand to open hell on earth.
The voice grew louder, more insistent.
She was a flower they crushed simply out of boredom. When will you crush the apple of the mastermind's eye? WHY ARE YOU HESITATING?
In the midst of John’s internal struggle to remain calm—reminding himself that the goal was finally in sight—Elena approached the piano. As the symphony began to drag the audience down a dark path, she stood untouched. She seemed immune to the soot of the burning fire, the pure malice and resentment growing inside the hearts of those around the room. The Prominent Seven looked at her with hidden desires to claw at her, to finally take their revenge and set themselves free.
After finishing a perfunctory tour of the artworks, Elena stopped by a table. She began assessing the ink painting held down by bronze paperweights on the dry linen covering the wood. She looked genuinely impressed.
John, however, stared at the piece and saw only a mess of ink, it looked as if the wet inkstick directly grinded against the paper instead of using an inkstone and a brush. He wondered briefly if Elena’s glasses were not merely for fashion; she took them off and now she couldn't see at all.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the painting, searching for the autograph. There, in sharp, bold strokes, were the initials: J.M .