color of love and blood

Steve leaned forward, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the wooden table. His eyes were cold, emotionless, as he spoke. "With the miscarriage, we successfully completed the first phase of the plan. But breaking her completely requires the second phase. This is where we bring her to the peak of depression."

Tom, one of the older members of the group, his age matching Thomas's, exhaled deeply. "So, how you're going to keep increasing her depression? You think phase one wasn't enough?"

Steve's lips barely curled into a smirk, but there was no humor in it. "No. Phase one merely set the stage. Phase two ensures there's no way out for her. The moment she steps into the house after returning from the hospital, she will be surrounded by everything I prepared for the child—the clothes, the cradle, the toys. They will become ghosts, reminders of what she has lost. And the worst part? Time itself will gnaw at her. The longer she stays, the more those objects will consume her mind."

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "That might break her, but people eventually heal. What if she moves on?"

Steve let out a soft chuckle, devoid of warmth. "Biology will make sure she doesn't. The phantom effect—it happens to many women after miscarriages. She will feel kicks, movements that don't exist. Her mind will deceive her into thinking the baby is still there. And I will reinforce that illusion."

Thomas raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "How?"

Steve's eyes darkened. "I will plant doubt. Whisper thoughts into her ear, make her question reality itself. I'll tell her, 'Maybe your miscarriage didn't happen. Maybe the reports were wrong. Maybe it was just a bleeding episode, not the end of your child.' The human brain craves hope. And when that hope is crushed again, the fall is far more devastating."

Thomas leaned back, watching Steve with a mix of amusement and unease. "And how do you ensure she breaks completely?"

Steve's voice remained eerily calm. "We make sure she hears the truth at the right moment. When we take her back to the hospital, the doctor will confirm the miscarriage—shattering whatever desperate hope she was clinging to. But that's not enough. She needs to blame herself."

A slow, satisfied smile crossed Steve's face as he continued. "Outside the doctor's office, she will overhear a carefully staged conversation. A doctor advising a pregnant woman on what to avoid—stress, chocolates, coffee, painkillers. Of course, this doctor is one of ours. And when Olivia hears that, she will start asking herself: 'Where did I go wrong? What if this was my fault?' And that thought will eat her alive." Watching her like this will be a cinema to watch. Speaking with a psychotic smile.

Tom exhaled, shaking his head. "You're turning her own mind into a prison."

Steve didn't react. "That's the goal. But we're not done yet."

The room fell silent, as if the very air had turned cold. Even Thomas looked unsettled.

Alex, who had been sitting in tense silence, finally spoke. "And then? What happens next?"

Steve's fingers drummed against the table, slow and deliberate. "Then comes phase three—the exposure effect. Once the psychiatrist advises me to lift her mood, I'll take her outside by emotional blackmailing her. But every place we visit will be filled with children—laughing, playing, running around her. Everywhere she turns, she will see what she lost. What she will never have."

His voice grew quieter, more menacing. "And then, the final nail in the coffin. A lost child scenario. A small boy will grab her hand and call her 'Mother.' Just for a moment. Just enough for her heart to believe in a lie before his real mother arrives to take him away. That moment, that cruel glimpse of what could have been, will break her worse than anything else."

He leaned back, his face void of emotion, only the faintest hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "And then all three phases done their work simultaneously, she will have no escape left—except suicide."

A shiver ran through the room, though no one spoke. Steve's plan was airtight. Cold. Ruthless. And utterly inescapable.

Alex turned away, unable to meet Steve's gaze.

Thomas let out a slow breath. "You really are something else, Steve."

Steve didn't answer. He simply sat there, his fingers tapping against the wood, as if listening to the slow, steady rhythm of an inevitable end.