Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 271: Lital end

Silence descended, heavy and absolute, broken only by the building’s groans—the walls fracturing like brittle bones, floors splintering as if the structure itself recoiled from the horrors it had cradled.

By dawn’s pale intrusion, Ashbrook Orphan House was eradicated.

Only smoldering ruins remained, tendrils of smoke curling toward an indifferent sky.

And across town, in a modest house with crimson curtains fluttering like wounds, two girls reclined on a worn couch.

One smiled faintly, spoon in hand, savoring the simple act of eating.

The other lounged with feet tucked beneath her, eyes fixed on flickering cartoons, a semblance of normalcy veiling the abyss within.

Bowls of pudding rested between them, untouched by quotas or cruelty.

No one counted anymore.

No one dared.

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The next morning, they wandered through the whispering woods, hands clasped in a grip that was both anchor and chain—fragile fingers intertwined, knuckles white with unspoken fears.

No pursuers shadowed their steps.

No alarms shattered the dawn’s fragile hush.

Ashbrook Orphan House had crumbled to embers and jagged ruins before the sun crested the horizon, its secrets devoured by flames that licked the sky like vengeful tongues.

Whispers among the authorities would weave convenient lies: faulty wiring sparking catastrophe, or arson by some wild-eyed older boy lost to rage.

Records?

There were none to mourn—erased in the blaze, as if the place had never harbored such quiet atrocities.

The girls never glanced back, their footsteps light but laden, carrying the weight of what they’d unleashed.

It took mere hours to stumble upon the house—a secluded sanctuary nestled in a pine-shrouded hollow, ivy strangling its weathered stones like possessive lovers.

Crooked steps led to a door framed by windows that peered out like wary eyes, half-lidded in suspicion.

The air hummed with the scent of aged firewood and wild honey, a deceptive sweetness that masked the rot beneath.

knock knock

They rapped softly, knuckles echoing like faint heartbeats.

The door swung open to reveal a woman, baby cradled against her hip, its tiny fists clutching at her blouse.

Her smile bloomed warm, then wilted in an instant, eyes narrowing at the sight of these spectral waifs.

"Are you girls alright?" she ventured, voice laced with maternal concern. "Lost in the woods?"

The twin with eyes like spilled ink grinned, her lips stretching too far, revealing a gleam of teeth that hinted at sharper appetites.

"Yes," she purred, voice a silken thread. "Terribly, achingly lost."

Inside, warmth enveloped them like a false embrace—polished wooden floors creaking underfoot, towers of dog-eared books leaning precariously, a teapot’s shrill whistle piercing the air like a distant scream.

But the illusion shattered swiftly.

The father descended the stairs, hammer clutched in callused hands, his face hardening with protective fury.

He barely managed two steps before shadows uncoiled from the corners, wrapping around his limbs like living vines, twisting until bones cracked like dry twigs.

His gasp died unspoken, body slumping in a heap, eyes frozen in bewildered betrayal.

The woman bolted, clutching her child, a desperate sob tearing from her throat.

But the darkness was swifter, tendrils snaking from the walls to ensnare her ankles, dragging her down as she clawed at the air.

The baby’s wide eyes met the twins’ gaze for a fleeting moment—innocent, uncomprehending—before silence claimed it too, a mercy in the midst of horror.

By dusk, the house exhaled its last living breath.

Not scorched or splintered, but hollowed out, an empty shell echoing with the ghosts of what had been.

They perched on the porch under the moon’s indifferent gaze, legs dangling like pendulums marking stolen time.

The twin turned to her counterpart, head cocked in playful malice.

"It’d be more fun if we had more sisterly names, wouldn’t it?"

Lital hesitated, her gaze drifting to the star-speckled void above, where memories flickered like dying embers.

The twin’s eyes glinted.

"We could split it. Carve it in two. You claim one half, I the other. True sisters, bound by blood and shadow."

A heavy silence settled, thick with the weight of irreversible choices.

Then, a tentative nod from Lital, her voice a fragile whisper. "That’s... a good idea."

The twin’s grin widened, feral and fond. "Let’s leave it to fate."

From her sleeve, she conjured a tattered scrap of paper, folding it with deliberate creases—once, twice, thrice.

On one side, she scrawled a fragment; the other remained barren, a void waiting to be filled.

"Choose."

Lital’s eyes locked onto her twin’s, searching the inky depths for deceit or destiny.

Her hand hovered, then selected the blank expanse.

The twin’s smile softened, almost tender. "Then it’s decided."

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Months bled into one another, a blur of stolen serenity.

The house in the woods stood sentinel, red curtains billowing like bloodstained banners in the breeze.

Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight, wind chimes tinkling a melancholic melody that masked the underlying hush.

Within: two girls, mirrors cracked at the edges—identical in form, yet fractured in spirit.

Both draped in flowing black gowns that whispered against the floor like sighs of regret, their bare feet padding softly over cool tiles.

One stood at the stove, her wild dark curls tumbling like a cascade of midnight vines, framing a face etched with quiet concentration.

Her hands moved with grace, stirring the pot where pudding bubbled thick and sweet.

She hummed a disjointed tune—notes reversing mid-melody, a backward lullaby that echoed her inner unraveling—as she ladled the mixture into delicate porcelain bowls, steam curling like spectral fingers.

The other reclined on the couch, her hair a sleek river of ink, brushed to an unnatural sheen that caught the light like oil on water.

Cartoons blared from the television, absurd colors flashing across her impassive features, her chin propped on a palm as if the world beyond the screen held no sway.

"Done," Lila announced, her voice soft but laced with tentative pride.

She crossed the room barefoot, bowl extended like an offering, placing it on the low table before her sister.

The lounger lifted it, spoon dipping in for a taste, lips pursing as she savored, then licked the utensil clean with deliberate slowness.

A pause hung between them, heavy with unspoken judgments.

Then: "...It’s better than the last one." The words carried a hint of warmth.

Tila’s smile bloomed, fragile and fleeting, like a flower pushing through cracked earth.

She settled beside her sister, drawing her knees to her chest, eyes glazing over the flickering screen as laughter from the cartoons mocked their solitude.

In the room’s corners, shadows stretched languidly, coiling like contented beasts warmed by an invisible sun—watchful, waiting, ever-present guardians of their fragile peace.

No names were uttered.

No hierarchies imposed.

Just two girls, twinned and twisted, existing in a harmony forged from blood and loss.

"So what are we watching today."