My 80-Year-Old Grandma Was the True Heiress

The mechanical arms began to hum. Four industrial-grade needles, each as thick as a little finger, gleamed under the harsh lights with a terrifying chill. The arms adjusted their angles. The tips aligned with their carotid arteries and advanced—slowly, steadily, without hesitation. "No—!!" Their screams tore through the underground laboratory, sharper and more desperate than anything heard in a slaughterhouse at midnight. The machines were not only cold—they were merciless. The thick needles pierced Victor, Damian, and Owen's skin without a flicker of hesitation, driving deep into their carotid arteries. "Ah—!!" Dark red blood surged through the tubes at once, as if a floodgate had been thrown open. "Mom! Mom, save me!" "Mom! I'm your son! I was wrong—please make them stop!" Their faces twisted grotesquely as they writhed against the surgical chairs. The leather restraints bit into their flesh, scraping skin raw, yet they were beyond feeling pain. All they could do was howl and beg. In the suffocating terror of approaching death, they still had not realized who their true executioner was. A soft creak echoed. At the far end of the laboratory, a luxurious leather chair that had been facing away from them slowly began to turn. For a fleeting second, even the screaming faltered. I stood in the shadows, watching the figure that felt both familiar and utterly transformed. Elizabeth was no longer the hunched old woman curled beneath a stiff quilt. She wore a custom-made black velvet gown. Her silver hair was styled to perfection, gleaming with a sharp brilliance beneath the pale lights. But what struck deepest were her eyes. Those once-clouded, gray-white eyes—said to have been blind for forty years—now shone with piercing clarity. There was no trace of kindness in them. Only cold amusement. She held a wine glass loosely, swirling it with quiet elegance. The deep crimson liquid clung to the sides of the glass, richer and brighter than the blood flowing through the tubes below. Victor's mouth fell open. The cry for help froze in his throat, his eyes bulging as if they might burst. Damian trembled violently, as though he had just seen a ghost. In that instant, their entire world collapsed. The blind old woman they had despised, abused, and treated as a burden was now looking down at them from above. Elizabeth took a slow sip of wine, her red lips parting slightly. Her voice was not loud, yet amplified through the speakers, it echoed clearly across the cavernous laboratory. "What are you screaming for?" She leaned forward just a little, her gaze sweeping over the distorted faces below with playful contempt. "Isn't this what you worship… blood ties above all else?" A silence as heavy as death settled over the room. Only the faint sound of blood coursing through the tubes remained. She looked down at her own sons being drained, and there was not a hint of warmth in her eyes. A splashing sound broke the stillness. Victor's trousers darkened instantly as urine streamed down his legs, dripping onto the polished metal floor and filling the air with a sour stench. He'd wet himself in sheer terror. From her seat above, Elizabeth frowned faintly, as though she had just spotted something foul. She lifted her hand—the same fingers accustomed to holding a wine glass—and tapped lightly on the armrest before speaking to the bodyguard beside her in an almost bored tone. "It's too noisy. And too slow. Increase the pump's output. Let them… scream a little louder."