The Jilted Heiress And Her Karmic Revenge

Her lungs burned as she dragged in a breath of the sweltering attic air.

Alice opened her eyes. The rough, splintered wood of the floorboards pressed against her cheek. A wave of nausea hit her stomach so hard she gagged, her vision swimming in a haze of dust and agonizing pain.

The memories weren't hers, yet they were violently fusing with her own. She was Alice Morrow, a top-tier occultist who had spent decades mastering the arcane. But she was also this Alice-a battered, terrified girl who had served as a human punching bag for the Wallace family.

She planted her palms on the floor, trying to push herself up.

Fire ripped through her arms. The skin stretched over overlapping whip scars, both fresh and old. Her muscles gave out. She collapsed back onto the filthy wood, her chest heaving as cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

Heavy, aggressive footsteps pounded against the wooden stairs outside. Military boots.

The sound shattered the dead silence of the attic.

Bang.

The flimsy wooden door exploded inward. The hinges snapped. Sharp splinters flew past Alice's cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood.

Britney Wallace stood in the doorway. She wore a pristine, custom-made haute couture dress that cost more than a car. In her right hand, she gripped a silver Smith & Wesson revolver.

"You really are like a cockroach in the gutter," Britney sneered, looking down at her. "You just won't die."

Alice didn't cower. She didn't beg.

She slowly lifted her gaze. Her eyes, usually wide with terror, were now as dark and still as an abyss.

Britney's jaw tightened. That cold, dead stare infuriated her. She marched forward, her expensive heels clicking sharply against the floorboards, and shoved the freezing steel barrel of the revolver hard against the center of Alice's forehead.

Alice didn't blink. Her eyes shifted slightly, focusing on the space just above Britney's brow.

There it was. A swirling wisp of black smoke. The karmic tether.

It was a parasitic contract. Britney had been siphoning Alice's luck, using her as a sink for all her own misfortune. But the rule of the tether was absolute: any direct, malicious attack would reflect back to the sender.

Britney's thumb pulled back the hammer. The sharp click echoed in the cramped, suffocating space.

Alice's lips curved into a microscopic, chilling smirk.

In the shadows beside her leg, her right hand moved. Her fingers twisted, locking into an ancient reflection sigil. The karmic tether's absolute rule guaranteed that the attack would reflect automatically, but Alice wasn't about to leave the trajectory to chance. The sigil acted as a spiritual magnifying glass, ensuring the rebounding kinetic energy would bypass the gun's barrel and channel with pinpoint accuracy directly into the weakest point of Britney's anatomy-her wrist.

"Go to hell, you useless freak," Britney screamed, pulling the trigger.

The gunshot never came.

Instead, a sickening, muffled metallic crunch erupted from inside the revolver. The kinetic energy in the chamber violently reversed, defying every law of physics. The massive recoil blasted backward, channeling straight into the gun's grip.

Snap.

The sound of Britney's wrist bone breaking was loud and wet. Her hand bent backward at a grotesque, unnatural angle.

The gun flew from her grip, hitting the floorboards and sliding into a dark corner.

Britney let out a bloodcurdling shriek. She dropped to her knees, clutching her mangled wrist. Her perfectly contoured face twisted into a mask of pure agony, tears ruining her expensive makeup.

Alice took her time. She stood up, her movements slow and fluid. She brushed the dust off her faded hospital gown. She didn't have a single scratch on her.

"You... you're a monster!" Britney shrieked, scooting backward on the floor, her eyes wide with terror.

Alice walked over and looked down at her.

"Your stance was entirely wrong," Alice said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You don't lock your elbow when firing a revolver."

Downstairs, the frantic clicking of high heels echoed. Candice Wallace's panicked voice pierced the air.

Alice ignored the sobbing girl on the floor. She turned and walked toward the corner of the attic, grabbing a worn canvas bag. She swept the original owner's few clean clothes and ID card into it. Zip. Done.

Candice burst into the attic. She saw her precious daughter kneeling in a pool of her own vomit and tears.

A piercing scream ripped from Candice's throat.

She lunged at Alice, her hand raised high, aiming a vicious slap at Alice's face.

Alice simply tilted her head. Candice's hand hit empty air. Her momentum carried her forward, and she tripped over a loose floorboard, crashing face-first onto the ground next to Britney.

Alice looked down at the mother and daughter.

"I am officially done with the Wallace family," Alice said.

She slung the canvas bag over her shoulder, stepped over the broken door frame, and walked down the stairs. She didn't look back.

"I'm calling the cops!" Candice screeched from the attic. "I'll have you locked up!"

"Whatever," Alice threw the word over her shoulder.

She pushed open the heavy front doors of the Wallace estate. The blinding afternoon sun hit her face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh, un-suffocating air.