The Sister's Lunge

Elena didn't scream. She didn't cry out. She made a sound that was purely animal, a jagged, guttural snarl that tore through the refined acoustics of the ballroom. She lunged off the stage, her silver gown shredding against the sharp mahogany edge of the press table as she propelled herself toward Sarah with the terrifying, single-minded focus of a predator.

Sarah stood her ground behind the AV console, the wireless mic still live in her hand, broadcasting the wet, frantic sound of Elena’s breathing to the entire room.

"You ruined it!" Elena shrieked, her voice distorted by the speakers, echoing off the tiered crystal chandeliers. "You messy, useless little bitch! I fixed you! I fixed this family!"

Margaret surged forward, her black velvet arms outstretched, attempting to create a human shield around her golden child. "Elena, stop! People are watching!" Margaret’s voice was high and thin, her authority crumbling like wet ash. She grabbed Elena’s waist, trying to anchor her, but Elena threw her mother aside with a violent, backhanded shove that sent Margaret sprawling into a stack of gilded chairs.

Elena didn't even look back at the woman who had spent forty years burying her bodies. She reached the sound booth, her fingers hooked like talons, catching the edge of the velvet curtain. Her face was a landscape of raw sociopathy, the empathy she had spent a career mimicking finally discarded.

"I should have finished it in the crib," Elena hissed, her eyes black and dilated.

She lunged over the console, her hands locking around Sarah’s throat. The force of the impact knocked Sarah backward against the steel equipment rack, the air escaping her lungs in a sharp, wheezing whistle. Sarah clawed at Elena’s wrists, her vision beginning to spot as the silver-clad monster squeezed with the clinical precision of a surgeon who knew exactly how much pressure was required to stop a heart.

Suddenly, the ballroom was flooded with the harsh, rhythmic pulse of blue and red light.

"Police! Get off her!"

Four officers, their tactical gear a jarring contrast to the evening wear of the guests, swarmed the booth. They didn't go for Sarah. They tackled Elena, their collective weight dragging her off her sister and pinning her to the floorboards.

Elena fought with a frenzied, unnatural strength, her teeth bared, her shimmering gown stained with the dirt of the struggle. One officer applied a knee to her spine while another wrenched her arms behind her back. The metallic *snick-click* of handcuffs engaging was the loudest sound in the room.

Sarah slid down the equipment rack, her hands shielding her bruised throat, her chest heaving as she sucked in the scorched, electrical air of the booth. She looked down at the floor, where Elena was being hauled up, her hair a wild mane, her silver armor ruined.

Elena looked at her, a final, lethal promise in her gaze, but the police didn't hesitate. They marched the Chief of Pediatrics through the sea of silent, recoiling donors toward the exit.

Sarah said she'd never hit back. But she looked down at Elena in handcuffs and felt absolutely nothing.