SCARLETT ROSE
The cold, calculating gaze of Joseph is all I see in front of me.
He holds a knife firmly, the blade's glint reflecting the dim light in the room.
Every detail of him—the cynical smile, the narrowed eyes—overflows with a sadistic pleasure, as if he has been waiting for this moment his whole life.
A shiver runs down my spine, but I force myself to face him, trying to hold back the rage pounding in my chest.
"We could start with you begging forgiveness for all the accusations, all those charges after your dear parents' deaths...", he says, his voice drawn out, each word a taunt.
"Beg for your forgiveness?", my voice comes out dripping with contempt, barely controlled.
"You're insane! You ruined everything in my life!", my shout echoes in the room, and the sound seems to
