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Eve stood before the mirror, practicing anger. Her reflection scowled back at her, features twisted into what she hoped was intimidating fury. She tried different variations: cold rage, explosive rage, seething resentment, bitter contempt. Each expression felt like wearing an ill-fitting costume, technically correct but fundamentally wrong on her face.

If Sera was volatile, I need to be volatile. If she threw tantrums, I need to throw tantrums. Disappear into the role until I understand it well enough to control it.

It was a calculated risk. Eve had spent her corporate life maintaining perfect composure, never letting emotions cloud strategic thinking. But this situation demanded a different approach. The staff expected a monster. They had built their entire defensive strategy around anticipating explosive outbursts. Perhaps giving them what they expected would create a shield of predictability while she worked behind the scenes to gather real information. She selected a small, expensive looking vase from the mantle. It was porcelain, delicately painted with flowers, the sort of thing that would make a satisfying crash without actually hurting anyone.

When the servant arrived with lunch, Eve was ready. "This food is cold." She kept her voice sharp and imperious. "How dare you bring me cold food?"

The servant, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, barely glanced at the tray. Her expression held no fear, no shock, no reaction at all beyond a sort of practiced weariness. "I apologize, my lady. Shall I fetch a fresh tray?"

Eve threw the vase. She aimed carefully, letting it smash against the stone wall beside the door rather than anywhere near the servant. Porcelain exploded in a shower of white fragments, scattering across the floor like snow.

The servant sighed. It was not a gasp of fear or a cry of alarm. It was a sigh, deep and world-weary, the sound of someone confronting a mess they would now have to clean up. She bent to retrieve the larger pieces, her movements methodical and unbothered. "I will fetch the broom, my lady. And a fresh tray. Will there be anything else?"

Eve stared at her, thrown completely off balance. This was not fear. This was resignation. This was someone who had seen this exact performance so many times it no longer registered as threatening, merely tedious. Sera's tantrums were not feared. They were tolerated. Endured. Expected and ultimately meaningless.

"No. Thank you." Eve heard the words leave her mouth in her normal tone, polite and measured, and saw the servant's eyes widen slightly. That reaction, small as it was, told her more than a hundred thrown vases ever could.

After the servant left, Eve sank into her chair and reassessed her strategy. Sera had been volatile, yes, but not in a way that garnered respect or genuine fear. Her outbursts had been empty theater, the tantrums of someone with no real power acting out in the only way available to her. The staff had learned to simply endure the storms and wait for them to pass. Mimicking Sera's behavior exactly would accomplish nothing except confirming everyone's lowest expectations.

Eve turned back to the mirror and tried something different. She let her features settle into calm neutrality, the expression she had worn during her most crucial negotiations. No anger. No volatility. Just quiet, analytical observation and the suggestion of a mind working several steps ahead of any conversation. This is what Sera never was. Controlled. Strategic. Unpredictable in her restraint rather than her explosions.

She practiced the expression, adding small variations. A slight tilt of the head that suggested she was listening far more carefully than anyone expected. A ghost of a smile that could be read as either knowing or condescending depending on context. The still, focused attention of someone cataloging every detail for later use. It felt natural. It felt right. And more importantly, it felt dangerous in a way that thrown vases never would be.

When the servant returned with fresh food and a broom, Eve was sitting calmly by the window, reading a book she had found in the chamber. She looked up with that same neutral expression and said quietly, "I apologize for the vase. That was inappropriate."

The servant froze mid-step, her eyes going wide with something that looked like actual alarm. "My lady?"

"The food was fine. I should not have complained." Eve returned her attention to the book, dismissing the servant with practiced ease. She did not need to look up to know the woman stood rooted in place for several long seconds, clearly trying to reconcile this calm, polite creature with the volatile witch she had been managing for years.

When the door finally closed, Eve allowed herself a small smile. Anger is easy to predict. Anger is manageable. Calm is unsettling. Calm suggests thought. And thought suggests danger of a completely different kind. She would not be the monster they expected. She would be something far worse: unexpected.