The house hummed with kitchen sounds — pots clinking, water running, an aunt humming a familiar tune.

  In the living room, Seraphine sat with her ankles crossed, body relaxed, mind coiled tight.

  Across from her, the uncle stared at the television, volume low, eyes pretending to care about news anchors but flickering constantly toward her.

  Just as the tension became a living thing, the front door clicked open.

  A girl stepped inside — maybe thirteen, hair pulled back with a cheap plastic clip, uniform skirt faded from repeated washing.

  She carried a basket full of vegetables, heavy enough that she shifted her grip twice.

  “Good afternoon po, Tito,” she chirped, voice light and comfortable.

  Then she spotted Seraphine on the sofa.

  “Hi po,” she added shyly.

  Seraphine smiled gently. “Hello.”

  The girl beamed — then skipped toward the kitchen like she belonged there.

  Seraphine didn’t watch her leave.

  She watched her uncle.

  His eyes followed the girl for a fraction of a second, lingering too long, then darted back to the TV like a guilty reflex.

  Seraphine leaned back into the seat, crossed her legs slowly, and let silence stretch — until her uncle’s shoulders stiffened.

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  “Your type never changes, huh, Uncle?”

  He froze. A beat passed. Then another. His throat bobbed, voice coming out too fast, too thin.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Seraphine smiled. Calm. Kind. Deadly.

  “No need to be nervous,” she murmured. Her tone was so light, it could’ve been mistaken for teasing. “We both know you like them young.”

  His fingers twitched against the chair arms.

  “That is not—” he stammered, voice barely holding together.

  She cut him off gently.

  “That girl seems comfortable,” she observed. “But trauma is a clever thing. You don’t always see it right away.”

  He said nothing.

  “So,” Seraphine continued, tilting her head slightly, eyes still soft, “have you touched her yet?”

  The old man’s breath snagged in his chest.

  He stared at the floor now, words swallowed whole.

  Seraphine waited, letting silence do the work.

  When he stayed mute, she chuckled lightly — as if sharing gossip.

  “She didn’t flinch around you,” she noted. “So I’d guess… not yet.”

  His hands shook against his knees.

  “That’s not—” He wiped sweat from his brow. “You shouldn’t speak like that.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, amused. “Oh? But we’re just talking.”

  She let her voice warm, almost nostalgic.

  “I mean, you started with me around that age. Younger, matter of fact.”

  His breath hitched. That one sentence was a blade against an artery.

  He tried to speak — failed — tried again.

  “You—need to stop—bringing that up,” he whispered.

  Seraphine leaned forward just a fraction, resting her elbows on her knees.

  “So,” she asked softly, sweetly, mercilessly, “How many were there after me?”

  Her uncle’s lips parted. No words came.

  His skin flushed red, then pale, then something in between.

  He wheezed a breath that sounded like guilt fighting terror.

  She smiled wider. “I hope,” she continued, voice gentle as prayer, “that I was the last.”

  His eyes flicked up — fear wide and raw.

  But not denial.

  Not moral outrage.

  Just fear.

  Seraphine sat back again, expression serene. “That girl deserves better luck,” she said simply.

  From the kitchen, her aunt’s voice floated in: “Sera! Lunch is ready!”

  Seraphine stood, smoothed her blouse, and looked down at the man who once dictated her nightmares.

  “Come on,” she said brightly, “let’s eat.”

  And the predator followed her to the table like a dog.