CHAPTER 12 – "Residual Heat"

INT. DEL MUNDO MANSION – STUDY – NIGHT

Raphael sat on the edge of his desk, fingers twitching around a glass of whiskey. The air felt tighter than usual, like the walls were watching him. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was suspicious.

He stared at the monitor on his wrist again.

Still normal. No spikes. No alerts. Nothing.

He flexed his fingers. Still... nothing.

Her skin had touched his. Her weight had landed on him. And his body didn't shut down. No reaction. No pain. No panic. Just... warmth.

He took another gulp of whiskey, like it would burn away the questions.

Director Arthur sat across from him, jacket tossed over the chair, face unreadable.

"You sure you're okay?" Arthur asked, finally.

"No," Raphael muttered. "I'm not."

Arthur leaned forward. "What happened exactly?"

Raphael dragged a hand through his hair. "She fell. I caught her. Our skin touched. Nothing happened."

Arthur blinked. "Nothing?"

"Nothing."

For a second, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the ice clinking in Raphael's glass.

"I don't get it," Raphael said quietly. "You said there was no cure. You said—"

"I said there was no medical cure," Arthur corrected. "You've been stable for seventeen years. The reactions always came with human touch, even accidental ones."

"Exactly."

Arthur sighed. "This doesn't make sense biologically. But trauma isn't always rational."

Raphael looked at him, exhausted. "What are you saying? That this girl is what—my therapist?"

"I'm saying maybe this condition wasn't just medical. Maybe your body's just been holding onto grief and fear for too long. And for some reason, she broke through."

Raphael scoffed. "That sounds stupid."

"Maybe. But did you feel afraid when she touched you?"

Raphael was silent.

Arthur stood. "Then it's not stupid."

He picked up his jacket. "Take care of yourself. And… maybe stop pushing people away just because the past burned you."

He left without waiting for a reply.

---

INT. HOSPITAL – LILY'S ROOM – SAME NIGHT

Lily sat on the edge of her bed, one leg bouncing uncontrollably. She'd already changed into pajamas, but sleep was not happening tonight.

She replayed everything again. The fall. The touch. The way he looked at her.

If Director Arthur hadn't warned her about the allergy, she might've thought it was just a weird office rumor. But she'd seen his reaction once. That panic. That near-collapse.

So why… nothing?

She stepped out onto the balcony. The night air slapped her awake.

"Maybe it was a fluke," she whispered to herself.

But deep down, she knew it wasn't. There was something there. Something off. Something big.

And it scared her.

_ _ _ _ _

INT. DEL MUNDO MANSION – NIGHT

The lights buzzed overhead. Just one. Flickering. A wet hum.

Raphael stood in the middle of the empty ballroom.

Dust floated in the air like ash.

Footsteps echoed—childlike. Slower than they should be.

He turned around.

There was a boy. Small. In a tiny black suit. Barefoot. Face shadowed. A toy train clutched in his hand.

Raphael's heart pounded.

"That's mine," he muttered.

The boy didn't look up. He just dropped the toy and crushed it beneath his heel.

Crunch.

Behind him, a coffin creaked open.

Raphael's breath hitched. He couldn't move.

Two bodies. Faces blurred like static. Bloodstained hands folded across their chests. And then—

Slap.

A sharp crack behind him. He turned.

Mr. Navarro, Dante's father, towered over Dante—little, shivering, red-eyed. A broken Gameboy in his hands.

"You were warned about touching Del Mundo trash," the man spat.

Dante looked up—straight at Raphael.

Then he smiled.

A slow, twisted smile.

"You took everything," Dante whispered. "And now... I'm gonna take it back."

Suddenly, Dante was older. Full height. Dressed in a suit. The ballroom blinked—now a boardroom. People surrounded Raphael, all faceless, whispering.

"Sabotage."

"He's not stable."

"Cursed."

"No cure."

He turned to the glass wall—and there he was. Nine-year-old Raphael. In the reflection. Crying. Alone.

"I tried to hold your hand," a voice behind him said.

He whipped around.

Dante again. The ten-year-old version. Tears in his eyes. But then he stepped closer. Leaned in.

"You killed them."

Raphael gasped.

"You killed your mom and dad. And everyone who touches you will suffer."

Suddenly, everyone in the room reached toward him. Pale hands. Cold. Dozens. Hundreds.

Trying to touch him. Grab him. Hold him down.

Raphael screamed, scrambling back—but the hands kept coming.

"You're a curse."

"You're a monster."

"You kill everything you love."

His heart pounded. Faster. Harder.

Hands wrapped around his throat.

His gloves were gone.

He was naked to them.

And then—

She appeared.

Lily.

Face calm.

She didn't say a word. She just touched his cheek.

And every hand froze.

Time shattered.

The room collapsed.

---

INT. RAPHAEL'S BEDROOM – EARLY MORNING

He gasped awake, drenched in sweat.

Shaking.

He gripped the sheets like they were keeping him alive.

The monitor on his wrist blinked in warning—heart rate: 118.

His breaths came fast, shallow.

He looked at his hands.

Gloved. Still.

But under them… he swore they were burning.