Chapter 5 The Contract Upgrade

# Chapter 5: The Contract Upgrade

The three days in the basement altered me in ways I hadn't anticipated. I emerged physically intact but mentally disoriented. Russell's "immersion therapy" had been brutally effective—hours of watching Vanessa's routines, listening to her voice, being forced to mimic her reactions to stimuli—all while the calibrator monitored my compliance.

When Lawrence finally came to release me on the morning of the fourth day, I wasn't entirely certain who I was anymore. Cecilia's memories felt distant, dreamlike, while Vanessa's habits had become my default setting.

"Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you in the solarium," Lawrence informed me, his face as impassive as ever as he helped me from the bed.

My legs were weak from disuse. Despite being allowed brief periods of movement during my confinement, three days of near-immobility had taken their toll. Lawrence supported my elbow as we made our way up the stone steps and back into the main house.

The sunlight streaming through the windows was almost painful after days in the artificial light of the basement. I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes—exactly as Vanessa would have done, I realized with a chill. The gesture wasn't conscious; it was automatic.

The solarium was at the back of the house, a glass-enclosed space filled with exotic plants and wicker furniture. Russell sat at a small table set for breakfast, reading something on his tablet. He looked up as I entered, his eyes scanning me with clinical precision.

"Good morning," he said. "How do you feel?"

I considered my answer carefully. "Renewed," I replied, using Vanessa's measured cadence.

A smile spread across his face—the first genuine smile I'd seen from him. "Excellent. Please, join me for breakfast. You must be hungry."

I took the seat opposite him, noting that the table was set with Vanessa's favorite breakfast—soft-boiled eggs, whole grain toast, and sliced mango. Even the tea was prepared exactly as she preferred it—one sugar, splash of milk.

"The immersion was successful," Russell continued, setting aside his tablet. "Your calibrator readings were nearly perfect for the final twenty-four hours. I'm very pleased with your progress."

"Thank you," I murmured, taking a small bite of egg. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to eat with Vanessa's delicate precision.

"However," Russell added, his tone shifting slightly, "we still have work to do. The contract has been in effect for just over a month, and while your physical resemblance is flawless, there are aspects of Vanessa that remain... elusive."

I set down my fork. "What aspects?"

"Emotional authenticity." Russell leaned forward, his eyes intense. "You can mimic her mannerisms perfectly, but in moments of surprise or stress, your true self emerges. We saw this during the blood incident."

My finger throbbed at the memory. The cut had healed, but the experience remained raw.

"I've prepared a contract addendum." Russell slid a document across the table. "Phase three begins today."

The document was shorter than the original contract—just three pages. I scanned it quickly, my heart sinking with each paragraph. According to the new terms, I would be required to undergo daily "emotional calibration sessions" designed to align my instinctive reactions with Vanessa's.

"What exactly do these sessions entail?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

Russell smiled that unsettling smile again. "Something quite innovative. I've been collecting audio recordings for years—sounds that triggered specific emotional responses from Vanessa. Now you'll listen to them until your reactions match hers precisely."

I turned to the second page and froze. There, in clinical language, was a requirement that made my blood run cold:

"Subject will participate in auditory response training using murder case ASMR recordings until able to replicate Subject Prime's fear response with 98% accuracy."

"Murder case ASMR?" I looked up, unable to hide my shock. "You recorded murder cases for Vanessa?"

"Not just any murder cases," Russell replied, seemingly pleased by my reaction. "Cases that paralleled her childhood traumas—the car accident that killed your parents, home invasions similar to the one you both experienced at sixteen. I found that these recordings elicited the purest fear responses from her."

My stomach turned. The car accident had been devastating enough, but the home invasion had been particularly traumatic for Vanessa. While I'd hidden in a closet, she'd been discovered by the intruders and held at knifepoint for nearly an hour. She'd had nightmares for years afterward.

"You deliberately triggered her trauma," I said slowly. "For what purpose?"

"Research," Russell replied simply. "I'm a neuroscientist, Cecilia. My work focuses on emotional responses and their physical manifestations. Vanessa was my most valuable subject."

"Subject," I repeated. "Not wife."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Sign the addendum. Now."

I picked up the pen, my hand trembling slightly. I had no choice—refusing would end my investigation before I could find the evidence I needed to prove Russell had murdered my sister.

I signed.

"Perfect." Russell collected the document. "We'll begin tonight. For now, you'll return to your regular schedule. Margaret's replacement has arrived—her name is Diana. She'll help you dress for the day."

Diana turned out to be a severe-looking woman in her forties with sharp eyes that missed nothing. As she helped me change from the hospital gown I'd worn in the basement into one of Vanessa's day dresses, I could tell she wasn't going to be an ally like Margaret had been.

"Mr. Blackwood has instructed me to report any deviations from protocol," she informed me as she fastened the buttons at the back of my dress. "I take my responsibilities very seriously."

"I understand," I replied, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Margaret did as well."

A flicker of something—warning? fear?—crossed Diana's face. "Margaret was careless. I am not."

The day passed in a haze of scheduled activities—reading in the library, lunch on the terrace, a supervised walk through the gardens. Russell was absent, presumably at his research laboratory in the city. I used the time to consider my next move.

The pool house was my primary target now. Vanessa's diary entry had made it clear that something important was hidden "where the light meets the water." But the pool area was heavily monitored, and Russell rarely allowed me there—perhaps because it was the scene of Vanessa's death.

I needed a distraction, something that would give me enough time to search the pool house thoroughly. But what?

Evening arrived too quickly. After dinner, Russell led me to a room I hadn't seen before—a small chamber adjacent to his bedroom, soundproofed and equipped with a reclining chair similar to those in high-end dental offices.

"Your first emotional calibration session," he explained, gesturing for me to sit. "Tonight we'll establish baseline reactions."

Once I was seated, Russell attached small sensors to my temples, wrists, and chest, removing the standard calibrator I'd worn for weeks. These new sensors were connected to a sophisticated machine that displayed my vital signs on a monitor.

"These are more sensitive than the calibrator," Russell explained. "They measure micro-expressions, pulse changes, even subtle shifts in your body temperature. Nothing will escape detection."

He placed headphones over my ears and handed me a small clicker. "Press this button whenever you feel fear. The intensity of your press should correspond to the intensity of your emotion."

Before I could respond, Russell injected something into my arm—a clear liquid from a small syringe.

"What was that?" I asked, alarm rising in my throat.

"A mild muscle relaxant," he replied casually, disposing of the syringe. "It helps your body respond more authentically by removing conscious control of your physical reactions. Vanessa's data was collected under similar conditions."

Panic surged through me, but already I could feel the drug taking effect—a spreading warmth, a heaviness in my limbs. I wasn't paralyzed, but my movements became sluggish, my control over my facial expressions diminishing.

"Begin," Russell said, pressing a button on the machine.

Soft sounds filled my headphones—a door creaking open, footsteps on hardwood floors, the jingle of keys. Ordinary sounds, but something about their sequence raised the hairs on the back of my neck. It mimicked the beginning of the home invasion Vanessa and I had experienced—the same pattern of noises that had preceded the breaking of glass, the shouts of men entering our house.

I pressed the clicker lightly, registering mild anxiety.

Russell shook his head, watching the monitor. "Vanessa's fear response was much stronger at this point. Again."

The audio replayed, and I pressed harder, trying to match what Russell expected.

"Better, but still insufficient," he said. "Let me help you access the appropriate emotional state."

He adjusted something on the machine, and suddenly the audio changed—no longer just ambient sounds but a full recording of a home invasion, complete with screams and pleading voices. The sounds were so realistic, so similar to my own memories, that my body responded instinctively. My heart raced, my breathing became shallow, and cold sweat broke out across my skin.

I pressed the clicker hard, my hand trembling.

"Good," Russell nodded, making notes. "Now we're approaching Vanessa's response pattern."

For the next two hours, Russell subjected me to increasingly disturbing audio recordings—911 calls from murder scenes, recreations of violent attacks, even what sounded like actual torture sessions. Each time, he measured my responses against Vanessa's recorded data, adjusting the stimuli until my reactions matched hers precisely.

By the end, I was exhausted and nauseated, my body drenched in sweat despite my minimal movement.

"Excellent progress," Russell said, removing the headphones and sensors. "Tomorrow we'll focus specifically on recreating Vanessa's scream. Her fear vocalization was quite distinctive—high-pitched initially, then dropping to a guttural tone."

"I don't know if I can—"

"You can and you will," he interrupted, helping me stand on unsteady legs. "The muscle relaxant will wear off in approximately thirty minutes. Diana will help you prepare for bed."

As Diana led me back to my suite, I caught a glimpse of myself in a hallway mirror—pale, with dark circles under my eyes and a vacant expression that reminded me of the mannequins in Russell's workshop. I was becoming one of them.

In my bathroom, as Diana ran my bath, I noticed something on the counter—a small audio recorder, no bigger than a lighter. Had Diana placed it there? Or was it Russell, monitoring even my private moments?

"Your bath is ready," Diana announced, helping me undress with efficient, impersonal movements. As she removed my dress, she leaned close to my ear, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Be careful what you say, even in here. Especially in here."

Before I could respond, she straightened up and continued in her normal voice, "Mr. Blackwood prefers you use the lavender bath oil, not the rose. I'll return in twenty minutes to help you prepare for bed."

Once alone, I sank into the hot water, letting it soothe my trembling muscles. The recorder sat on the counter, its tiny red light indicating it was active. I stared at it, considering my options.

Russell wanted Vanessa's scream. Perhaps I could use that to my advantage.

The next evening's session was even more intense. Russell seemed determined to extract the exact sound he wanted from me.

"Again," he commanded, replaying a particularly disturbing audio clip—what sounded like a woman being chased through woods, her panicked breathing punctuated by breaking twigs and rustling leaves.

I screamed as the recording reached its climax, trying to match the sound Russell had described.

"No, no, no," he said, frustration evident in his voice. "Vanessa's fear wasn't just in her voice—it was in her entire body. You're holding back."

He increased the dosage of the muscle relaxant, rendering me almost immobile in the chair. Only my vocal cords remained fully under my control.

"Now," he said, starting a new recording—this one featuring sounds that made my skin crawl: water splashing, gasping breaths, the distinct sound of someone struggling against restraint.

With horror, I realized what I was hearing—a recreation of a drowning. Vanessa's drowning.

"Where did you get this?" I whispered, the drug making my words slur slightly.

Russell smiled coldly. "I created it. Based on my observations."

"You were there," I said, the realization dawning with terrible clarity. "When she died. You watched her drown."

"I didn't just watch," he replied, his voice distant, almost dreamy. "I studied. Every expression, every sound, every bubble of air from her lungs. It was... magnificent. Her fear was the purest I've ever recorded."

In that moment, staring into Russell's eyes, I saw nothing human there—just cold, scientific curiosity. He hadn't just killed Vanessa; he'd turned her death into data.

Something inside me snapped. The scream that tore from my throat wasn't practiced or performative—it was primal, raw, filled with genuine terror and rage.

Russell's eyes widened in delight. "Yes! That's it! Perfect!" He quickly adjusted his equipment, recording my scream. "Again!"

I screamed until my voice gave out, each cry fueled by my hatred for this monster and my determination to destroy him. In my drug-weakened state, genuine emotion was all I had left—and I poured every ounce of it into the sounds Russell so desperately wanted to capture.

"Remarkable," he said when I finally fell silent, my throat raw. "The biological similarity between twins truly is fascinating. Your fear response is nearly identical to hers."

He rewound the recording and played it back. The sound that filled the room barely seemed human—a wounded animal caught in a trap, knowing death was coming.

"We'll continue tomorrow," Russell said, clearly pleased with the session's results. "I want to capture every variation of this vocalization."

As Diana helped me back to my suite, my legs still unsteady from the muscle relaxant, I caught her watching me with an unreadable expression.

"He'll kill you too, eventually," she said quietly as she helped me into bed. "Once he has what he wants."

"Why are you telling me this?" I managed to ask, my tongue still thick from the drug.

Diana's face remained expressionless. "Margaret wasn't the first assistant to disappear. I don't intend to be the next."

She placed something under my pillow, then turned and left without another word.

Once I was certain she was gone, I reached under the pillow and found a small key card with no markings. What door did it open? And why had Diana given it to me?

As I drifted into uneasy sleep, the muscle relaxant still circulating in my system, I became aware of a sound in the room—soft, rhythmic breathing that wasn't my own. I forced my heavy eyelids open and scanned the shadows.

Nothing visible. But as I listened more carefully to the ASMR recording still playing softly from the speaker Russell had installed in my bedroom, I detected it—beneath the primary audio, almost subliminal, was the sound of Russell's breathing. He had embedded himself into the recordings, ensuring that even in sleep, his presence would infiltrate my subconscious.

The realization should have terrified me. Instead, it hardened my resolve. Somehow, I had to use these sessions against him. The key card under my pillow might be my first real opportunity.

Tomorrow, I decided, I would find out what door it opened—and what secrets lay behind it.


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