A Lesson in Monsters.

A Lesson in Monsters.
Sage

The mornings belong to ghosts. Not the dead kind — the living ones. The ones who wake before the sun because silence sits too heavy on their chests and sleep never lasts long enough to matter. I’m up before the light, same as always. The compound’s still, dew clinging to the grass, air sharp enough to sting. Usually, it’s just me and the sound of birds waking up. But today, another light breaks the dark, faint and pulsing from the direction of Diego’s cabin. He’s awake. That in itself isn’t strange. The why is. I slip my coat on and head across the yard, boots whispering against the gravel. The closer I get, the more I can hear it, the soft hum of electronics, the quiet buzz that only ever means one thing in this family: surveillance. The door isn’t locked. I push it open just enough to see him. Diego’s sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on a dozen small screens, the glow of them painting his face in shifting blues and greys. He doesn’t notice me right away. On the monitors, I catch flickers of movement — rooms, shadows, a familiar set of walls I shouldn’t be seeing from here. The Ricci estate. So he’s still watching. The same cameras I saw him plant last night.
I lean against the frame, arms folded. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He doesn’t jump, doesn’t even turn, just leans back slightly, that calm stillness that means he was expecting someone eventually.
“Couldn’t stop thinking,” he says.
I step inside, letting the door fall shut behind me. The cabin smells faintly of oil and cedar, and the coffee he pretends doesn’t keep him awake. “About her?”
He doesn’t answer. Which is an answer.
“She’s interesting,” he says finally. “She’s not like the rest of them. You can see it in the way she moves. Like she’s holding her breath and waiting for the world to do something stupid.”
“She’s Ricci blood,” I remind him. “That world usually does.”
He glances up at me. There’s a glint in his eyes I recognise too well, not just curiosity, not lust, but fascination sharpened into focus. It’s the same look I used to have when I was about to ruin someone’s life in the name of justice.
“What are you doing with this, Diego?” I ask, crossing the room to stand behind him. “What’s the plan?”
He shrugs, not defensive, just honest. “Learning her. People are predictable when they think no one’s watching. I want to know who she is when she’s not performing.”
“Why?”
Another pause. Then, quietly: “Because she doesn’t deserve to be there.”

That makes me stop.
“She’s a Ricci,” I remind him again, though softer this time.
“She’s not, though, not entirely,” he says. “Blood doesn't always mean loyalty.”
The screen flickers again — a replay of the morning feed, her throat bruised where Marco's hand had been. My gut tightens. I don’t ask how long he’s had that footage. He looks at me like he’s daring me to say he’s wrong.
“I’m not going to tell you to stop,” I say.
That surprises him. His brow furrows. “You’re not?”
“No. I’m just going to tell you to be careful of what you become while you’re watching.”
His confusion shifts to something sharper. “Meaning?”
I lean a hip against the desk, folding my arms. “Meaning obsession and purpose look the same until they don’t. One makes you sharper; the other eats you alive. You think you’re protecting her, but one day you’ll wake up and realise you’ve turned into the same thing you hate.”
He studies me — the way I used to study Connor when I didn’t know if he was a threat or a promise. “That what happened to you?”
I smile faintly. “I made peace with my monsters. Doesn’t mean I’d recommend the process.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “So what do I do?”
“Keep your distance. Learn, but don’t touch. Watch, but don’t own.”
That earns me a crooked smile. “You’re telling me not to be you.”
“I’m telling you not to repeat my mistakes.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t regret any of it though, do you?”
The question cuts deeper than he knows. I think of Connor — of blood and gunpowder, of years of running and fighting and clawing our way toward something that finally looks like peace. I think of the first time he looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon but a woman.
“No,” I say truthfully. “But I don’t need two of me in this world.”
He chuckles softly. “Too late, Sissy.”
The word still hits me in the chest every time, that simple, easy affection. He’s not my son, but he’s mine all the same.
I rest a hand on his shoulder, light but firm. “You want to protect her? Fine. But don’t do it from the dark forever. Light has its uses too.”
He nods, though I can see it, the resolve settling in, not yielding, not bending. “If I don’t, who will?”
I start to answer, then stop. There’s no point lying to him. In our world, sometimes you are the only one.
“Then make sure,” I say softly, “you haunt for the right reasons.”

He turns back to the screens, gaze fixed, unblinking. The girl, Charlotte, is sitting by the window now, the early morning light tracing the outline of her face. She looks small in the frame. Trapped.
“She deserves better,” Diego murmurs.
I watch him watching her, and I see it so clearly now, the same current that ran through me when I first laid eyes on Connor. The dangerous mix of curiosity, pity, and something more primal, something that whispers mine. He doesn’t flinch from it. Neither did I. When I leave, the screens still glow, little portals of silent devotion. The door clicks softly behind me, and I step out into the cold air.
Connor’s waiting near the porch, leaning against the railing with two mugs of coffee. He hands me one without asking.
“How bad?” he says.
I take a sip. “Depends who you ask. Nico would say concerning. I’d say… familiar.”
He smirks faintly. “He’s you.”
I look out across the compound, where the first edge of dawn is painting the horizon in gold. “That’s what scares me,” I admit.
Connor slides an arm around my shoulders. “He’ll figure it out.”
“Eventually.”
We stand there together, watching the light chase away the dark — two people who found a home, wondering what kind of monster they’ve raised.