Tristan quietly entered the living room. The dim lights illuminated his wife, crouching above a grinding bowl. He sat on the sofa, observing her.

Amara stood up suddenly, joy plastered on her face. "Finally," she squealed, trapping Tristan in a tight embrace. His body stiffened for a moment before hugging her back.

"Do you think it'll work this time?" Tristan whispered. Amara let go of him abruptly, eyes almost twinkling with maniacal glee. 

"Why wouldn't it work?" 

'Because it's ridiculous.' - Tristan answered in his head.

Amara dissapered for a wine, to celabrete her accoplisment.

Tristan turned on the TV, changing the channels, stopping on the news. The reporter stood beside a secured crime scene, investigators documenting the scene behind red tape. "Crime has risen exponentially since the appearance of the so-called Jewel Brotherhood. Their act of harvesting the jewels of blessed individuals and methods of shifting fate is considered a threat to our community. Their principles remain unknown to outsiders. However, we advise everyone to remain cautious and report any suspicious individuals."

The reporter stood stiffly, reading the script without any unnecessary emotion.

Amara returned with a bottle of fine wine, her brows sticking close when she noticed the news. She turned off the TV swiftly.

"You can't watch such a thing." 

"Sorry," he muttered.

Amara poured two glasses before plopping on the couch next to him, the color of the liquid embodying blood more than he'd like. She picked up her glass to make a toast. "On better fate."

"On better fate," Tristan repeated lifelessly before downing the glass.

The principles of Jewel Brotherhood weren't hard to grasp. They grind a jewel of a more blessed individual and snort the powder like a drug. Some dissolve the jewel above a weak flame and inject the liquified substance directly into their bloodstream. 

His wife snorted the powder eagerly next to him.

They believe the more pain they inflict on the blessed before slaughtering them, the finer their jewel becomes, and their probability of changing unchangeable raises. 

Amara slipped into a state similar to drug-induced delirium. She giggled, her mouth open, eyes red.

A ball of fluff, a kitten, jumped on his lap. He stroked its head, his gaze focused on Amara. Her name held numerous meanings, but one stood out - bitter.

He pushed the kitten aside and leaned closer to Amara. He kissed her forehead. "I'll go lie upstairs," his voice dropped to a low whisper.

Amara nodded lightly. "Rest well, darling." Her gaze followed his figure before he disappeared. She had no idea this was his goodbye.

He headed to the back door, his steps firm, destination clear. He didn't look back as his foot set on the grass. This was his only chance. He couldn't get caught. He counted his steps. He won't turn around. He can start over. His steps grew bold, each one marking his freedom. He broke into a sprint. He was a fool.

Tristan lost his footing. The wind carried a scream. "YOU CAN'T RUN FROM ME!"

Amara pulled the trigger. Before he could react, before he could realize-

She was a great shooter. She was a hunter, and he was her prey. He could never escape. The bullet hit him with haunting accuracy. He couldn't see. He couldn't feel anything. No, that's not right - he could feel and see everything. He felt every inch of his being. His vision blurred as she approached him. Is he crying?

He was a fool. He is a fool. He could never escape. Perhaps Amara could change her fate. Maybe she was right all this time. She wasn't the crazy one.