❝ in your basement i grow cold,
thinking back to what i was always told ❞

30. two-headed mother

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍. It was all Ingrid could feel. It consumed her — raw, unrelenting agony coursing through her body, clawing at her insides, spreading like fire through her veins. It gnawed and tore, each wave worse than the last, until it felt as though she might split apart. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the sound barely audible over the pounding in her ears.

She groaned softly, her lips trembling as she forced a word through the haze of pain. “Dad?” Her voice cracked, fragile and hoarse, barely more than a whisper. He was always there when she needed him — always. Scraped knees, broken wrists, even when she tried to push him away, he’d stayed. But now…

Ingrid forced her heavy eyelids open, expecting to see the familiar sight of him rushing to her side. Instead, she was greeted by a suffocating darkness, thick and unyielding. It stretched endlessly, pressing in on her like it had weight, sinking its claws into her lungs and cutting off her air. She coughed weakly, the sound muffled and dry, the darkness itself swallowing her voice.

The floor beneath her was damp and slick, the warmth of it unnerving against her skin. Her cheek stuck to the mud and filth, her hair clinging to her face in wet, tangled strands. Slowly, she shifted, trying to rise, only to feel cold, unyielding metal bite into her wrists.

Chains.

Her breath hitched as panic swelled in her chest. She tugged at the restraints, but they didn’t budge. Every movement sent sharp, stinging pain shooting up her arms. Tears slipped from her eyes, unbidden, streaking down her dirtied face.

When her vision finally adjusted, she saw that the room wasn't completely dark, though it may as well have been. The faintest glimmer of light cut through the oppressive gloom. A small, filthy window, high above, cast a sickly glow that barely reached the ground. The cobblestones beneath her gleamed wetly, their uneven surface slick with something viscous.

Her stomach twisted.

Was the sky outside red? For a moment, she thought it might be her imagination — a cruel trick played by her mind — but the faint glow creeping through the window seemed all too real. It was the same blood-red sky from her nightmares, the one that left her waking up in cold sweats.

The pain searing through her body flared, pulling a strangled cry from her throat. It felt like something was alive inside her veins, burning her from the inside out. Despite the agony, Ingrid gritted her teeth and pushed herself upright, her back hitting the rough cobblestone wall with a gasp of relief.

Her surroundings came into sharper focus as she steadied herself, and three realizations struck her.

First, she was in some kind of room, though it felt less like a space meant for people and more like a tomb. The walls seemed to pulse with an unnatural heat, as if they were alive, exhaling a humid, stifling air that clung to her skin.

Second, time has passed. A lot of time. Her hair, which once brushed lightly against her neck, now hung well past her shoulders in damp, tangled strands. Her bangs obscured her vision, falling into her eyes. How long had she been here? How long had her dad been alone?

And third, she was lying in blood.

Her breath hitched as her gaze dropped to the dark, wet stain beneath her. The smell hit her then — metallic and nauseating. She froze as something warm and sticky dripped from her cheek onto her tongue. The tang of it filled her mouth before she could stop it.

Ingrid gagged, her stomach rolling violently, but she clamped her jaw shut, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise.

Summoning the last of her strength, she opened her mouth to call out, hoping — desperate — that her voice might somehow reach him. “Dad?” she croaked again, louder this time, though the sound barely carried past the walls.

But before she could try again, she heard the rhythmic click of heels against stone.

Ingrid froze, her pulse hammering in her ears. The sound echoed through the room, deliberate and slow, each step dragging the air tighter in her chest. The footsteps circled the perimeter, pacing, as if their owner were inspecting her. She strained her eyes to follow the movement, but the darkness remained oppressive, the figure just out of sight.

Then came the flare of light.

One by one, torches lining the walls sparked to life, their flames dancing unnaturally bright. Shadows twisted and stretched along the uneven stones, creating monstrous shapes that seemed to writhe and crawl. And then, the figure stepped into view.

Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat.

The woman stood tall in the center of the room, her presence commanding, her expression unreadable. The flickering flames cast sharp shadows over her face, but it was unmistakable. The same sharp features. The same eyes — those same haunting, green eyes that stared back at her every time Ingrid looked in a mirror.

And in her palm, a flame burned.

Bright, searing, and alive.

The silence between them was suffocating, thick with unspoken words and barely restrained emotion. The woman’s gaze burned into her, filled with something Ingrid couldn’t name — something cold and unyielding and perhaps desperate.

Ingrid's fourth realization hit her. This was her mother.

Ingrid couldn’t breathe. Her mind raced, a chaotic swirl of anger, fear, and despair. How could she put into words what she felt in this moment? The rage, the betrayal, the crushing weight of realizing who this woman was, what she had done to her?

The words wouldn’t come.

“So.”

The single word dripped with disdain. Ingrid flinched at the sound of her mother’s voice — a voice she had only ever imagined in dreams and nightmares. It was smooth, too smooth, like silk concealing steel. Her mother’s gaze swept over her, slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.

Ingrid straightened her spine, forcing her trembling lips into a defiant line. She clenched her jaw, digging her nails into her palms to keep her composure.

“You’re… smaller than I imagined.”

The words were delivered with an air of cruel amusement, as though meant for an audience that wasn’t there. Her mother smirked, satisfied, and Ingrid fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Instead, she lied through her teeth. “And you’re exactly what I imagined.”

Her mother tilted her head, her expression one of feigned intrigue, though the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her amusement. Slowly, she clasped her hands behind her back, her posture calm, almost regal. “Ah, the stubbornness. The insolence. You wear it like armor. But I see through it, child.”

The words stung more than Ingrid wanted to admit. She pressed herself harder against the wall, wishing she could sink into the unforgiving stone and disappear. But she refused to let the fear show.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her voice firm, though the slight quiver betrayed her.

Her mother took a slow, deliberate step forward, the sound of her heels echoing in the oppressive silence. “I never said you were,” she murmured, her voice low and dangerous. Her gaze bore into Ingrid’s, unrelenting, until she was standing just feet away. “But you will be.”

Ingrid’s breath hitched. The woman before her was nothing like the figure she had constructed in her childhood — a mother she had clung to in secret hopes. That woman had crumbled into dust the moment her mother had stepped into the light.

She squared her shoulders, forcing herself to meet her mother’s gaze. “You’re still wasting your time,” she spat, the venom in her voice a thin shield against the growing dread in her chest. “Whatever you want, you’re not getting it from me.”

Her mother smirked, taking another step forward. Her long, dark dress dragged through the blood pooling on the floor, the fabric soaking it up like a sponge. Ingrid’s stomach twisted at the sight, bile rising in her throat as she wondered again if it was hers.

“Oh, my darling girl.” Her mother’s voice oozed with mock pity, the nickname like poison in Ingrid’s ears. “I don’t want anything from you. You’re already exactly where I want you. In my world.”

The words struck Ingrid like a blow, her chest tightening. She had long accepted the fact that she was on a different planet, in another world, but hearing her mother confirm it made it no less unbearable. The air here pressed down on her like a vice, thick and suffocating, carrying the faint metallic tang of blood and fire.

The shadows in the room shifted with the torches, and the walls — rough and volcanic — seemed to pulse faintly beneath her fingertips, as though alive. Ingrid could feel the heat emanating from them, a heartbeat.

Her voice came out quieter than she intended, a tremor slipping through her words. “What world? What is this place?”

Her mother tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, cruel smile. The amusement in her expression made Ingrid’s blood boil, her fists clenching at her sides. She'd never seen such cold eyes. Then again, those eyes were her's, too.

“You don’t recognize it?” Her mother’s voice dripped with mock disappointment, her tone sharp enough to cut. “How utterly… unfortunate.” She rolled her eyes, letting out a theatrical sigh. “I had hoped there was still some trace of your heritage in you. Some semblance of honor.”

The insult landed harder than Ingrid wanted to admit, twisting like a knife in her gut. She tightened her jaw, narrowing her eyes into a sharp glare, but her mother ignored her, continuing as though Ingrid's rage was something beneath her. As if she had tamed it before.

“This is where you were meant to be.”

Her mother’s voice rang out, her hands unclasping from behind her back to gesture vaguely at their surroundings. Her sharp, blood-red nails caught the faint light as if they’d been dipped in fresh paint. Ingrid couldn’t tell if she was talking about the room — the suffocating cell that seemed alive — or the planet itself.

“It’s my domain,” her mother continued, her tone filled with superiority, “and your true home. Though I imagine it’s quite... different from what you’re used to.”

Her mother stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the heavy fabric of her dress brushing against the ground. Then, she bent down until their faces were level, her piercing eyes boring into Ingrid’s as if she could see straight through her.

When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper, burning and suffocating. “Do you feel it yet, Ingrid? The pull of this place? The way it sings to your blood?”

Ingrid swallowed hard, willing her expression to remain neutral. She refused to let her trembling lip betray her. The air here wasn’t just hot; it was alive, heavy, and clinging to her skin like second skin. It wasn’t just surrounding her — it was inside her, coiling through her veins, pulling her deeper into the very walls she wanted to escape. She hates it, hates that a part of her doesn’t.

Her silence only made her mother’s smile grow wider, stretching unnaturally across her face.

Straightening to her full height, her mother stepped back, the movement calm and detached, as though she’d already won. She wiped her hands against one another, the simple gesture so dismissive that Ingrid’s stomach churned. Ingrid yanked at the chains binding her, not sure what she was trying to accomplish — intimidation, maybe? Resistance? Stupidity?

But her mother only chuckled, the sound cold and high-pitched, reverberating in a way that set Ingrid on edge. “It’s amusing, really,” she said, her tone almost nostalgic, though her eyes were anything but warm. “How much of yourself you attribute to him. Your stubbornness. Your wit. That oh-so-righteous anger.”

She leaned in slightly, her lips curling as she delivered her next words. “But tell me, Ingrid, have you ever wondered where the fire really comes from? Where the darkness inside you was born?”

Ingrid froze, every muscle in her body tensing as if bracing for impact. “You don’t know anything about me,” she said, her voice clipped and sharp.

Her mother’s smirk deepened. “Oh, my darling girl!” This time, the nickname landed like a slap, laced with a venom that made Ingrid’s skin crawl. “I know everything about you. I created you. The fire in your veins? The rage you can’t control? That’s my legacy, Ingrid. Not his.”

Her voice turned cutting, her words slicing through Ingrid’s resolve. “He was nothing more than a weak mortal — a coward — who took you and ran because he couldn’t bear to see you become… me.”

This time, the mention of her father made Ingrid flinch, though she tried to hide it. Her jaw clenched as her mind scrambled to process the words. What does she mean, he ran? But she refused to take the bait. She refused to entertain her mother by asking.

Her mother’s tone shifted again, softening into something almost tender. To Ingrid, it was more unsettling than her cruelty. “But it’s not too late. You don’t belong with them — the humans, or whatever pitiful little family you’ve cobbled together on Earth. You belong here, with me. This is where you were meant to be.”

Ingrid felt the heat rise in her chest, her anger bubbling just beneath the surface. She pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head, her voice sharp with defiance. “I’d rather rot in these chains than stand by your side.”

The shift in her mother’s expression was instantaneous, her face hardening with such ferocity that Ingrid’s breath caught. Her voice turned icy, the feigned softness evaporating in an instant. “Then rot you shall,” she declared, her words echoing in the space between them.

Her mother straightened, her gaze as cold and unrelenting as stone. “You’ll break eventually, Ingrid. They always do. And when you do, you’ll see the truth: you are no hero. You are mine.”

Ingrid glared at her, her silence louder than any words she could have spoken. Her mother studied her for a moment longer, then smirked — she had won, as always — and turned away.

As she reached what Ingrid assumed was the door, her mother glanced back over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Then, without another word, she left, the door slamming shut behind her.

The darkness swallowed Ingrid whole, pressing in on her like a living thing.

She slumped against the rough wall, her chains digging into her skin as she sagged under the weight of everything that had just happened. Her chest heaved as she fought to keep the tears at bay, but no matter how hard she tried, they spilled over, one by one, betraying her resolve.

The grating creak of the metal door sliced through the heavy silence left in the wake of her mother’s departure. Ingrid’s body tensed instinctively, every muscle coiling like a spring. Her eyes darted toward the doorway, half-expecting to see her mother’s silhouette reappear.

Her lips parted, a sarcastic retort already forming in her throat — because what else could she do but deflect? defend? — but the words froze before they could escape.

Someone else stepped inside.

The figure was taller, but there was none of their mother’s overwhelming, suffocating presence. He moved awkwardly, almost haltingly, as though unsure of his right to be here. The flickering, dim light played tricks on his face, the dark curls that fell messily across his forehead melting into the void of the rokm. His eyes — deep, dark, and strangely restless — seemed to flicker in and out of focus, as though he were constantly fighting some internal battle she couldn’t see.

Ingrid stiffened, the chains around her wrists jangling softly as she instinctively shifted closer to the wall, putting as much distance between them as she could manage. Her gaze remained sharp, untrusting, as she tried to make sense of him.

He wasn’t what she expected — if she’d even expected anything. Everything about him, physically, seemed... kind. He held a small metal cup of water and a bowl of food in his hands. They looked normal, if a little rustic, a stark contrast to the alien, oppressive surroundings of this place. Yet the ordinariness of it only made Ingrid’s unease grow.

He even offered her a tentative smile, though it was faint, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to smile yet. But there was something about it — about him — that made her instincts scream louder.

“Hello.” His voice was quiet, tentative. He paused, shifting on his feet. “Uh… sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I thought she’d still be here.”

He didn’t need to say her name. They both knew who he meant.

Ingrid didn’t answer. Her narrowed gaze stayed locked on his face, scrutinizing every detail, searching for cracks in his facade. “If you’re here to finish the monologue, don’t bother,” she said finally, her tone sharp as a blade. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

His smile faltered for a moment, the edges crumbling before he quickly patched it back together. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m, unfortunately, terrible at that sort of thing. Which, I guess, is probably fortunate for you, considering—”

He cut himself off, wincing visibly as if his own words had struck him. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered something under his breath, the frustration in his voice making Ingrid flinch. Then, as quickly as it came, the frustration was smothered beneath another forced smile.

“I… thought you might be thirsty,” he finished, his tone softer now, almost unsure. He took a cautious step forward, holding out the cup of water as though it were a peace offering.

Ingrid’s throat burned, dry as sandpaper, but she kept her expression hard. Her gaze flicked between his face and the cup, searching for any hint of deceit. The silence stretched unbearably long, thick with tension. He didn’t move, waiting for her reaction, his posture tense but not threatening.

Finally, Ingrid tilted her head, her voice sharp and suspicious. “And what’s in it? Poison? A truth serum?”

The boy blinked, startled by her accusation, before shrugging awkwardly. “Uh… just water. I promise. We don’t really… have truth serums here. And, uh…” He hesitated, attempting a joke that didn’t quite land. “We just ran out of poison.”

Ingrid’s expression didn’t waver, her gaze still locked on him as he crouched down slowly, deliberately. He set the cup on the ground near her feet, his movements so careful it was almost infuriating — like she was some cornered animal he was trying not to spook.

It didn’t calm her. If anything, it only made her unease grow.

Then he did it again — the strange, jarring habit that made him seem less put together than he tried to appear. He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering curses under his breath as his fingers twitched, like he was fighting the urge to hit himself. The moment passed quickly, though, and when he spoke again, he’d plastered the smile back on his face.

“So,” he began awkwardly, clearing his throat, “this is, uh… awkward. Which I expected, of course. I mean, the concept of half-siblings is awkward enough. And then there’s the blood thing—” He cut himself off again, his words faltering as his eyes darted nervously around the room.

Then, at last, his gaze returned to Ingrid. There was a flicker of vulnerability there, but she didn’t trust it. Not yet.

“You probably didn’t even know I existed,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But, uh… my name is Igor.”

Ingrid’s stomach twisted into a knot, but she said nothing. She wasn’t sure if it was anger, fear, or exhaustion, or some unbearable mix of all three. Igor — her brother — seemed to take her silence as permission to keep talking. He seemed to do that a lot.

He gestured vaguely, his movements jittery and uncertain. “I know this place is… a lot. It takes some getting used to. But trust me.”

Before Ingrid could react, he stepped closer, his hands suddenly cupping her face. The contact made her flinch, but Igor didn’t pull back. His hands were ice cold, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of this planet. The sensation jolted her, and for a fleeting second, she realized it had been so long since she’d felt anything cold.

His grip wasn’t harsh, but there was a strange urgency in it, in him. He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “I have no intention of hurting you,” he said, his words deliberate and measured, like he was carving them into her mind with painstaking precision.

Ingrid didn’t look away, though her pulse quickened. Something about his gaze unsettled her deeply. There was a storm behind his eyes — emotions that didn’t make sense to her, that she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

Then, as abruptly as he’d grabbed her, Igor released her and straightened up, pacing to the other side of the room. His movements were sharp, almost frantic, and he muttered to himself again, low and incomprehensible. Ingrid strained to make out the words, but before she could catch anything, he stopped and turned back to her.

“Our mother isn’t the easiest person to deal with,” he said, his voice measured but with a trace of something heavy beneath it. “But I recommend you do as she says.”

The words reignited the spark of anger in Ingrid’s chest. She leaned forward as much as her chains would allow, her eyes narrowing into a glare. “I’ll never stand by her side,” she snapped, her voice cold and firm.

Igor’s smile — if it could even be called that anymore — wavered for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, almost reluctant. “That’s not what I said.”

With quick, almost jerky movements, he stooped to pick up the cup and bowl he’d left on the floor. He held them out toward her, his hands steady but his expression uncertain. It was an unspoken question, an offering, but Ingrid’s gaze flicked from the food to his face with a hard, untrusting glare.

She shook her head.

Instead, she leaned forward, the chains straining and digging into her wrists as she tried to close the distance between them. Her voice was low, sharp with defiance. “If you really want to help me, you’ll unlock these chains and let me out.”

For a brief moment, she thought she saw something crack in Igor’s expression — a flicker of pain, of guilt. But it vanished just as quickly as it appeared. He shook his head, almost frantically, his words spilling out in a rush. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

The apology didn’t sound hollow, but it didn’t matter.

Ingrid’s chest tightened, frustration and fury boiling beneath her skin like magma. She clenched her fists, bound behind her back, and forced herself to stay calm, to not let her emotions show — because that’s exactly what they wanted.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and biting, each word dripping with venom. “Then you’re no better than her.”

Igor flinched visibly, his entire posture wilting under the weight of her words. For the first time, he didn't try to mask his expression with that uneasy, awkward smile.

He straightened, his movements slow and reluctant as he stepped back toward the door. It was clear he wanted to say something else, something more, but the words seemed to get caught in his throat.

He hesitated at the threshold, one hand resting on the cold metal handle. When he turned back to her, his expression was unreadable, his dark eyes shadowed.

“You’ll see soon enough,” he murmured, his tone quiet, almost apologetic — but not quite. “What this place really is. What it can do.”

At the door, Igor hesitated, his hand lifting slightly, almost like a farewell. The movement was so small, so fleeting, that Ingrid might’ve thought she imagined it — except for the way it sent a cold ripple through her chest. Her breath caught, and a strange, icy dread wrapped itself around her ribs.

The air shifted, growing heavier, and a suffocating unease filled the room, sharp and deafening in its intensity. Ingrid’s vision blurred for a moment, and before she could steady herself, the door groaned shut behind Igor. The dim light disappeared with him, leaving her in near-darkness.

But the feeling stayed.

Ingrid let out a low, frustrated groan and squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could block out the weight pressing against her chest. She took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but the sensation only deepened, clawing at the edges of her mind like unseen hands.

When she opened her eyes again, something had changed.

The walls seemed to shift around her, their edges blurring as the room turned muted and gray. The air felt denser, thicker, like it was laced with smoke — or something darker, more insidious. Shadows danced across the walls, cast by flickering torchlight, but they didn’t stay still. They moved unnaturally, twisting and bending as if they were alive.

Ingrid blinked hard, her pulse hammering in her ears. She froze when a figure stepped into the shifting light, emerging from the shadows with an unnerving familiarity.

Her heart stopped.

Natasha stood there. Arms crossed. Her expression unreadable, calm, and just as Ingrid remembered — too vivid, too natural to feel like an illusion.

For one fleeting, desperate second, Ingrid almost believed it was her. But then reality came crashing back like a tidal wave: the sacrifice, the grief, the hollow, unrelenting ache she’d carried ever since that day.

Natasha didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched her with that same measured calm she always had.

“You’re staring,” Natasha said finally, her tone so casual it almost felt real.

Ingrid’s whole body trembled, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Her voice shook as she forced herself to speak. “You’re not… you’re not real.”

Natasha didn’t react, her expression unchanged. She stayed rooted in place, arms still crossed, unmoving. “Maybe not,” she said with a shrug, her voice calm, matter-of-fact. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you look terrible.”

The words startled a laugh out of Ingrid — a weak, breathy sound that felt foreign in the suffocating silence of the room. It started small, but before she could stop it, it grew into something bigger, something more frantic, bubbling out of her chest as if it had been trapped there for too long.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “What’s so funny?”

Ingrid’s laughter faltered, trailing off into a long, weary sigh. She leaned back against the cold wall behind her, shaking her head. “Nothing,” she murmured, her voice tinged with exhaustion. “I just… thought I’d last more than one day in here before losing my mind.”

Natasha smirked faintly, the expression so familiar it made Ingrid’s chest ache. “It doesn’t surprise me you didn’t.”

Ingrid dropped her gaze to the floor, biting her lip hard enough to sting. She told herself it wasn’t real, that Natasha wasn’t real, but the tightness in her chest didn’t care. The ache only deepened, spreading through her like a dull, relentless fire.

She spoke without looking up, her voice quiet, strained. “If you’re here to lecture me, don’t bother. I’ve already gotten an earful from the actual crazy one.” The words were sharp, bitter, but there was no humor behind them, no spark in her tone.

“Your mother?” Natasha’s voice softened, but the edge of concern in her tone cut through the silence like a knife.

Ingrid didn’t respond. She couldn’t. The way her jaw clenched and her gaze darted away said enough. Natasha took a step closer, and this time, Ingrid didn’t flinch.

Natasha crouched in front of her, one knee sinking into a dark, sticky puddle on the ground. The sight made Ingrid’s stomach twist. She was becoming more certain by the second that the blood staining the floor — and her — was her own.

“She’s in your head already, isn’t she?” Natasha said softly, her eyes scanning Ingrid’s face with a mixture of sympathy and something harder to place. She reached out, her touch surprisingly gentle as she tucked a loose strand of Ingrid’s hair behind her ear.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

Please.

Ingrid shook her head, the motion barely perceptible. Her voice wavered as she spoke. “No. I’m not letting her get to me.”

Natasha’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a knowing smile, though her eyes remained serious. “You’re not letting her win. That’s different. But you’ve always been good at picking the fight.”

Ingrid lifted her head, forcing herself to meet Natasha’s gaze. The air around her seemed to chill, and the shadows in the room pressed closer, but she didn’t look away.

“You think I’m being stubborn. Reckless,” Ingrid said bitterly, her voice thick with the tears she was trying — and failing — to hold back.

Natasha tilted her head, brushing her fingers through Ingrid’s tangled, blood-matted hair with a care that felt both maternal and unnerving.

She is dead. She is dead. She is dead.

“No,” Natasha said quietly, shaking her head. “I think you’re being you. And that’s what’s going to get you out of here. But you can’t win every battle, Ingrid. Not like this.”

Ingrid’s frustration boiled over, her voice rising. “What do you want me to do, Natasha? Lie down and take it? Let her win? Give her what she wants?”

“No.” Natasha’s reply was sharp, cutting through Ingrid’s rising anger like a blade. Her expression hardened, her voice steady. “But you have to be smarter than her. She’s been playing this game longer than you’ve been alive.”

The words hit harder than Ingrid expected, her anger cracking under the weight of everything else — grief, guilt, exhaustion. It all poured out at once, overwhelming her. She shook her head, tears spilling freely down her face, leaving streaks through the dirt and blood on her skin.

Natasha’s hand stayed in her hair, her fingers moving gently, carefully detangling the strands as if the simple act could anchor Ingrid in the storm of her own emotions.

When Ingrid finally spoke, her voice broke, raw and fragile. “I wish you were here. Really here. I don’t know what I’m doing without you.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. Ingrid’s chest ached as two more realizations hit her like a physical blow.

Fifth, she was only talking to herself.

And sixth, no one was coming to save her.

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 !!!

so the dialogue is clearly beating my ass (as always) but i am overall happy with this chapter (i am forcing myself to say that when actually i've been writing it for almost 10 days and i've lost all contact with the outside world 😁) but anyways enough about that!

i'm not sure if you can tell, but this family is insane. like, you know they are insane insane when ingrid is the sanest person there (not for long, though!). ingrid's mother, zorya, was created from a lot of different people in my life, though i'd guess that in the mcu she really resembles hela. zorya is more manipulative, though, and that will all come in play later. as someone with a shitload of half-siblings (two 💀) i had to give ingrid one too! they are awkward and insane (just like igor) but they can be sweet too!

the chapter title is from ethel cain's song "two-headed mother" which is, to me, the most confusing song of hers. like, i'm pretty sure it's about mommy issues and how they affect relationships but do not quote me on that! it can be interpreted as both zorya, who is very manipulative and two-faced, but also parallels between zorya and natasha!!! honestly this whole chapter is packed with subtext even i got lost in it.

anyways enough yapping. please tell me what you think while i'm having a mental breakdown about the next chapter (it is, somehow, even more traumatizing)