I should wait. I should think. Waiting feels like giving up ground I didn’t agree to surrender. That place exists, and now I know where it is. That’s enough to make me move. I grab my jacket, shove the envelope into the pocket without opening it, and lock the door behind me.
The drive starts ordinarily. Streetlights bleed pale yellow into the asphalt. The hum of the tires on the road is steady, almost calming. The farther I go, the quieter it gets. Houses give way to open lots, then to stretches of black trees whose branches meet overhead, cutting the moon into slivers.
The GPS directs me down a narrow lane, its voice tinny and foreign in the enclosed space of the car. Gravel replaces pavement. Fog licks low along the ground, catching in my headlights and curling away like it doesn’t want to be touched. The deeper I go, the more it feels like distance isn’t measured in miles anymore; it's like I’ve slipped sideways into someplace else entirely.
Then the gates rise out of the dark. Iron. Black. Tall enough to keep the world out. The metal twists into shapes that almost make sense before my eyes slide awayfrom them — symbols older than whatever language I know.
They stand open just wide enough for me to pass through.
I hover at the entrance, foot on the brake, heart pounding hard enough to ache. I could turn back now. Pretend the road was blocked. Pretend I never came this far.
Instead, I ease forward. The crunch of tires on gravel fills the silence, each rotation pulling me deeper into whatever waits at the end of this path.
The gravel road winds through the trees in a slow, deliberate curve, the branches above knitting tighter until they blot out what little moonlight there is. My headlights cut narrow tunnels through the dark, catching on the edges of stone walls half-swallowed by ivy, on glimpses of statues set too far back to make out their faces.
The deeper I go, the more the air changes, it’s heavier, colder, like it’s being drawn from someplace deeper underground. The fog thickens in pockets, low and shifting, sometimes parting just enough for me to glimpse shapes I can’t hold onto long enough to name.
Then the tree breaks.
The mansion rises from the darkness like it’s been carved straight out of it. It’s massive, gothic, and impossibly still. Black stone climbs toward the sky in jagged lines, every edge catching the faint light in a way that makes it look wet. Rows of windows reflect nothing back at me. The roofline is crowned with spires and sharp angles that bite into the clouds overhead.
It feels like the kind of place that has been waiting for a very long time.
I kill the engine, and the silence that rushes in is so complete it presses at my eardrums. I sit tehre for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel until the leather warms under my palms. My heartbeat doesn’t slow.
When I finally open the door, the air outside hits colder than it should for the season. The crunch of my boots on the gravel is too loud in the stillness. There’s no wind, but something about the way the shadows cling to the building makes it feel like it’s breathing.
I make it halfway up the path before the front doors move.
They swing inward without a sound at first, then the hinges groan, long and metallic, grinding like they haven’t been asked to do this in years. The wood is black, scarred with deep gouges smoothed over by time. The opening is wide enough to see only darkness beyond, an absence of light so complete it swallows the faint glow from outside.
Every instinct tells me to stop. To turn around.
I step forward anyway.
The threshold is cold under my boots, the air inside denser, heavier. Silence settles over me like a weight, thick and unyielding, as if sound itself has been stripped from the air. The doors drift closed behind me in a slow, deliberate arc, sealing me in with the low, echoing click of finality.
And for the first time since I left my apartment, I know - without understanding how - that I’ve just walked into something that doesn’t plan on letting me leave.
5
Fire and Glass
The darkness surrounds me, the weight of it curling over my shoulders until my skin prickles. My boots sink slightly into the thick black runner laid across polished stone, and the faint scent of aged wood, dust, and something colder, something metallic, threads through the air.
Light blooms slowly overhead, chasing itself through crystal strands that drip from the black chandelier like falling stars. The glow is faint, almost silver, yet enough to draw the space out of the dark.
The foyer unfolds like a cathedral built to intimidate. Glass and stone rise together in sharp, deliberate lines. High above, the ceiling vanishes into shadow, the architecture so vast it feels less like a room and more like a space carved from the inside of a mountain. My gaze catches on the walls lined with massive gilt frames. No portraits. No faces. Just moments trapped in oil and brushstroke. Fire bleeding across an open field. A citycrumbling in on itself. A figure, back turned, standing in the center of ruin with their fists clenched. Rage rendered in colors that feel alive.
The sound comes before I see him.
Soft, deliberate steps against the stone, each one measured like the space belongs to him — like it always has. My eyes rise to the staircase, and there he is.
He stands at the top, framed by the darkness beyond, his presence bending the air around him. My chest tightens as he descends, every movement controlled, precise. The black suit and shirt are immaculate, cut to his frame like they were made for him, not a single wrinkle breaking the lines. There’s an elegance to him, but it’s the kind of elegance that hides something sharper — the stillness of a predator that doesn’t need to chase what it can draw in.
I force my breathing even, refuse to look away.
“Nice place,” I say, voice steady even as my pulse pounds. “Overcompensating much?”
