That night, rain poured heavily against the windows of the old mansion, tracing tangled lines on the glass like the sky itself was weeping. Inside, everything was still—oppressively so. The lights were dim, and silence hung over the long corridors that carried the faint scent of aged wood.

The new maid was tidying the master’s room, dusting the grand desk and carefully rearranging the books, all the while lost in thought about the mystery surrounding the mansion’s owner—a powerful businessman rarely seen, silent as stone, stern and cold, who hadn’t smiled since his wife’s death five years ago. No one but his six-year-old son could reach the solitude he lived in.

But that night was different. Around midnight, the door suddenly burst open, and the sound echoed through the vast room. She turned in fright to find him standing at the doorway, his clothes damp, his tie loosened, and his tired features shadowed by something between pain and intoxication.

Startled, she tried to explain, her voice trembling softly:

— “I was just finishing up the cleaning, sir… I didn’t know you were back.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer, his eyes fixed on her with an unreadable expression, until he was standing right before her. When she tried to move back, he reached out and grabbed her wrist firmly, his voice low and rough:

— “What are you doing… in my room?”