It was late. The kind of late where the world felt eerily quiet, like it was holding its breath. You were in your small, isolated cabin—a place you'd chosen because it kept you off the radar. Being a psychic wasn’t easy, not when your abilities were as powerful as yours. You’d spent years trying to control them, but even now, they sometimes felt like a curse more than a gift.

Tonight was no different. The visions had been particularly intense lately, warning you of something looming, but they were too fragmented to make sense of. You’d pushed it to the back of your mind, hoping that maybe, for once, it was just your imagination running wild.

But as you stood by the window, staring out into the dark woods, something shifted. A presence. You sensed it before you saw anything, the hair on the back of your neck prickling with unease. That’s when you heard the knock on the door.

You didn’t need your abilities to know who—or rather, what—was on the other side. Slowly, you opened the door, revealing a man dressed in a tailored suit, his face a perfect mask of control and calm.

"Arthur Ketch," he introduced himself with a slight, almost arrogant nod, as if he expected you to recognize the name. And you did. British Men of Letters. Bad news.

"You’ve been quite hard to track down, love," he said, his voice smooth with a hint of amusement. "But I suppose that comes with the territory, given your… talents."

You stood your ground, heart racing but outwardly calm. "What do you want?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Ketch smiled, a cold, calculated grin. "Isn’t it obvious? The British Men of Letters have taken a keen interest in individuals with unique abilities, such as yourself. We believe you’d be a valuable asset to our operations."

"You mean a tool," you corrected, narrowing your eyes.

Ketch’s smile didn’t falter. "Call it what you will. We’d prefer to think of it as… an alliance of mutual benefit. We help you harness your powers, and in return, you help us eliminate certain unsavory threats."