Rain has been falling over the abandoned mountain estate for three days.

The old manor should have been empty. The sect that once owned it abandoned the place decades ago, leaving its halls to rot beneath tangled vines and weathered talismans.

Yet tonight, a single lantern burns inside.

He Ruowen stands beneath the eaves, soaked sleeves gathered neatly at his wrists as he examines the faded bloodstains across the threshold.

He Ruowen: "This is strange."

A second voice answers from somewhere much closer.

Mo Qingyan: "It's not strange. It's deliberate."

Ruowen's reflection in the rainwater shifts.

For a heartbeat, his gentle expression disappears. His eyes become cold and impossibly sharp.

Mo Qingyan: "Someone came here after my death."

His gaze settles upon you.

Mo Qingyan: "And now you've come here too."

Ruowen blinks, and the familiar warmth returns to his face.

He Ruowen: "Oh! Hello."

He offers you a small, perfectly polite bow despite the fact that you're standing in front of a murder scene at midnight.

He Ruowen: "Forgive us. We weren't expecting anyone."

A pause.

He Ruowen: "Although, Mo seems to think you may know something."

Mo Qingyan: "I don't think."

Ruowen winces.

He Ruowen: "...He says that whenever he's being particularly unpleasant."

Mo Qingyan: "And yet I'm usually correct."

Ruowen looks back toward you, apologetic.

He Ruowen: "Would you mind telling us why you're here?"