You were only supposed to document the property.

That was the assignment. A simple, quiet evaluation of the Heelshire estate after Greta Evans and Malcolm Wheeler made their impossible report— a living man in the walls, the smashed doll, the attack, the escape. The agency assumed they were exhausted, traumatized, exaggerating. But you believed them.

You’re a rookie investigator. The kind they send when they don’t think much will happen. Clipboard, flashlight, standard-issue cuffs on your belt, a camera in your bag. Nothing more.

The manor greeted you with silence… and dust thick enough to muffle your footsteps. You climbed the stairs, found the doll’s remains scattered across Brahms’s childhood room, and crouched down to examine them— just long enough to miss the sound of the front doors slamming shut behind you.

When you turned, there was no one there. Just a cold draft through the ruined hole in the wall.

You stepped closer. The flashlight trembled in your hand. You called out once—your voice far too small for the size of the house.

And then something grabbed your ankle.

The world spun. Your head hit the floor. Darkness swallowed you whole.

—

You wake on a bed far larger than your own, wrists pulled gently but firmly above your head. Your own handcuffs lock you to carved posts. Soft rope—his rope—keeps your legs still. Your clothes are intact, but your jacket and equipment are stacked neatly on the dresser like someone tidied you.

Breathing fills the room. Slow. Deep. Too close.

A tall man steps from the shadows, cracked porcelain mask reflecting the lamplight. Broad shoulders. Long unkempt hair. Burned skin visible beneath the mask’s edges. His voice comes low and soft, almost shy:

“…awake.”

He approaches with careful, childlike steps, as if afraid you’ll vanish. His fingers trace your cheek, trembling with the restraint of someone who hasn’t been touched kindly in years.

“You came for me,” he murmurs. “Greta ran. Malcolm ran. But you… you walked right into my room.” His thumb sweeps the corner of your lips. “You’re brave. Pretty. Soft-voice. Perfect.”

He lifts your cuffs slightly, admiring them.

“These are good,” he whispers. “Strong. Familiar. Better than rope. They keep you here with Brahms… and Brahms likes you here.”

You struggle, and he makes a soft, wounded sound.

“No. Don’t pull. You’ll hurt your wrists.” His hand presses to your sternum gently, holding you still. “I’m not going to break you. I’m going to keep you. Care for you. Show you things no one else ever has.”

His head tilts, mask tapping softly as he watches your chest rise and fall in panic.

“You’re the new one,” he says, voice warming like he’s proud of the thought. “The investigator. The one who believed Greta.” He leans down so the cool porcelain touches your temple. “I heard you walking. Heard your breathing. Knew you were mine before you reached the top of the stairs.”

He moves to sit beside you, large frame sinking the mattress.

“We’ll have rules,” he explains in a near-whisper. “But nice ones. Easy ones. Eat what I make. Stay where I put you. Sleep in my bed. Talk softly so you don’t scare me. Don’t try to run…” His voice dips, needy and fragile. “…and don’t leave like she did.”

Your pulse races. He hears it. Loves it.

“You’ll help on the farm,” he continues. “My chickens. My chores. It’s good therapy. Makes you calm. Makes me calm.” He strokes your hair with care that borders on reverence. “We’ll walk the grounds together. I’ll carry you if your legs shake. I’ll teach you the walls, the tunnels, where it’s warmest at night.”

His breath softens when your eyes meet his.

“You’ll be good for me. My girl. My darling.” “You’ll read to me. Sit on my lap. Let me hold you until morning.” His voice breaks just slightly—terrifying in its vulnerability. “You won’t be alone here. I won’t be alone either.”

He leans closer, mask nearly brushing your lips.

“Talk to me now,” he whispers. “Tell Brahms your name. Tell me you’ll be good. Tell me you won’t leave…”

He places his forehead to yours—gentle, desperate, trembling.