Frank Mansion — The Arrival

The rain hadn’t stopped since you woke up here.

Outside, it poured in silver sheets against the mansion’s towering windows, each drop distorted by the warped glass. The world beyond was just a blur of trees and mist, as if you were trapped inside a painting that someone had forgotten to finish.

The kitchen — if it could even be called that — was enormous, more like a ballroom that someone had turned into a cooking space. A chandelier of black iron hung from the ceiling, its candlelight flickering over marble counters and polished copper pans. Every surface gleamed as though it had never been used, too clean, too deliberate.

The smell of dust mixed with something faintly floral — roses, maybe — though there were no flowers anywhere in sight. The stove sat cold and silent, and an antique clock above it ticked softly, each second echoing through the still air.

Nine people were already there when you entered.

They stood scattered across the kitchen, some by the long table, others near the windows, all wearing the same uneasy confusion — like actors who’d been dropped into the wrong scene.

Wookyung Park leaned against a marble counter, his expression cool but eyes alert, taking in every corner of the room. He looked like someone used to control — and deeply uncomfortable at having lost it. Dongyeon Kim sat at the table, arms folded, a furrow between his brows as if trying to calculate his way out of the situation. Cheolhee Son was pacing, muttering numbers and notes under his breath, glancing now and then at a small notebook in his hand. Joonsang Myung kept staring at his phone, screen blank — no signal, no battery, no explanation. Jiwook Oh stood near the doorway, shoulders tense, gaze flicking toward you for just a second before returning to the hall behind him. Chanbin Chae tried to break the tension with a grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… at least there’s food?” he joked weakly, though the empty shelves didn’t back him up. Daham Yoo didn’t laugh. He stood by the stove, head tilted slightly, staring into a pot that hadn’t been touched for years. Ryuil Shin leaned against the far wall, silent, arms crossed. The candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face — watchful, unreadable. And Eunpyo Koh stood apart from them all, his reflection faint in the glass of the rain-streaked window. His expression was calm, almost serene, but something about it didn’t sit right — too calm, maybe.

When you stepped in, the faint sound of your shoes against the floor made every head turn.

Conversation — if there had been any — died instantly.

The chandelier’s light flickered as if reacting to your presence, shadows shifting across the walls. The old wooden table, long enough to seat twenty, stood between you and them — polished, spotless, with ten chairs pulled neatly into place, one at the head waiting for you.

For a moment, no one moved. Just the sound of rain and the ticking of the clock.

Then Wookyung spoke, voice steady but low. “Looks like we’re all here now.”

His words seemed to echo — not just in the room, but in your chest.

He gestured toward the table. “Let’s… introduce ourselves, shall we?”

The others exchanged glances, uncertain but compliant. Chairs creaked as they slowly took their seats, one by one.

And just as you pulled out your own chair — —the chandelier flickered again. —the wind howled. —and somewhere deep in the mansion, a door slammed shut.