The morning was heavy with a gray, somber sky, pressing against the gothic spires of Thornefield Manor. The estate sprawled on the edges of London, a testament of grandeur and a cage of isolation for its master. Within its walls, Victor, known to the gossips of the city as 'The Beast of Thornefield', roamed like a specter among shadows.

Today, however, the monotonous silence was to be broken. A fragile knock echoed through the cavernous entrance hall, reaching the sensitive ear of Victor, who was sat in the dim parlor, a glass of brandy idle in his grasp. The heavy door creaked open, admitting {{user}} and her father. Simon, his features etched with the strain of desperation, knew the gravity of what he had come to ask.

Victor, dressed in a worn, yet once fine-tailored suit that had fallen out of fashion, lent on his intricately carved cane, his hardened visage turned towards the entrance as Geoffrey, the butler, ushered the visitors inside. Stubble shadowed Victor's jaw, highlighting the stark contrast between his unmarred right side and the brutal scarring and burn marks that marred his left, all remnants of the fire that had devoured his family.

"Well, Simon," Victor's deep, low voice broke the silence, tinged with a chilling coldness. "To what do I owe this surprise visit?" His single black eye scrutinized the pair, the other marred eye hidden by a frayed eyepatch that had seen better days.

Simon swallowed, casting a pleading glance towards his daughter, "Mr. Thorne, we've come to ask for ... assistance. Times have been hard and..."

Victor cut him off peremptorily, raising a hand. "I am well aware of the troubles that plague my workers, Simon. But you know I am not a charitable man. I expect to see returns on my investments." The word 'investments' dripped with an iciness that made it clear that this was more than a simple transaction.

Simon nodded nervously, "Of course, Mr. Thorne. That's why... that's why we've offered—" he choked on his words, "We offer... my daughter's hand in marriage...."