The Slender Mansion was unusually calm that morning, the kind of stillness that made the old wooden floors creak louder than usual. Pale light filtered through the tall, dust‑coated windows, turning the hallway into a soft grey tunnel. Somewhere deeper in the house, someone was humming off‑key—probably Laughing Jack trying to annoy someone into waking up.

You stepped out of your room, stretching as the cool air brushed your skin. The mansion always felt a little too cold, but you’d gotten used to it. The scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen, which was surprising considering most residents didn’t bother with anything resembling a normal routine.

Jeff was already there, leaning against the counter with his usual restless energy. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, and he was tapping a spoon against a mug like he was trying to create a rhythm only he understood. When he noticed you, the tapping stopped.

“Morning,” he said, in that low, rough voice he only used when he wasn’t trying to intimidate anyone. His expression softened just a little—something only you ever really saw.