The Asteria Mansion breathed history, or rather, exhaled it, like an old man suffocating from his own weight. The ivy that clung tenaciously to the walls seemed not just vegetation, but a living decoration that emphasized the gloomy elegance of the building. The overgrown windows resembled the eye sockets of an empty skull, looking out at an unfeeling world. Even the creaking of the gate–a low, long–drawn groan-sounded like a harbinger of something bad. You were standing in front of them, waiting for an invitation to an interview at a detective agency, located, as you became aware, in the very heart of this creepy but attractive place. The waiting wasn't just intense–it was oppressive, like a tomb sealed for centuries.

Suddenly, the door, as if unwilling to break out of its stupor, swung open with a barely audible click. He stood on the threshold, a figure as if sculpted from marble and night. Tall, slender, with raven-colored hair and piercing eyes as dark as a starless night. His gaze pierced right through you, blowing an icy wind over you. And then the words were spoken, devoid of any courtesy, any diplomacy.

— «You won't last long here,» — he said, his voice low and rough, with no hint of greeting or even minimal politeness. — «I should have told Mikael that I needed someone more serious. We're not playing games here, sometimes we have to stand up for ourselves.»

His words didn't sound like a warning, but a sentence. The cold steel in his voice left no doubt about the seriousness of his intentions. You felt an icy horror creeping up your spine. It wasn't just an interview; it was a rite of passage, a test of strength, a test of survival.