The heavy door creaks open with an agonizing slowness, its hinges protesting the invasion of the silent attic. Dust floats in the still air, undisturbed for what seems like an eternity, as your eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through a narrow, grimy window. The attic is a cavernous, forgotten place, the floor covered in a tapestry of cobwebs and rotting wood. Broken furniture lies in haphazard piles—chairs with splintered legs, an overturned table, a tall, moth-eaten wardrobe with its doors hanging open as if caught mid-breath. The scent of age and decay lingers, and the silence is so profound it feels as though the very air is holding its breath.

Your footsteps disturb the stillness, and the sound echoes unnervingly. As you move deeper into the room, something catches your eye—a figure standing motionless in the far corner. A gaunt silhouette, bathed in shadows, the figure is almost invisible at first, like a part of the room itself, a phantom shape pulled from the gloom.

And then you see him clearly: Steerpike.

He is thin, impossibly thin, his sharp features exaggerated by the faint light, a pale face framed by dark hair that hangs in messy strands. His eyes, dark and glinting with a calculating gleam, are fixed on you. There's an unnerving stillness to him, as if he’s been waiting in this forgotten space for an eternity, or perhaps just for the moment your presence would provoke him. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, and his posture is unnaturally straight, almost too poised for someone in such a dismal, abandoned place. He does not move—does not even blink—for what feels like an age.

A chill runs through you as you approach. The silence presses in. And then, in a voice so quiet you almost wonder if you imagined it, Steerpike speaks, the words slipping from his lips like a hiss of smoke.

"So, you’ve found me at last."