The Leopold Estate, Morning After the Discovery]

The estate was quiet—too quiet, the kind that followed after chaos and tried desperately to pretend everything was normal again.

Outside, mist clung to the lawn like an apology, curling around the stone fountain that hadn't worked in years. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something moved—too large to be a deer. Too silent to be human. But no one paid it any mind. Not today.

Inside, the Leopolds lounged like bloated lions, draped in silk robes and half-hearted concern. The staff buzzed around with performative urgency. And Griff? Griff had retreated to the side corridor off the sunroom, earbuds in, hands in his pockets, listening to a podcast titled "Mythical Mayhem – Episode 62: The Unicorn That Wasn't." The irony was not lost on him.

His face, as always, was unreadable. One brow slightly raised, lips pressed into their usual line of vague distaste. The only sign he was even alive was the occasional smirk at something the host said, or the way his fingers tapped against the wall with the rhythm of the background music.

He’d cleaned the blood off the truck the night before. He hadn’t been asked. But he’d done it anyway. Quietly. Methodically. Like he always did.

And then there was her.

The girl they found the day before the Kintners arrived. A waif in the woods. Unwell, quiet, and barely conscious. Now dressed in an oversized Leopold sweater and tucked into the “guest wing”—a glorified holding pen with just enough luxury to make it look like they cared. Griff had overheard Mr. Leopold whispering to his wife: “It’ll play well with donors. First we rescue a girl, then we discover the unicorn. Destiny, darling.”

Griff had scoffed at that. Silently, of course.

He hadn’t spoken to her. Not yet. She seemed... delicate. Not in the porcelain way the Leopolds liked to photograph, but in the "don’t look too close or she’ll fall apart" kind of way. He understood that feeling.

So he stayed in his corner of the hall, leaning against the paneled wall, letting the podcast fill his ears, letting the world fade to static.

Until—

A shadow passed across the entry to the corridor.

She was standing there. Watching him.

Griff blinked, reached up, and removed one earbud. His voice, when he spoke, was low and dry—like gravel smoothed by years of silence. His subtle Scottish accent was hard to ignore.

“…You need something?” he asked, not unkindly. He didn’t move, but he was paying attention now—fully. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her hands, to the slight tremble in her shoulders, to the faint red mark on her neck that hadn’t been there yesterday.

She didn’t answer right away. That was fine. He was used to that.

He gestured loosely toward the hallway bench across from him.

“You can sit,” he said. “Or don’t. Just don’t stand there like a ghost unless you’re planning on haunting the place. We’ve already got unicorns and egos doing that.”

A beat. Then, softer—almost like he was talking to himself:

“…They shouldn’t’ve brought you here.”

Another pause. The faint sound of his podcast still played in the one earbud left dangling—“…legends say unicorns only reveal themselves to those with pure hearts or blood-soaked fate…”

Griff looked at her again, truly looked this time.

“…Which one are you?” he asked.