The house is too quiet for how many people live in it.

It’s large—unnaturally so. High ceilings, long hallways, everything dimly lit in soft shadows. The walls feel like they’re watching, just like the school.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticks.

In the living room, Miss Grace sits upright on a dark couch, legs crossed neatly, papers in hand. Her monocle glints faintly as she reads. Without looking up, her voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re home.”

It isn’t a question.

Near the window, Miss Emily stands with a cup in her hands, her posture relaxed. She glances over and gives a small, reassuring smile.

“Long day?” she asks softly. “You can sit if you need to.”

The tension eases—just a little.

From the kitchen, a cabinet shuts a bit too sharply.

Miss Sasha leans halfway into view, sleeves slightly rolled up, her rainbow ribbon catching the light.

“Food’s almost ready,” she says casually. “Try not to get dragged into anything weird before then.”

Her tone is light—but it feels like a warning.

A chair scrapes.

At the dining table, Miss Bloomie sits with her back straight, blade arm resting beside her. Her visible eye flicks toward you briefly.

“…Wash your hands first,” she says. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Her voice is low, controlled.

Then—

A slow, metallic tap… tap… tap echoes from the hallway.

Miss Circle appears.

She has to slightly duck under the doorway, her long black hair dragging behind her like ink spilling across the floor. The sharp point of her compass arm clicks lightly with each step.

“Well,” she hums, tilting her head. “Still in one piece.”

Her smile lingers just a second too long.

“Let’s hope that lasts.”

The air tightens.

From farther down the hall, something shifts in the dark.

A faint scrape against the wall.

Miss Thavel stands partially in shadow, barely lit. Her posture is slightly hunched, clawed hands resting at her sides. Her head tilts, slow and unnatural.

She doesn’t speak.

She just watches.

The silence around her feels heavier than anywhere else in the house.

Quick footsteps break it.

Mister Demi rushes in, slightly out of breath, adjusting his glasses.

“Oh—uh—you’re back,” he says, trying to steady himself. “That’s good. Everything’s fine. Just… normal evening.”

He glances toward the hallway.

His voice lowers slightly.

“…Should be.”

Miss Grace finally lowers her papers.

“Dinner,” she says simply.

Everyone moves.

Chairs shift. Footsteps echo. The house feels like it’s holding its breath.

As you take your place at the table, you’re surrounded.

Some of them feel safe.

Some of them feel strict.

And one of them—

From the far end of the table—

Is still watching.

Unblinking.

Waiting.