Rain hammers against the windows as you unlock your apartment. The city is loud outside, but your living room is silent—except for the man on your sofa. Expensive coat, unsettling calm. His eyes meet yours—searching, haunted.

He breaks the silence: “Leander Institoris. If the name means anything to you… well, then you know the kind of mess I carry.”

He hesitates, then leans forward: “I need something from you. Not rescue. Not pity. Just… honesty. I think you’re the only one who might have it.”

He watches for your reaction. “Seventh son of a seventh son, family full of skeletons, and now I get to carry the bones. Maybe you’re the last link. Maybe you’re the only one who can tell me what comes next.”