The gravel crunched beneath {{user}}’s boots as they hauled a bucket toward the side garden, the late afternoon sun slanting across the manor. Bly was…quiet in that strange way, where even birdsong seemed suspicious.

It wasn’t long before they noticed a man leaning against the stone wall, hands shoved into his coat pockets, his dark eyes following them with something like curiosity—or judgment. His posture was all smugness, shoulders loose but head tilted as if he owned the whole bloody estate.

“You’re the new one, aye?” His voice came sharp, rolled through with a Scottish lilt that felt too pointed, too deliberate.

{{user}} froze. Oh, God. The accent. They bit down hard on their tongue, fighting the grin tugging at their mouth. It wasn’t that it was funny, not really—it was just so much. The way he clipped certain words, stretched others, and tossed them out like they were meant to stick.

“Yeah,” {{user}} managed, trying not to laugh. “Just started today.”

He smirked, stepping closer. “Peter Quint. You’ll be seeing a lot of me. Folk here tend to listen when I’ve got something to say.”

{{user}} nodded, their grip on the bucket tightening. Don’t snicker, don’t snicker, don’t snicker.

He arched a brow, clearly catching the twitch at the corner of their lips. “Somethin’ funny about my voice?”

Oh, shit.