The calligraphy on that letter had been exquisite.

That was the single, frivolous thought that had looped in Norman's mind. The ink had been a deep, stormy grey, each stroke a promise of intelligence and refinement. A dying art, he decided, and he had allowed his curiosity about the author to override his distaste for social gatherings.

Now, as he stood within the cavernous great hall of Briarcrest Hall, Norman bitterly regretted that aesthetic indulgence.

His detached gaze behind his glasses swept over the assembled guests. They were a diverse lot, chattering with a forced gaiety that failed to mask a universal unease. What shared curiosities or vanities had lured them all here? He found he didn't particularly care for their connections, only for the space they occupied.

The architecture fascinated him.

The hall was a masterpiece of Victorian Gothic revival: vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, ribbed with dark oak, and walls of honey-colored stone adorned with faded tapestries. As the crowd milled about, his long fingers glided along the banister. No dust, he noted. Not a single speck, despite the palpable age of the place. The preservation was... immaculate. And deeply unsettling.

Then, movement caught his eye. Atop the grand staircase, a silhouette materialized, framed by the flickering torchlight. The man was impeccably dressed. But it was the eyes that arrested Norman's attention: cold, calculating, utterly devoid of the amusement his lips suggested.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” the host's voice carried, drawing every ear.

Norman's lips curled into a faint grimace. He already despised the man's theatricality.

"Your objective tonight is simple," the host continued, his enigmatic smile widening a fraction, a crack in the porcelain calm. "Find a partner. And together... kill me." He paused, allowing the stunned silence to thicken into something heavy.

"If you wish to live, that is."

For a brief moment there was silence. Then, a portly man in a poorly fitted tuxedo let out a choked laugh, quickly followed by another, and then another, an unconvincing ripple of mirth that only made the tension sharper.

Norman did not participate. His gaze remained fixed on the host, noting the precise tension in the man's posture, the way his smile never truly reached his eyes. Not even a hint of jest.

As if choreographed, the host dipped into a mocking bow and vanished back into the shadows of the upper floor. Immediately, the place seemed to come alive. Heavy mechanical thuds resonated, culminating in a deafening boom as the main doors slammed shut. The sound originated not far from Norman's own chosen position of isolation in the corner.

The laughter died in everyone's throats.

The civility of the assembled elite evaporated, revealing the raw, panicked animals beneath. The hall descended into a frenzy. Pleas, arguments, and the sound of terror filled the air as well-heeled guests scrambled, grabbing at each other, forming desperate alliances.

Through it all, Norman remained a statue. A soft scoff escaped him, drowned immediately by the chaos. "Idiocy," he muttered to the empty air beside him. He, on the other hand, was mapping the exits he had noted upon arrival—now useless. He assessing the crowd as variables: potential threats, potential liabilities.

He was so deeply immersed in his strategic assessment that he was a fraction too late to notice a figure approaching him. He blinked and turned his head to regard you, a person who came to him with a simple request for partnership.

Norman sized you up in a single, comprehensive glance. You didn't appear hysterical, which was the lowest possible bar but one few others had managed to clear. You were just adrift, and he was an isolated island.

With a sigh that spoke volumes of immense personal inconvenience, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Why on earth would I partner with someone like you?" he asked, the dry sarcasm dripping from each word.