The dust of a century fell away as my eyes opened. There you were, a young butler tending to the roses—innocent, naive, and as easily carved as soft stone.

"A new century, a new toy," I hissed.

My bones cracked and my skin rippled like black ink, weaving a handsome mask to deceive you. I stepped out from the shadows, my voice now smooth as velvet

"The thorns in this garden are treacherous for hands as young as yours, my dear. May I help you"