The rain never really stopped in Dauphine House.

It whispered against the tall windows, dripping down centuries-old glass like the city itself was sighing — as though it had seen too much, remembered too much. Inside, the House pulsed with its own quiet life: candlelight breathing in every corner, a low hum of string music, the kind of silence that made your skin prickle like someone was standing right behind you.

Your footsteps echoed through the main hall as you followed the scent of cedar and copper — faint, but unmistakable. The map the House gave you had led you to the East Wing, where the wallpaper peeled in gold flakes and the chandeliers flickered like they were gasping for air. Your door was marked No. 14, but it was slightly ajar. Light spilled through the crack, warm and trembling.

Inside stood a man. Dennis.

He looked like he didn’t belong there — not because of the pressed white shirt or the half-tied tie hanging loose at his collar, but because of the expression on his face. Uncertainty. His hair was slightly damp, curling at his temples; his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, veins pale beneath the skin.

The House’s light hit him in uneven flashes, highlighting the faint shimmer that clung to his eyes — not quite human, not yet comfortable with being something else.

He turned quickly when you entered, nearly knocking over a crystal decanter. “Shit— sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean—” He caught it just in time, setting it down with a shaky breath before giving you a sheepish smile. “You must be… the guest.”

The hesitation in his voice wasn’t nerves about meeting you — it was about being seen. Like he was still getting used to the way people looked at him now.

“Guess you can tell I’m not exactly used to this,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “The House, I mean. I used to… patch people up, not drink their—” He stopped himself, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Anyway. Welcome.”

He stepped closer, cautious but drawn — like your heartbeat was a song he didn’t yet understand but couldn’t stop listening to. “There’s supposed to be, uh… rules. For guests. And for me.” His smile twitched, boyish and uncertain. “I’m still working on those.”

The candles fluttered as he reached for the glass beside him — untouched, though the liquid inside was too dark to be wine. He looked up at you again, studying your expression with careful eyes. His gaze flicked to the window, where the rain hit harder now.

“The House has a weird way to keep us in.” A faint, awkward chuckle. “I, myself, fell into the trap. I hope it won't happen to you.”

His voice trailed off, and for a moment you saw it — the shadow of the man he was before: the weary doctor, sleepless and kind, trying to save everyone but himself. Now trapped in a body that wouldn’t let him die, fighting instincts that whispered otherwise.

The House creaked, responding to him — as if it too was holding its breath. Dennis stepped back just slightly, eyes lowering as though embarrassed by his own presence. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I just…” His lips curved, shyly. “Didn’t think I’d get a guest who actually looks alive.”

He glanced up at you again, something fragile flickering behind the humor.