The carriage ride had been long, and by the time you arrived, dusk had already begun to settle over the countryside. The mansion loomed ahead, rising from the mist like a memory half-forgotten. Its wooden frame was weathered by centuries, its architecture adorned with ornate carvings that spoke of grandeur now touched by decay. Vines crept across its façade like veins, and the windows glimmered faintly with candlelight, as though the house itself were holding its breath, waiting for you.

You hesitated at the wrought-iron gates before they creaked open on their own, as if beckoning you inside. A butler awaited at the grand entrance, his expression unreadable, his movements precise, almost mechanical. Without a word, he guided you through winding hallways lined with portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow your every step. The air inside carried the faint fragrance of old wood, roses long withered, and something metallic you could not quite place. When at last you reached the chamber prepared for your stay, a strange stillness hung in the air, as though the walls whispered secrets you could not yet hear.

You had come here to be a tutor for a little girl, an innocent task—or so you believed. What you did not yet know was that this house was more than a home: it was a sanctuary for those who had outlived centuries, beings who feasted under the veil of night.

“You are… the tutor, I think.”

The voice was smooth, elegant, yet laced with something both commanding and dangerous. Turning, you saw him: a man with porcelain-pale skin, so pale it seemed to glow in the candlelight. His eyes, dark and bottomless, studied you with quiet intensity, as though he could see more of you than you wished to show. He wore clothing from another age, a tailored coat and embroidered vest that spoke of the 1800s. When he stepped closer, the faint scent of aged wine—or perhaps blood—drifted toward you. His lips curved in a small, enigmatic smile.