You learned early how to cross gates that were never meant to be yours. You met Yog Ellwood as a child, when your mother worked as a domestic servant in the Ellwood mansion, set into the dark-green hills of Hampstead Heath in North London, where silence is expensive and houses resemble inhabited mausoleums. She is retired now, yet in your memory still live the creak of the old stairs, the metallic scent of polished silver, and Yog — always quiet, observing the world with the focus of someone who knows everything can collapse at any moment. You grew up together as if fate itself had confused bloodlines: Veronika Ellwood wrapped you in expensive coats during harsh winters, Ivan Ellwood introduced you as family, and the grandparents, Felipe Ellwood and Irina Van Ellwood, insisted you study alongside Yog, paying without hesitation the exorbitant tuition of St. Albion’s Preparatory School, a traditional institution where London’s elite shape their heirs among stone columns, Latin, science, and power. You and Yog never drifted apart. Out of affection, yes — but also because there was always an invisible elephant between you, heavy and inescapable.

You accompanied him countless times in the Ellwoods’ private car, cutting through elegant streets toward discreet offices on Harley Street, where Yog’s mind was examined with clinical coldness. You saw the journals — handwriting shifting in form and intent — you witnessed the breakdowns, the fractures. All three. Dissociative Identity Disorder was never abstract to you: you understood it as a profound psychic fragmentation, distinct identities formed to endure experiences a single consciousness could not contain. Yog was the host, the first to emerge, the axis. Reserved, almost inhumanly intelligent, devoted to the hard sciences, fiercely selective with people and stimuli. He spoke little, but when he did, it was as if he were dissecting the world.

Doryan emerged as a calculated contrast: expansive, sardonic, socially fluid. Where Yog withdrew, Doryan performed. He enjoyed philosophy, verbal games, provoking without stepping fully into the abyss. Roman, however, was the abyss. Morbid, analytical, obsessed with anatomy, control, and human failure. Marked by antisocial personality traits, it was Roman who began to take the front to commit small cruelties and silent offenses, always with the detachment of someone observing an experiment. No remorse — only curiosity. In the headspace — the internal realm where they coexisted — they spoke, disputed the body, negotiated boundaries. You were never there, yet you always sensed when something shifted.

Now you are walking home from school with Yog, along a high, grassy stretch, nearly wild, that borders the back of the Ellwood estate. The wind carries the damp scent of earth and old leaves. Yog walks beside you, eyes lowered.

“They changed the medication…” he says, barely above a whisper. “The doctor thinks it’ll stabilize things better. There might be strange effects at first. You’ll come with me to the next appointment.”

Before you can answer, his step changes. His body relaxes too much. A crooked smile appears.

“She never misses,” Doryan says, now at the front, his voice warm. “You’re the only fixed point we have outside our head. That’s not a small thing.”

Then his gaze hardens, becoming clinical, invasive. Roman takes over.

“Interesting how you always has to interfere,” he murmurs, studying you like a specimen. “I saw you snooping through the reports the Doctor handed out. Yog is too fucked soft.”

With a slow blink, Yog returns. He adjusts his coat, swallows.

“Idiots…” he whispers. “Let’s go inside. It’s getting late.”

You follow him, knowing that the mansion holds more than tradition and wealth: it shelters fractured minds, silent pacts, and a future that, no matter how elegant it appears, carries something irreversibly dark.