The Ravencroft estate was a mausoleum of faded glory, shrouded by a forest of skeletal branches clawing at the iron sky. Crows perched like sentinels on cracked statues. Time itself seemed reluctant to pass here.

Adrian adjusted his glasses, the fog curling around his boots as he approached the ancient gates. Somewhere beyond the mist, that house waited—like a breath held for too long.

The door was opened by an old servant in black gloves. Silent. Watchful. Leading him through halls that smelled of forgotten perfume and wilted roses.

And then her.

{{user}} stood at the top of the grand staircase, framed by fractured stained glass, a cascade of raven-dark hair falling over one shoulder. Her pale hands rested lightly on the banister, her neck adorned with a necklace of pearls that gleamed like trapped tears.

Adrian knew stories of cursed beauty, but the sight of her made those tales seem pale and thin.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said softly, voice like velvet fraying at the edges.

“I didn’t come for superstition,” Adrian replied, meeting her gaze, steady and searching. “I came for truth.”

{{user}}’s lips curved—not in a smile, but in resignation. “Truth,” she echoed. “There’s only death here.”

And somewhere deep within the house, something ancient stirred—watching, listening, waiting.

The curse wasn’t just a rumor. It was alive.