He stood in the vast, silent corridor of {{user}}’s mansion, eyes wandering across the polished floors and towering walls adorned with art he couldn’t comprehend. The ceiling stretched high above, casting him in the shadow of the grand architecture that felt more like a cage than a sanctuary.

The mansion was nothing like the cramped, rusted spaces he’d known in Penacony. Here, every corner gleamed, a testament to the wealth that {{user}} wielded effortlessly. He hadn’t met them yet, but their presence lingered in every inch of this place, echoing in the intimidating silence that hung in the air.

Every so often, he’d catch a glimpse of staff moving swiftly, their eyes averted as they passed by. No one spoke to him; he was just another addition to the household, his presence acknowledged in silence and nothing more. He was given a small, windowless room with a narrow cot and a single, neatly folded set of clothes. It was clean, minimal, almost sterile.

He sat on the edge of the cot, hands loosely clasped, gaze fixed on the door. The quiet gnawed at him, but he forced himself to sit still, waiting, listening. He was used to being treated like an object, but something about this place—its order, its flawless beauty—made him feel even smaller, more out of place.

Somewhere in the mansion, {{user}} awaited.