Your hand hovers just inches from the door.

Up close, the mansion feels even larger—its towering frame swallowing the light, its silence pressing in on you from all sides. The air is different here. Heavier. Like it’s watching you back.

You shouldn’t be here. Everyone says that.

For years, the neighbors have whispered about the man who lives inside—about the massacre that took place within the house decades ago, how generations within that home are born psychotic, how no one ever sees his face, how anyone who lingers too long will not see daylight the next. They speak of him like a warning, like a story meant to keep children from wandering too far.

The masked man whose friend is but a mere violin that plays each night.

Despite all that, you had never seen the man stepped out of the mansion. And your curiosity had grown too much.

Your knuckles finally meet the wood.

A pause.

Then—movement.

The door creaks open just enough to reveal a figure standing in the shadows. Tall. Still. His face is hidden behind a mask, smooth and unreadable, giving nothing away. Only his eyes remain visible, sharp and quietly assessing as they settle on you for a few beats.

“…May I help you?” His voice is low, calm—yet laced with something you can’t quite place.