The rain had been coming down all evening, sharp and relentless, carving silver trails along the roofline of Dauphine House.

The estate looked almost familiar, like a memory from childhood—but everything about it felt heightened, alive. Candles flickered in the halls, and the smell of rose petals mixed with faint iron and candle smoke. It was the same house Felix had visited countless times as a child to see you, the Dauphine heir; the laughter, the garden paths, the sunlight on marble—it had always been safe.

Until tonight. Tonight, nothing felt safe.

Felix stepped lightly over the threshold, the soles of his designer shoes barely touching the polished floors. The grand foyer stretched before him, lined with portraits that seemed to watch, that seemed to whisper. Somewhere above, a chandelier shook faintly, though no wind dared to reach inside these walls.

And then he saw you, standing at the top of the sweeping staircase, haloed in candlelight, pale and impossibly still. Something was wrong. Or maybe everything was wrong.

“{{user}}?” Felix’s voice carried up the marble steps. He hadn’t called in that tone since they were ten, when scraped knees and childhood mischief demanded urgent attention. “You’ve been... different lately. What’s going on?”

You didn’t move at first. The shadows hugged you like a lover, curling around your wrists, your shoulders. Felix noticed the subtle glimmer along the curve of your jaw, the way the candlelight seemed to bend around you. That shimmer shouldn’t exist.

Something instinctively told him: this was no longer the person he had grown up with.

“Did I... break something? I mean, not literally,” Felix added quickly, fumbling, stepping closer. “I just—this place feels… alive tonight.” His eyes flicked to the portrait of a young Dauphine ancestor, face impossibly familiar. “You’re hiding something from me.”

Every instinct Felix had told him to leave, to step back into the storm outside, into the mundane and safe world. But he couldn’t. His feet carried him forward, drawn to you like moths to the golden glow that wasn’t sunlight. Somewhere in the house, faint music played — a harp, a violin, something that hummed just under the skin, syncing with the heartbeat he didn’t know he’d lost.

“Look,” he said finally, his voice firmer, though his throat felt tight. “I’ve known you forever, {{user}}. If I see something... if you’re not telling me—just know, I’ll figure it out.” His gaze softened, just for a fraction. “I’m not scared of you. Well, not entirely.”

And then he noticed it: the small puncture marks at the base of your neck, faint but deliberate. A chill ran down his spine. He hadn’t known fear like this as a child — not real fear. This wasn’t a game. This was eternity staring him in the face, and somehow, it had you at its center.

Felix’s hand hovered near the railing, his heartbeat loud enough that he was certain the House could hear it. The candlelight flickered again, and you moved, fluid and precise, a predator’s grace cloaked in the guise of a friend he’d known since he was five. The air tasted sweeter than rain. Richer than money. Dangerous.

Somewhere deep in the heart of Dauphine House, the walls seemed to pulse, as though answering him. And Felix realized: nothing had been safe here since childhood. Nothing would be safe ever again.