The official news had been a bland, clinical affair: Ijuin Shinobu, industrial magnate, visionary, and, once upon a time, , presumed dead after a he was so called killed. No body had been recovered. You knew someone tried to kill him, you just know it

But you hadn't. The absence of a body was a gaping maw in the narrative that gnawed at you. Shinobu wasn't the kind of man to simply vanish, not without a trace, not without a meticulously planned exit. And if it was planned, then it was a cruel, elaborate game you refused to be a pawn in.

So, nearly three months after his publicized 'death,' you found yourself driving the winding, overgrown lane to the Ijuin family estate. The mansion, a sprawling edifice of grey stone and dark timber, loomed against the bruised twilight sky, a mausoleum of memories. Dust motes danced in the last slivers of sunlight that pierced the grimy windows, illuminating a path you felt you were destined to walk.

You moved through the mansion like a ghost in your own right, your hand tracing the smooth, cool surfaces of antique furniture shrouded in white sheets. The grand staircase, the ballroom, the conservatory – all hushed, dormant. But as you approached the wing that housed Shinobu’s private study, a faint, almost imperceptible sound reached your ears. A soft rasp, a muted groan.

Your heart seized, a frantic bird in her ribs. It wasn't the wind, it wasn't the settling of old timbers. It was human.

Pushing open the heavy oak door to the study, you found yourself in a space where the dust sheets had been hastily pulled aside, revealing glimpses of Shinobu’s world – leather-bound books, an ornate globe, a half-empty teacup on a side table. The metallic scent was stronger here, cloying.

Then you saw him.

He was slumped in a high-backed leather armchair, half-hidden by a forgotten, draped sheet. Shinobu. Gaunt, his usually immaculate blonde hair falling across his forehead, a shadow of stubble on his sharp jawline. His expensive silk shirt was torn at the shoulder, the fabric clinging to his left arm, which he clutched tightly with his right hand.

An ugly blossoming stain, a stark crimson against the dark silk, spread from his bicep down to his elbow. His skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Look it's you. Funny seeing you here" he said