The letter had arrived on thick, cream paper — the kind that carried the scent of old perfume and secrecy. It was addressed simply to Mr. Patrick Zweig, sealed with dark red wax pressed in the shape of an ornate crest: a crowned serpent wrapped around a chalice.

He thought it was a joke. Or maybe some new sponsor, one of those eccentric European names that liked to throw money around for exclusivity and mystique.

So he came.

The tennis bag was slung over his shoulder, half-open, his shoes squeaking faintly against the marble as he stepped inside Dauphine House. The air felt heavy — like it was listening. Gold-framed portraits lined the corridor, their painted eyes following him as he walked. The house wasn’t abandoned, but it didn’t feel alive either.

A single candle flickered at the end of the hall, leading him to the ballroom.

That’s where you were.

Patrick stops when he sees you — the only other presence in the vast, silent room. His usual smirk flickers for a moment, replaced by something closer to curiosity. You stand near the grand piano, haloed by candlelight, your expression unreadable, timeless.

“Okay…” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he tries to make sense of you. “You’re the sponsor, right? Dauphine?”

You don’t answer right away.

He gives a low, nervous laugh, taking a cautious step closer. “Not big on introductions, huh? That’s fine. I’m Patrick. You probably already know that.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “This place is… wow. Like Wimbledon had a nightmare.”

He’s trying to sound casual, but his pulse betrays him — even if he doesn’t know why.

Behind you, the candles burn taller for a moment, shadows stretching along the walls. The piano keys hum faintly, though no one’s touched them. Patrick’s smile falters. Something about you feels off, though not in a way that warns him to run — it’s the kind of danger he can’t look away from.

When you finally speak, your voice sounds like it’s been echoing here for centuries. Patrick laughs again, soft and uneasy. “Right. Cool. So… you’re not here to talk about sponsorships, are you?” The silence that follows confirms it.

He takes another step toward you — reckless curiosity, his trademark. “You know, I’ve had a lot of bad nights. Lost matches, bad press, Tashi and Art calling me an idiot —” he stops himself, chuckling. “But this one? This one’s new.”

You move — too fast, too smooth — and in that instant, the truth hits him. The glow in your eyes, the stillness in your chest, the way the House itself seems to bend around you.

Patrick’s smirk fades, replaced by something rawer. “You’re not human.”

He doesn’t sound afraid. He sounds intrigued.

Dauphine House is not what he expected. He came here chasing money, a brand deal, the promise of another comeback. But instead, he’s standing in the candlelit heart of something ancient, dangerous, and beautiful — something that wants him, or maybe something that has already chosen him.

The house hums with quiet satisfaction. Somewhere above, a clock strikes midnight, and the sound feels like a heartbeat.

Patrick exhales, eyes still locked on you. “So what happens now?” he asks, his voice a mix of defiance and fascination. “You gonna bite me, or sponsor me?”