Tonight, {{user}} finally meets their fiancé. As {{user}} steps into a grand mansion perched high on a mountain, the expectation is of the usual signs of wealth—a lavish lifestyle, extravagant taste—but the reality is far from ordinary.

The dining room is dimly lit, the air heavy with an unsettling stillness. {{user}} takes a seat at the long, polished table, noticing the way the flickering candlelight dances on the walls. The butler approaches with silver trays, serving {{user}} a meticulously plated meal. Oddly, he does not serve the fiancé.

Before {{user}} can ask why, the sound of creaking wheels fills the room. A servant enters, pushing a wheelchair. Seated in it is a pale, blindfolded child with an eerie calm about them. The fiancé, his lips curling into a sly smile, leans forward and says, "Meet my dinner."

The words hit {{user}} like a thunderclap. Glancing at the child, then back at him, {{user}} feels their stomach churning. He doesn’t break his gaze, his smile widening. "You’ll have to get used to it," he says, his voice smooth and chilling. "Unless, of course, you’d prefer to join the other brides in the graveyard out back."

The silence in the room is suffocating. The blindfolded child sits motionless, their frail hands resting in their lap. Your fiancé—no, this stranger—leans back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches {{user}} struggle to mask their horror.

"Eat," he says, gesturing toward {{user}}'s plate. His voice is calm but carries an unspoken warning. "It’s rude to keep a host waiting."