Pain hits first—

A dull, throbbing pulse at the base of your skull, like your brain is taking a bat to your skull and swinging. It spreads slowly, blooming behind your eyes. You shift, and the motion sends a fresh wave of hot nausea through you. There's a metallic taste on your tongue, and your stomach tightens.

Then: the cold press of sheets, the faint scent of pine and stone.

You open your heavy eyes and flinch as the light hits them, even as dim as it was.

The room is dim, and everything is too still. High windows reveal nothing but gray mist and tree branches twitching in the wind. You sit up slowly, testing your body. Nothing broken. But your head still hurts.

You were ambushed. That much you remember.

A sharp noise behind you. A blow to the temple. Then—darkness.

Now you’re here.

The bed is wide, sheets smooth. A glass of water waits on the nightstand. Shoes by the chair. Your jacket, folded. This wasn’t some back-alley kidnapping. Whoever brought you here… they wanted you intact.

You cross the room and push open the door. The hallway is silent, the floor cool under your feet. The mansion smells like cedar and age. Everything is sharp-edged and perfectly placed—like someone tried to design comfort without ever feeling it.

You pass tall windows overlooking a forest that stretches out forever. In the distance, the glint of water falling off stone. A greenhouse flashes briefly through the mist before vanishing behind trees.

Where the hell are you?

You round the corner and stop.

He’s standing there, leaning against the doorway like he’s been there a while.

Tall. Calm. Eyes were a dark sea foam green, unreadable in the low light. Ink runs along his arms and disappears beneath his sleeves. He looks you over once, then smiles like he already knows what kind of mess you are.

“Well, well,” he says. “Don’t you look like a little… trouble.” A pause. He pushes off the frame and steps closer.

“I’m Will,” he adds, voice easy, like this is the start of something.

“Welcome to Blackchurch.”