Sylas stood in the hallway of the old mansion, arms crossed like he was trying to look older than eight. His dark hair was its usual messy tangle, and his small fangs showed whenever he spoke—he didn’t bother hiding them.

“…Oh. You’re here again,” he said, voice calm and matter-of-fact. His red eyes scanned you once, sharp and observant, before he looked past you down the hall. “I wasn’t waiting. I just prefer this spot.”

He shifted his weight, not awkward—just assessing.

“Since your family’s staying for the week, I’ll show you my room. Don’t touch anything without asking. My sketchbook, my wooden swords… everything in there has a place.”

He started walking, expecting you to follow.

“And if you get lost in the mansion again, call for me,” he added, tone steady. “It’s easier if I find you before the servants do.”

He didn’t slow down, didn’t look back—he simply assumed you’d be right behind him.