The mansion loomed against the fading light, a decaying monument to forgotten grandeur. Vines clung to the cracked stone walls, twisting upward like skeletal fingers desperate to escape their confines. The distant rumble of thunder was a low growl, signaling the storm that would soon swallow the land. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew and rotting wood.
Ethan Drake's boots cracked the silence as he crossed the threshold, the massive oak door groaning like a dying animal. He stepped inside, the dim glow from a broken chandelier casting fractured shadows across the room. Dust, undisturbed for what could have been years, hung in the air, swirling in the wake of his movement. His gray eyes flickered over the room, scanning, always searching.
"Grand entrances don't make for grand exits," he muttered to himself, his voice a steady undercurrent against the creaking silence.
The room had a stillness that bordered on suffocating. Ornate carvings lined the banister of the sweeping staircase, each step creaking with the weight of forgotten years. A portrait of Victor Alderidge—tall, gaunt, eyes piercing—hung crookedly on the wall. His presence, once commanding, now faded like a memory locked in time.
Ethan's gaze was drawn to the grand piano at the center of the room. It stood as a sentinel in the gloom, its once-polished surface now dull, covered in dust. Sheet music was scattered across it—some yellowed with age, others fresh and white, as though still waiting for a hand to guide the notes.
He reached out, picking up one of the sheets, his fingers brushing over the jagged, irregular notes. His brow furrowed as he traced the cryptic annotations along the margins: "cipher," "veil," "betrayal." The ink was smudged, as if written in a frenzy.
"This wasn't just music to him," Ethan muttered, his voice low, barely a whisper. The intensity in his gaze deepened.
A sound broke through the silence—footsteps. Echoing, faint, yet unmistakable.
"Gwen. You always this quiet, or just around strangers?" Ethan asked, his voice sharp but calm, without even turning to face her.
The door creaked as Gwen Alderidge entered, hesitating just beyond the threshold. Her arms were tightly crossed, and the coat she wore hung loosely from her shoulders. Her green eyes flickered with a mixture of determination and something darker, something that pulled at the edges of her composure.
"He hated strangers," Gwen said, her voice quiet, her words tinged with bitterness. "Said they only came to take what wasn't theirs."
Ethan straightened, turning toward her with a look that wasn't quite suspicion, but close enough. "And you? What are you here to take?"
Her eyes hardened, though her lips trembled. "Answers."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not surprised. He gestured toward the piano, the scattered sheets, the cryptic notations. "Then you'd better start talking. What happened to your grandfather?"
Gwen's jaw tightened as she stepped forward, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "He said he uncovered something... Something that could ruin lives. His words, not mine. He became... paranoid. Locked himself in his study. Barely ate. Barely slept."
Her eyes darted around the room, as though searching for something to ground her. She took a breath, as though gathering strength. "He told me not to trust anyone. Even… even family."
Ethan studied her, his eyes unwavering, measuring her, weighing the truth in her words. "Do you think he was right? About the danger?"
For a long moment, Gwen said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she nodded. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her coat as she shifted on her feet. "The day he died... he called me. Said he'd finished something important and needed me to come immediately. I thought it was just another delusion... Until he didn't pick up the next call."
Her breath caught. The tension in the air grew thick as she turned away, her back to him, her shoulders trembling as she fought to maintain control.
Ethan moved towards the piano, his footsteps quiet, deliberate. He flipped through the scattered music, his hands moving with practiced ease. His mind raced. His body was still, but his mind was always moving, always finding the next clue.
"If Victor was paranoid, he'd have left a trail. Something that explained everything without saying a word," Ethan muttered to himself.
He paused, his eyes narrowing at a particular sheet. He carefully shaded over it with the side of his pencil. The indentations were faint, but they were there. He could just make out the outline of an address.
"Gotcha," he said, the words barely audible.
Gwen stepped closer, her eyes locked on the page. "That... that's his old workshop. He stopped going there years ago. Said it wasn't safe."
Ethan slipped the sheet into his messenger bag, his mind already racing ahead. He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair, his movements smooth, precise.
"Then that's where I'm going," he said, his voice low.
Gwen stepped forward, blocking his path. Her green eyes burned with intensity, her posture rigid. "Not alone, you're not."
Ethan regarded her, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "I work better alone."
"And I work better with someone who doesn't leave me in the dark." Her words were firm, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Ethan hesitated, the conflict within him playing out in the flicker of his gaze. He wasn't used to anyone pushing back so persistently. But there was something in her eyes—a desperate need for clarity, for closure—that drew him in.
"Fine," he said, his voice grating with reluctant acceptance. "But if I say run, you run. No questions. Got it?"
"Got it," she answered, the word sharp and final.
As they moved toward the door, a faint creak echoed from upstairs. Both froze, the sound slicing through the stillness of the house.
Ethan's hand moved instinctively toward the baton concealed at his side. He was already calculating, already assessing the situation in his mind.
"Stay here," he whispered, his voice low, commanding.
"Not a chance," Gwen answered, her eyes flashing with defiance. She moved closer, her presence no longer just an echo in his peripheral vision. She was right beside him now.
Ethan gestured for her to stay low as they moved toward the staircase. The shadows stretched longer, the air colder with every step. His heart thudded in his chest, but his breath remained steady, controlled.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his vision. A shadow, too quick to catch, too deliberate to be accidental.
"We're not alone," Ethan murmured, his voice almost a growl.
The darkened hallway above, empty yet full of an unspoken threat. The metallic clink of something faintly shifting, followed by the soft creak of a door closing. It was subtle, but Ethan's instincts screamed.
He motioned for Gwen to follow, and as they stepped out into the night, the chill of the evening air bit into their skin. Their breaths hung in the air, visible in the dim light. The distant hoot of an owl pierced the silence.
"You think someone's following us?" Gwen's voice was small, uncertain, but the fear was unmistakable.
Ethan glanced back, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadowed windows of the mansion. He tightened his grip on the folded address in his hand.
"I don't think. I know."
And behind them, in the mansion's darkened window, a figure emerged, barely visible in the gloom. It was watching them. Waiting