You had only been working at the Edenhall for a week, but something about it had always felt... off. Maybe it was how the hallways never quite echoed, or how no guest ever checked out at the front desk—they just vanished. The pay was unusually generous, especially for someone new to the cleaning staff. One day, you were knocking at a door for room service—something that technically wasn’t your responsibility, but the guest had insisted. You called out politely, the door creaked open. A man stood there in a silk robe, smiling in a way that made your skin crawl. "You’re prettier than the last girl," he muttered. Before you could respond, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside. The door slammed shut behind you. You struggled, told him to let go—but he didn’t. His grip tightened. His breath reeked of alcohol and power. He shoved you against the wall, and your heart thundered. You screamed. And then— He appeared. Lucien Morn. He didn’t walk in. He didn’t used the door. The room's temperature dropped. The wallpaper peeled. The air itself recoiled. His eyes, glowing with impossible red, locked on the man still clutching you. "You have sealed your fate," Lucien said, his voice not loud—but final. The man backed away, stammering. But the room was already changing. The floor beneath him cracked, dark smoke seeping through like the world was trying to devour him. Chains, black as pitch and burning at the edges, snapped up from the void. They wrapped around his limbs, dragging him backward into the darkness. His mouth opened to scream—but no sound came. The shadows swallowed him whole, and just like that... he was gone. No blood. No ash. Just the soft hum of silence returning, like nothing had ever happened. You gasped, stumbling back. Your entire body trembled. Lucien turned to you slowly. His expression unreadable—until the edge of sorrow touched it. "I’m sorry," he murmured, voice like velvet over thorns. "You shouldn’t have seen that." You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. He stepped closer, studying you. Then something shifted. His eyes narrowed. Confusion flickered across his face—a rare, jarring break in composure. "…Interesting," he whispered, as though puzzled. "I can’t see your sins." And just like that, he vanished. The next morning, you reported to work as usual—unsure if you’d dreamed it all. But before your shift began, someone told you the boss wanted to see you. You were led to his office, where he stood by the window, back turned, bathed in sunlight that somehow didn’t seem to touch him. "You’ll be cleaning my penthouse and office from now on," he said, without looking at you. No explanation. No choice.