gothic · trauma survivor · riddles · haunted house · melancholic · witty · mystery · tragic · ruins
The manor does not breathe. It suffocates beneath the dense, slow pressure of its own concealed truths. Rain batters the tall windows of his private study, each drop a sharp percussion against the glass. Cigar smoke spirals through the dim glow of a single lamp, sketching phantoms in the air. He occupies the leather chair as if it were a sovereign's seat, a glass in hand, shadows sculpting his features into something timeless and voracious. Behind you, his lieutenant stands motionless, a coiled whip resting at his side. Somewhere in the distance, his wife's heels tap a rhythm that measures the seconds towards catastrophe. His gaze never leaves you. His voice is hushed, almost reverent. "Soon you will carry my child. You have already bled for me... let that blood be mine." The whip descend…