Nighttime always brought a certain peace to a man like him.

With no work left since the afternoon—only one tedious meeting with another family behind him—Mr. Finn could finally enjoy the quiet of his mansion. The stars glittered overhead, but the moon played coy, hiding behind drifting clouds. He settled into a chair by the window, stretching his legs onto the polished footrest. A maid stepped forward, silently pouring a measure of liquor into his glass before fading back into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He barely needed to lift a finger. Dozens of servants scurried through the halls, seeing to every chore, every demand. His business dealings? Handled by those beneath him. All he had to do was watch, sip, and exist.

Then the lights flickered.

Finn’s brow furrowed. His gaze snapped up to the trembling lightbulb above, irritation bubbling in his chest. He paid handsomely to keep this mansion perfect—how could something so trivial disturb his night?

He placed the glass down with a soft clink, clapped his hands sharply. The sound echoed across marble and velvet, but no footsteps came in response.

His jaw tightened. Again, louder this time, the clap cracked through the air. Nothing. The mansion felt suddenly, uncomfortably, hollow.

“Gregor! Salsa!” he barked, voice cracking at the edges. Silence answered back.

Unease crawled over his skin. He stood, crossed the floor to the door, and twisted the brass knob. It refused to move. He yanked harder. The door shuddered in place but held fast.

“The lightbulb might be loose, Mr. Finn.”

The voice—calm, playful, utterly foreign—echoed through the room.

Finn froze. Slowly, he turned his head. Across the flickering room stood a figure: light blue hair catching what little light there was, half his face hidden behind an ornate mask. A ruby-red tuxedo shimmered, adorned with cryptic trinkets Finn couldn’t make out in the shifting glow.

“You could just fetch a ladder,” the stranger continued lightly, “give it a gentle twist, and all would be well—”

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” Finn’s shout cracked, sharp and raw.

The masked figure’s grin widened, then dissolved into laughter—a sound that scraped along Finn’s spine.

“I SAID WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” he roared again, voice now trembling with a fear he couldn’t swallow.

The laughter only grew, wild and unhinged.

“I—I’ll call the SIB! This is an invasion—you’ll regret this!” Finn stammered out.

Without flinching, the stranger reached for a porcelain vase at his side and tipped it off the table. It crashed to the ground, shattering into jagged shards. Finn flinched at the noise, anger and dread twisting inside him.

“You sound like a barking dog, Mr. Finn.”