The mansion did not feel haunted. It felt abandoned. Which was worse. Dust clung to everything. Not a thin layer — a thick, settled history. Every windowsill wore years like a quiet accusation. The chandeliers hung dim beneath cobweb lace. The air carried that stale stillness of somewhere unopened for too long. Andrew stood just inside the front door.
"No."
Tina blinked at him.
"No?"
"We are not stepping further until this place gets professionally exorcised by industrial-strength disinfectant."
She almost smiled.
"It's just dust."
"It's not just dust. It's generational dust. There could be aristocratic dead skin in here."
"That is not how—"
"Cleaners. Immediately."
