I remember the first time I saw him—truly saw him—the boy they brought into the manor like delicate porcelain, unaware of the fractures beneath the glaze.
Mars sat in the back seat of the car as it wound up the long, spiraling road toward Vesper Manor. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, thin rivulets distorting the world beyond the glass. The tires hummed over wet pavement, carving dark tracks into the stone driveway.
His small fingers toyed with the necklace at his throat—the same necklace he is told, in dreams he does not fully remember, never to remove.
He obeys.
He rolls the chain between his fingers. Traces the pendant's edges. Grounds himself in the cool weight of it.
He does not know why he does it.
Only that it steadies something inside him.
The gates rise ahead—black iron, intricate, deliberate. Beyond them, the manor stretches upward in stone and glass, its tall windows reflecting the gray winter sky. The structure feels less like a home and more like a monument.
Mars presses his forehead to the cold window and exhales.
He has never felt small before.
But the manor makes him feel exposed.
That day, my family let something worse than any ghost into our lives.
None of us knew it.
Not my father.
Not my mother.
Not my sister.
Not even the monster himself.
The boy didn't know either.
The car slows.
The engine quiets.
My father steps forward first.
David Vesper.
Tall. Impeccable. Rain slides from the shoulders of his coat as though it dares not cling to him. His presence radiates authority without effort. He does not raise his voice to command attention.
He simply exists—and attention bends.
Beside him stands my mother, Pauline Vesper. Just as poised. Just as composed. But where my father is iron, she is silk. Her smile is warm. Controlled. Measured. Her eyes, however, are studying.
Always studying.
And Astrid stands near the manor doors—arms crossed, posture rigid, expression untouched by the rain or the occasion.
Indifferent.
Or perhaps merely unwilling.
She does not understand why this boy matters.
He is only human.
If anything, this should feels less like welcoming a brother and more like welcoming a pet.
At least, that's what I imagine she was thinking.
Mars swallows.
The car feels smaller now.
The door opens.
"Welcome to our home," Father says, his tone smooth, precise—the same tone he uses in boardrooms and negotiations. To be fair, it is the only tone he uses. Work and family blend seamlessly in him. There is no line.
Mother extends her hand. Delicate. Firm.
"We've heard much about you from your guardians at the orphanage, Mars. We hope you'll find comfort here."
The Vesper Orphanage—one of many charitable branches under Father's enterprise—is where Mars comes from. His parents died in a car accident he somehow survived.
He was only four winters old.
We have never adopted before.
Never brought anyone into the manor.
Especially not a human child.
I did not understand the decision then.
But now—
Now I do.
Astrid gives the smallest nod, her gaze sweeping over him. Assessing. Calculating disruption.
Why?
Mars steps out of the car. His boots touch the slick stone path. Cold rain beads along his sleeves. He keeps his shoulders straight. His hands steady.
But something beneath him tightens.
He thinks: It's impressive.
Then, without meaning to, he begins to observe differently.
Everything is precise.
Everything has order.
Everything is controlled.
A shadow stirs inside him. Not a voice. Not yet. Just awareness sharpening at the edges.
He meets my gaze.
Unlike Astrid, I am smiling. Excited. I step toward him and greet him warmly. He responds softly, his voice barely louder than the rain.
He looks timid.
Shivering.
Not from the cold.
From displacement.
He knows he does not belong.
And he is right.
As I turn away, I feel his gaze on my pale skin. A shiver runs down my spine.
It isn't him that unsettles me.
It is the other presence.
At the doorway, the maids stand in perfect formation. Their uniforms resemble armor more than fabric. Structured. Intentional. Masks conceal their upper faces—smooth, silver, unreadable.
Silence hangs thick.
One woman steps forward.
Black uniform. Tailored. Military in its precision.
"Welcome, Master Mars."
Her voice is soft.
But the air tightens around it.
Mother gestures lightly. "This is Mira, head maid of our household. Treat her as an extension of myself. She oversees the household."
Oversees.
Mars' gaze shifts to the servants behind her.
No one moves.
No one breathes too loudly.
Mira inclines her head. "Your room has been prepared. If you would follow me."
The others move in seamless coordination, retrieving his luggage from the car.
Mira steps closer and adjusts the collar of his jacket.
Mars flinches.
Just slightly.
Then stills.
Her touch steadies him.
Yet something cold inside him notices details—the tilt of her head, the disciplined stillness of the others, the subtle hierarchy in their positioning.
He does not question it.
He remembers it.
Mira assumes it is fear.
She does not see what is unfolding beneath his calm.
A mistake she will not recognize for years.
A mistake that will become her dilemma.
The manor doors open fully.
Warm air greets them, scented faintly with cedar, iron polish, and something metallic beneath it all.
The halls stretch endlessly. Polished floors reflect the golden flicker of wall sconces. Portraits line the walls, their painted eyes heavy with judgment.
Servants move like quiet machinery.
Mars walks in silence.
He observes:
Who answers first.
Who hesitates.
Who avoids eye contact.
Who commands without speaking.
His mind catalogs effortlessly.
He is polite.
Cautious.
Nervous.
Human.
But the shift has begun.
His room awaits—high ceilings, heavy drapes, a bed arranged with embroidered precision. Everything immaculate. Untouched.
He crosses to the window and parts the curtains.
Rain continues to fall, soft and relentless. The gardens beyond blur into gray silhouettes.
He touches his necklace again.
The metal is cool against his skin.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Comfort in repetition.
I hope dinner goes well, he thinks.
A knock interrupts him.
"Master Mars… Miss Mira sent me to inform you that dinner is ready."
The maid's voice trembles faintly.
Mars straightens his jacket. Squares his shoulders. Opens the door.
He does not rush.
He does not stumble.
He meets the young maid's gaze, a petite young woman. She looks almost like him—small. Out of place.
He nods.
Polite.
Composed.
He follows her down the corridor.
Astrid's eyes flicker toward him as he approaches the dining hall. Cautious. Disapproving. Silent.
But something about him is different now.
Subtle.
Grounded.
As though the manor no longer dwarfs him.
As though he has already begun adjusting to its rhythm.
Or bending it.
And something has awakened.
Why now?
Why here?
I still do not know.
By the time he takes his seat at the table, the manor no longer feels larger than him.
I should have been relieved.
I wasn't.
Because even then, I sensed it.
The quiet inhalation of something within him.
Something that would protect Mars at all costs.
No matter the cost to anyone else.
The monster did not appear that night.
It only inhaled.