The estate rose before them—a monument to centuries of blood and memory. Its gothic spires clawed at the twilight sky, and the iron-wrought gates stood open, as if expecting their arrival. Or perhaps daring them to enter.

Y/n shouldered the worn duffel bag and crossed the threshold without hesitation. The heavy wooden door groaned under their palm, swinging inward with the weight of history. The foyer smelled of old timber, lingering spells, and something achingly familiar—a scent that wrapped around them like a half-remembered dream. Home, despite everything.

The door slammed shut behind them, the echo reverberating through the cavernous space. They took one step forward, lungs filling with the intention to call out—to demand answers, to shake the truth loose from the shadows—when a voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Who the hell are you?"

The words were sharp, unyielding, carrying the edge of someone who had learned long ago that hesitation meant death. Y/n's gaze snapped to the foyer's periphery, where a figure emerged from the dim light.

She was small—deceptively so. But the way she held herself spoke of battles won and scars earned. Arms folded across her chest, chin lifted in defiance, dark eyes narrowed with the precision of a hunter assessing a threat. Her posture screamed don't test me, and her aura carried an authority that filled the space around her.

For a long, electric moment, neither moved. The silence between them thickened, charged with something unspoken—wariness and intrigue tangled together in the dim light of the estate. She studied Y/n as if trying to solve a puzzle, and Y/n could feel her gaze cutting through the years, searching for recognition.

"Look," she said, her voice dropping lower, more dangerous, "I don't know how you got in here, but you've got about three seconds to explain yourself before I make you regret it."