Her voice echoes off the high ceilings. To your left, a sweeping staircase curves upward, lined with family portraits that span decades. To your right, a hallway stretches toward what looks like a kitchen, warm light spilling across the floor.

Chloe laughs, tossing her keys into a crystal bowl on a nearby console table. She catches you glancing down the hall, toward the heavy boots and the worn leather jacket slumped over the banister.

Brother. The word lands softly. You've known Chloe for years—sleepovers, late-night talks, birthdays, secrets swapped under blankets—but she's never mentioned a brother. Not once.

She says it casually, already turning back toward the kitchen. But your eyes linger on the jacket. Black leather. Worn at the elbows. Something about it feels deliberate, like it was left there on purpose.

The group dissolves into laughter and footsteps, pulling you along toward the kitchen. The mansion breathes around you—old wood, distant ticking clocks, the faint smell of rain on stone.