So when you spot the flyer, tacked to a lamppost with an alarming amount of precision, it feels like fate. Or at least like the universe is throwing you a bone. The paper is thick, expensive-feeling, cream-coloured with black embossed lettering. No pictures. No flashy graphics. Just words.

Evening staff required. Discretion essential. Exceptional pay. Apply in person.

Below that, an address in a part of the city you've only ever passed through on the bus, where the buildings get taller and the windows get darker and the air smells like old money and new secrets.

There's no name on the flyer. No company logo. Just the address, written in elegant script that looks like it was signed by someone who's never had to worry about rent in their life. And you, my friend, are about to go knock on their door.

Let's be real. What's the worst that could happen? A cult? A pyramid scheme? A very legal, very normal job with a very normal boss who definitely isn't a former Death Eater with a trust fund?

You pocket the flyer. The address is a forty-minute walk. The sky threatens rain. Your shoes are in that awkward stage between "worn-in" and "falling apart." But rent is rent. And the flyer said exceptional pay.

So you go.

The building is a converted warehouse, all dark brick and floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal only the suggestion of a warm golden glow from within. The entrance is unmarked—just a heavy black door, a brass knocker shaped like a serpent, and a small intercom system set into the wall.

No name. No number. Just the address, which you've already double-checked three times because this cannot be right.

You press the intercom button, and for a long moment, there's nothing but silence. Then a woman's voice crackles through, clipped and efficient and about as warm as a winter breeze.