Blackthorne Estate — Gate Key. Do Not Duplicate.

The lake doesn’t wait for introductions. It’s already there, stretching dark and flat under a bruised November sky, ringed by pines that lean inward like they’re listening.

At the end of the gravel drive, barely visible through the overgrown hedges, something blackened and skeletal rises from the earth.

The estate.

Or what’s left of it.

And somewhere in the distance, just barely —

A man is standing near what used to be the front steps, half-shadowed by a charred oak. Dark hair, dark glasses, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm. He wasn’t there a second ago.