Kieran didn't answer.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet as if it might glitch and reveal green screen beneath it.
"How did we even get here?" he muttered.
"The last thing I remember," Dante said, pulling a chair closer and sitting across from him, "was getting sucked into that painting. Like full-on vacuum mode."
Kieran ran a hand through his hair. "But everything is too real to be a dream. The breeze. The weight of my body. The way the floor feels under my shoes."
Edward cleared his throat, trying to sound rational and failing. "Maybe we hit our heads in the mansion. Concussion. Shared hallucination. Mass psychosis."
"Yeah?" Kieran shot back. "And when did it begin? Was it something in the dinner?" He let out a dry laugh. "Or maybe we got high on some dusted fungal mushrooms."
Dante leaned back. "That would be scary."
Silence settled for a second.
Edward's expression darkened. "The girl said something."
Both of them looked at him.
"What?"
"She said… I wasn't supposed to be there." Edward swallowed. "She looked straight at me and said—"
"No," Kieran said slowly, his mind racing. "She said something else."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"She said," Kieran continued, eyes locking onto Dante, "that you only have one week to live."
The words hung there.
Dante's smile didn't drop immediately. It just… thinned.
"Yeah," he said lightly. "She was just getting into our heads. And all that stuff about you being laid off, you were the leading employee just last year."
But Kieran wasn't listening anymore.
"One week," he repeated. "Your friends cancelled last second."
Dante stiffened.
"You said they all bailed. Every single one. On a trip you planned for months."
"It happens," Dante said quickly. "People get busy."
"All of them?" Kieran pressed. "At the same time?"
Edward looked between them, realization dawning.
Kieran stood up abruptly. "You didn't think that was strange?...Unless they knew something I don't"
Dante's jaw tightened. "You're overthinking it."
"Dante."
"It was just bad timing!" he snapped, then immediately looked away, as he got up from the chair "I thought maybe… maybe it was easier this way. Just us."
"Easier?" Kieran echoed.
Dante finally met his eyes.
"I've been having headaches," he admitted quietly. "Blackouts. Doctors kept running tests. They kept saying I should get my affairs in order. So I did it. But they all started to treat me too nicely. Almost as if I wasn't even the same person. The only person I could think of was you. I just wanted to spend a normal vacation for one last time..."
Kieran felt something twist painfully in his chest.
"You idiot," he breathed.
"Yeah," Dante replied, attempting a weak grin. "That tracks."
Kieran closed the distance and grabbed Dante by the collar—not aggressively, just firmly.
"You don't get to go through something like that alone," he said. "You hear me?"
Dante blinked rapidly, swallowing whatever he'd been holding back.
Kieran continued, "If this world thinks it can just assign you a deadline, it can reconsider."
Dante let out a shaky laugh. "You are acting like we can fight fate."
Kieran straightened. "We walked into a haunted mansion. Got swallowed by a painting. Woke up in another world. At this point, I'm willing to punch destiny in the face."
A faint smile returned to Dante's lips. Real this time.
"Okay," he said softly. "Okay."
There was a knock at the door.
"Dinner will be served shortly, Lord Wellesley," came a voice from outside.
The three of them exchanged looks.
Arthur Wellesley.
Kieran.
He looked down. His appearance was the same. It was just his identity and attire which changed.
"Right," he muttered. "Guess I'm hosting breakfast today."
Edward adjusted his posture automatically, already slipping into noble composure. "We gather information. We observe. We survive."
Dante stood up, wiping his face quickly as if none of this had happened. "And we eat. If I've got one week, I'm not wasting it on bad manners."
Kieran moved toward the door, pausing just before opening it.
"We figure this out," he said quietly. "Together."
The mansion was straight out of a fantasy novel.
The breakfast hall of the Wellesley estate looked like someone had commissioned a sculptor to carve perfection into a room.
A long mahogany table stretched endlessly, polished to the point of reflection. Silver trays shimmered under soft morning sunlight. Porcelain cups aligned perfectly. Napkins folded like they were afraid to be anything but symmetrical.
A chandelier hung above like a captured galaxy, scattering light across the floor.
Kieran entered quietly and sat in the second chair from the head of the table—the place Arthur always sat in the memories that trickled back whenever they wanted.
Edward—now Edmund Graystone—slid into a middle seat, pretending to fit the role of a noble guest.
Dante—now Detective Adrian Holt, sat at the opposite end, looking like the universe had played a joke and he was still waiting for the punchline.
"Ah, my good lord," Dante grinned when Kieran sat. "I was told we're having a civilised meal. I brought my appetite and my lack of manners."
Edward nearly choked on his tea.
His eyes screamed: Stop improvising you idiot.
Moments later, Lady Linda Wellesley glided in. She didn't walk—she arrived.
Her gown was an ocean of black silk, and her presence reorganised the air itself.
"Detective Holt," she said with a smile sharp enough to slice bread. "Welcome to our home. I trust your morning has been… efficient?"
"Productive," Dante said. "Though I'm still waiting for pancakes. Justice can't operate on an empty stomach."
Linda didn't laugh. She didn't even blink.
She sat one seat away from the head chair, and all the servants stiffened as if electricity ran through their spines. Plates appeared. Toast. Eggs. Butter. Ham. Sliced fruit. Everything arranged like it was auditioning for a painting.
Silence followed.
Dante finally broke it by clearing his throat.
"If I may, Lady Wellesley, there's something in town—"
"Detective," she cut in smoothly, "this is a prestigious household. Such topics are not discussed at this table."
Her gaze snapped to the maids.
A warning. A command. A threat.
All in a single look.
The maids lowered their heads instantly.
But that didn't stop them from sideways glancing at Dante, their cheeks turning pink whenever he so much as scratched his eyebrow. One maid nearly dropped a jug when he smiled at her.
Kieran held a cough-laugh in his chest.
Edward tapped his spoon twice on the teacup.
(All here?)
Kieran dragged his knife once along the plate.
(Yes.)
Dante blinked three times in the most exaggerated Morse code sequence known to mankind.
Linda looked up sharply.
"Arthur? Is something wrong?"
"No, Mother," Kieran said quickly. "Just…a seed in the butter."
Totally believable.
10/10. Oscar-worthy.
The silent tension resumed, punctuated only by Dante humming like he was in a cheerful musical, not an aristocratic minefield.
Then the doors creaked open.
A small, pale servant stepped in and bowed.
"My lord Arthur… the Viscount requests your presence in his study."
Kieran froze mid-bite.
Lady Linda's expression shifted—just a flicker of worry—but she forced it back into composure.
Kieran rose slowly.
He glanced at Edward and Adrian.
Edward gave a slight nod: Go. We'll handle things.
Dante mouthed, Try not to die.
Kieran exhaled, straightened his coat, and stepped away from the table.
As he left, he looked back once more — and the two idiots gave him the most unhelpful, encouraging thumbs-up he had ever seen.
The doors shut behind him with a soft thud.
A long hallway stretched ahead. Quiet. Empty.
Every step echoed.
And somewhere at the end of it, a father he barely knew…
and a mountain of questions…waited.