The hall smelled of polished wood, rich stone, and faint cedar. Candles flickered along the walls, casting elongated shadows that stretched and recoiled across the paintings and high arches. The air felt too still. Too prepared.
Mars stepped in quietly, following the young servant guiding him toward the dining room. His fingers brushed the chain around his neck again, feeling the familiar weight of the necklace against his skin. He traced the pendant, rolling it back and forth. Grounding himself. Counting breaths.
The dining room opened ahead—
A long mahogany table stretching nearly the length of the hall.
Candles burned in silver candelabras, their flames steady, controlled. Rows of food lined the surface—sushi, roasted meats, golden fried chicken, beef wellington, glistening desserts, bowls of fruit, crystal decanters of wine and juices. Every plate arranged with surgical precision.
At the far end stood the head maid, Mira. Black uniform flawless. Mask smooth and unreadable. The calm behind her anchored every servant in the room.
Mars' eyes swept over everything—the gleam of silverware, the carving of the chairs, the way the servants glided rather than walked. Their steps made no sound.
He inhaled sharply.
Something about the perfection made his stomach tighten.
Lyra stood near the head of the table, smiling at him, trying to radiate warmth. Astrid's crossed arms and faintly raised brow suggested the opposite—like they didn't have to go above and beyond for a mere human. David Vesper and Pauline Vesper sat with quiet authority, commanding the room simply by existing.
"Welcome to your first dinner with us, Mars," Lyra whispered as he approached.
He nodded politely and took a seat beside her.
He didn't know why he chose that seat.
Maybe because Lyra was the only one who felt welcoming. Everyone else treated it like an ordinary evening.
Alas, he sat anyway.
The food was placed before him.
Every piece deliberate. Every movement precise.
He reached for his first bite—a piece of sushi—
—and paused.
Something didn't feel right.
No one else was eating.
His gaze flicked across the table.
David and Pauline exchanged polite glances but didn't touch their plates. Astrid's hands remained folded. Lyra's fingers twitched near the edge of hers, her smile slightly too tight.
Mars swallowed.
The bite in his hand felt heavier than it should.
Am I missing something?
Maybe they want to pray first?
No… they don't seem religious.
"I should eat," he muttered softly.
The words weren't entirely his.
They echoed back.
Softer.
Slightly delayed.
"I should eat…"
His spine stiffened.
The echo wasn't mocking.
It wasn't playful.
But it wasn't him.
His gaze darted around the room.
The servants.
Pale skin. Sharp teeth barely visible when they spoke. They floated just above the floor. Silent. Controlled. Masked.
No one blinked in unison, but the stillness felt coordinated.
He realized with a jolt—
He could feel them more than he could see them.
Fear prickled under his skin.
His hands began to shake.
This is fine. It's just… my imagination, he whispered.
Again—
"It's just… my imagination…"
His jaw tightened.
The confidence he had walked in with was cracking. Not shattered. But bending under pressure.
Something inside him stirred.
An instinct.
A shadow.
It whispered survival.
But it was too late.
There was no escape.
Even if he could run from the house—where would he go?
Where would he run to? It's the night time and it's been pouring down since the minute he arrived
Even if the weather was perfect, where would he go? The orphanage? The same one owned by the very people he escaped?
No, he has to think smarter.
They haven't done anything to him yet.
So what if they are different, maybe they don't feed on humans.
Or maybe they already fed.
Regardless, he must compose himself.
He composes himself.
He fails.
Memories surged.
Childhood nights before the necklace. Things in corners. Shapes crawling along walls. Screaming in the dark. Eyes watching him from spaces that should have been empty.
The orphanage.
Someone's protection.
Invisible fists.
Harsh voices.
Lessons carved into fear.
The necklace warmed slightly against his skin.
He rolled it between his fingers.
Hoping and praying it would react.
It didn't repel the echoes.
It didn't push back the cold creeping into his chest.
But it anchored him enough to breathe.
A small cough pulled him back.
Lyra's hand rested lightly on his arm.
"Mars… are you alright?"
He blinked.
"I… yes. I'm fine. I'm alright, thank you," he said, offering her a soft, reassuring smile.
Every instinct screamed otherwise.
Astrid smirked.
"You're staring a lot," she said flatly.
He nodded, the same gentle smile fixed in place, and looked down at his plate. Forced another bite.
His throat was dry.
He chucked down some water.
Throat was still sand paper.
It was like the water evaporates way before it could quench his thirst.
That is a lie, his not even thirsty.
The fear clung to him like damp fabric.
No one acknowledged it.
Mira's smile remained faint.
Neither comforting nor threatening.
Observant.
He guessed that was worse.
A thought surfaced—
If the servants decided he was part of the menu tonight, no one would stop them.
Not even Lyra.
The least threatening of them was still one of them.
Something shifted inside him.
Dark.
Hungry.
I want to never feel this helpless again.
How do I stop feeling this helpless?
How?
How?
How?
His mind spiraled.
His eyes went distant.
Was it the food?
No. He was chewing fine.
He didn't want to throw up—though part of him wished he could. God, how he wished he could.
He was disgusted with himself.
Weak.
Just like when he was a child.
The necklace had made him forget.
Now he remembered.
Vividly.
As bright as the colors on his plate.
He swallowed and forced the food down, chewing slowly, deliberately. Proving something to himself.
The echoes receded.
Or maybe they were just waiting.
The rest of dinner passed in tight, suffocating silence. Every glance amplified. Every whisper stretched thin. Lyra attempted polite conversation. David and Pauline asked measured questions. Astrid remained detached.
Mira watched him carefully.
Surprised he was handling it so well.
Unaware of the storm beneath the calm.
By the end, the unease hadn't left.
The fear had been cataloged.
Stored.
Not defeated.
Recognized.
And that recognition felt cold.
Necessary.
-------
After dinner, Mars excused himself and climbed the polished staircase toward his quarters.
Halfway down the upstairs hallway, his knees nearly gave out.
Cold sweat soaked through his shirt.
His heart pounded.
Throb.
Throb.
Throb.
Every inhale burned.
Every exhale trembled.
He steadied himself against the wall, fingers digging into stone.
"I'm not crazy," he whispered.
Again.
"I'm not crazy."
Again.
"I'm not crazy."
He believed he was going insane.
There was no way what he had just experienced was real.
Not at dinner.
Not in his memories.
He reached his bedroom door.
Gripped the knob.
Turned it slowly.
A creak echoed through the hallway.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
The house was playing with him.
Testing his nerves.
"F**king door," he muttered.
A small irritation—but enough to tip him further.
He stepped inside.
For how long until he's the one being served at dinner?
He didn't know.
The room was large.
Too large.
High ceilings.
Heavy drapes.
Embroidered linens.
The fire crackled softly, but the warmth did nothing for the tightness in his chest.
He crossed to the window and pulled the drapes aside.
Outside, rain had softened into mist. The gardens blurred into gray shapes fading into nothing.
He touched the necklace again.
"I'm not crazy," he murmured.
The words echoed back.
Softer.
Fractured.
"I'm not… crazy…"
The temperature dropped.
Not suddenly.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Cold crept along the floor. Climbed the walls. Slid over his skin.
His breath fogged.
He froze.
Something moved behind him.
Near the window.
A silhouette.
Tall.
Still.
He did not turn.
Frost began forming at the edges of the glass.
Spreading inward.
Red eyes appeared in the reflection.
Dim.
Unblinking.
Impossibly still.
Impossibly patient.
His pulse thundered.
Sweat gathered at his hairline despite the cold.
Is the necklace failing?
The air tightened.
The whispers repeated.
Broken.
Imitating him.
He wanted to look.
He didn't.
Something about the presence held him in place.
Not violent.
But undeniable.
The frost climbed higher.
His reflection faded.
The figure remained.
The eyes did not blink.
Then—
As quietly as it had come—
It faded.
The cold lingered.
But the weight lifted.
Mars exhaled.
Gripped the necklace.
Whatever was there… left.
Or maybe it hadn't.
In the silence, he understood something.
He was not just a boy in a house of supernaturals.
He was the consequence of choices older than himself.
Choices that had followed him into the Vesper manor.
He had been thrown into a new world.
And deep down—
He felt like he deserved to be there.
Whether it was divine punishment for his actions or something else entirely.
He felt like he belonged.
In this manor.
With these people.
…or whatever else had been in his room.