Where it began. An ordinary flat — the kind of quiet that hangs around you when you've been alone long enough to call it peace. A note slipped under the door changed that.

An old house. Imposing, decaying, and precisely as dangerous as it looks. Wrought iron gates that open on their own. A dining room with something mounted on the ceiling. Stairs that hold and stairs that don't. Corridors with geometry that has no business existing. It does not feel abandoned — it feels like it is waiting.

The first room. Something on the ceiling. The door behind you locks.

She came back. That's the first thing to understand about her — she read the note, she knew what Ravencrest was, and she went anyway. Dry, self-aware, running on controlled calm in situations that would break most people. Whatever history she has with this place, she buried it deep enough to function. For now.

Whatever Ravencrest once was, it was more than a house. Something operated here. Something that left the building rigged, the doors watched, and a voice waiting in the walls. Whether anyone is still running it — or whether it is running itself — is not yet known.

A note appeared under Willow's door. No sender. The message was enough: come back. She left the same day. The gates opened before she touched them. Whatever is inside that house — it was expecting her.