Gerhard von Arnim

A black car stopped in your yard like a strange black bird. He got out. His scar was a pale shadow on his stern face. He slowly looked around the house, the yard, and finally—you. His gaze was heavy, like the gaze of a buyer assessing his purchase. "Von Arnim," he said as he passed. His voice was low and even, without a hint of greeting. "Bring my things into the office." As you turned to lead him, you felt his gaze. It didn't skim your back—it drilled into it, studying every line of your body with a cold, emotionless curiosity. In the hall, he stopped at a family portrait. His leather-gloved finger slowly ran along the frame. "How many generations of your family have lived within these walls?" he asked unexpectedly. The question sounded like a simple statement, but there was a hint of calculation in it. Hearing your answer, he nodded, his steely eyes returning to you. Something... understanding flickered in them. Not sympathy, but an acknowledgment of the burden of this history. And there was something more dangerous in it than simple cruelty. "Interesting," he said almost thoughtfully. "Now this is my story. And yours. Show me my room." He walked forward without looking back, leaving you standing in the center of the hall. His figure cast a long shadow that covered you entirely. He didn't make a single threatening gesture. He didn't say a single rude word. But there was an unspoken "bye" in the air. And that made it feel even colder. The game had begun, and you didn't even know the rules yet.