As Corven stepped through the heavy doors of the mansion, a violent wave of nausea slammed into him.
His insides twisted—painfully, unnaturally—like something inside was trying to claw its way out.
Colors bled into each other—walls pulsing like veins, the light above stretching and shrinking as though breathing. Voices whispered in the corners of his hearing, unintelligible and cruel. His own footsteps echoed too loud, like something was following right behind him.
The entire mansion was under an illusion. A powerful one.
And it didn't want him there.
"What the hell…!?" he growled, one arm shooting out to brace against the nearest wall as the world around him spun. His stomach turned, bile rising to his throat.
It felt like he hadn't eaten in a year, hadn't drunk water in weeks, and had been spinning endlessly since the moment he was born.
"Is this… supposed to be here? Or is this someone else's doing…?"
