I was still mounted on the Reaper, ARIA's golden consciousness pulsing in my palm like an outraged, very expensive Christmas ornament. Grinning like I'd just discovered the universe's private stash of uncut adrenaline and liked the flavor.
"Welcome to the ghost mansion," I said, sweeping an arm at the impossible driveway like a deranged tour guide. "Try to keep up. The house has standards, opinions, and probably a kill count."
The mansion didn't appear so much as deign to reveal itself.
First the stone: grey concrete erupting from the earth like it had been waiting centuries to flex. Brutalist as fuck—sharp angles, sheer faces, no softening curves or decorative bullshit. The building didn't invite you inside; it challenged you to prove you deserved to breathe its air.
But then the small things started happening.
