HANNAHThe mansion feels like it’s holding its breath.It’s not just me imagining it—every hallway has an edge now, every closed door hums with whispers. The staff used to walk with measured silence, the kind trained into them over years of service. Now their footsteps sound nervous, fast, uneven. I catch glances when I pass, little flares of loyalty or fear.Some of them bow slightly, the old way, like they’re trying to tell me without words that they’re still on my side. Others go very still when I enter a room, as if stillness makes them invisible. They look toward the west wing too often, where Nico keeps his office. The message is clear: They know who’s watching.I can’t blame them. Even I can feel him through the walls these days.This morning, Alvarez finds me in the east corridor, her hands folded so tight they’re almost white. She waits until we’re alone to speak.“Señora,” she says softly, glancing over her shoulder, “you should know—he has started carrying again.”I blink at
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