Chapter 1: The New Roommate
The air in the bedroom was a stagnant, heavy thing, thick with the dust of decades and the ghosts of lives Adam had no connection to. The scent of mothballs and aged paper clung to the oppressive quiet, a ghost of Reginald Hargreeves's fastidious neglect. It was a room grand in a way that felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. A four-poster bed, draped in heavy, dark velvet that absorbed what little light dared to enter, stood in one corner like a tomb, its ornate carvings a testament to a morbid, forgotten luxury. In another, a mahogany desk, scarred with what looked like generations of angry ink spills, held a strange, antique globe—a relic of a world that probably didn't exist anymore, even in this already-off-kilter reality. On a shelf above the desk, a collection of taxidermied animals, their glass eyes staring blankly into the room's dim light, gave him the unsettling feeling of being watched by a silent, deceased jury.
Adam's modern duffel bag, a stark splash of olive green in the sea of musty brown and maroon, sat on the floor, its zipper hissing shut with a sound that was far too loud in the silence. It was the only thing in the room that felt like it belonged to him.
I am a sentient pop-culture reference standing in a room that looks like it was decorated by a haunted taxidermist.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to calm the low thrum of anxiety in his chest. His new reality was less a life and more a forced residency in a museum of family trauma. Just as he was about to unpack, the door swung open without a knock.
Diego Hargreeves stood in the doorway, a living embodiment of perpetual suspicion. His posture was coiled, every muscle a question waiting for an unacceptable answer. He leaned against the doorframe, a collection of knives strapped to his waist. His gaze, dark and unblinking, was a physical weight.
"Who are you and what do you want?" he grunted. His voice was a low growl, a sound Adam could feel more than hear, a gravelly vibration of pure distrust.
Adam forced a nervous smile. "The name's Adam." He gestured vaguely to the room. "As for what I want... a nap, maybe? A shower that doesn't feel like it's from 1950? A life where I'm not a permanent fixture in a gothic mansion with a guy who throws knives and looks like he hasn't slept since 1993?"
Diego's expression didn't change. He simply narrowed his eyes, a familiar flicker of paranoia in their depths. "Funny. The last guy who joked with me ended up with a knife in his shoulder."
Adam's forced smile tightened. Okay, cool. He's not kidding. What's the standard reply here? 'Please don't knife me, Mr. Batman?'
The message was a soft hum in his mind, like a distant tuning fork. It was so faint, so subtle, that he almost missed it. It was a phantom vibration, a confirmation that this wasn't a dream, that the system was real and now, so was the danger. The hum was followed by a flicker of what looked like a wireframe blueprint of the room, overlayed with glowing red lines tracing Diego's movements. He was a puzzle the system was already trying to solve.
"Look, man, I'm just as confused as you are. One minute I'm in my office, the next I'm here. This whole thing feels like a bad acid trip directed by Tim Burton."
Diego took a step into the room, his hand hovering over one of the sheathed knives. The air grew colder, and a palpable tension filled the space. "Don't play dumb. Reginald didn't just 'find' people. He made them. What is your power?"
"My power?" Adam's laughter was a high, strained sound. "I can parallel park on the first try and I make a mean tuna salad sandwich. Does that count?"
Diego took another step forward, his shadow falling over the worn patterns of the rug. A tense silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the main hall. Adam could feel the system buzzing in his head, a quiet, insistent pressure. It felt like it was waiting for him to do something. Anything.
The oppressive silence of the mansion was a character in itself, a silent observer of their strained standoff. Adam's palms felt sweaty, and he gripped the worn leather of his duffel bag, a small anchor in the chaos.
The tension of the standoff with Diego lingered, a sharp taste of unease. Adam decided a good distraction would be a little mental training. He needed to figure out how to work this system of his without, you know, summoning a rabid squirrel in the middle of dinner. He sat on the floor, crossed his legs, and tried to focus on an old locked drawer in the antique desk. He had been told he could summon creatures to help with tasks. A raccoon. Yes, a raccoon. They were smart, dexterous…
Okay, focus. Don't think about raccoons… don't think about raccoons… I'm definitely thinking about raccoons.
He closed his eyes, picturing a raccoon's little paws, its masked face, its intense focus on a task. He imagined its hands, nimble and precise, twisting a small lock. He tried to mentally push the image out of his head and into the room, like a telekinetic thought.
A familiar, phantom hum in his mind, but this time, it was followed by a distinct, cartoonish popping sound, like a cork leaving a bottle. In a flash of shimmering purple light, a raccoon appeared on the desk.
"Oh, for the love of... " Adam groaned. "It worked."
The raccoon, however, was not just any raccoon. It had a pair of tiny, oversized spectacles perched on its nose, and a small, leather-bound notebook tucked under one arm. It chittered indignantly, looking at Adam as if to say, A gentleman's mis-summon is an insult to his professional integrity. It waddled over to the locked drawer, its tiny hands fumbling with the lock with surprising speed and precision. A tiny, almost silent click echoed in the large room.
Adam let out a frustrated sigh. "It wasn't supposed to do a trick, Klaus. It was supposed to not exist."
"Your pets are better than mine," a voice said from the doorway. Adam jumped, startled, and turned to see Klaus Hargreeves standing there, a wide, beatific smile on his face. He was holding a large, gaudy vase of lilies. "They actually do tricks!"
The raccoon, having successfully opened the drawer, scurried inside, sniffing around. Adam panicked, getting on his hands and knees to peer into the drawer. "Klaus, get out!"
The raccoon, completely ignoring Adam's pleas, pulled out a stack of ancient-looking banknotes tied with a fraying ribbon and a tarnished locket. It held them up triumphantly, chittering a little victorious song.
This is it. This is how I get institutionalized. A talking raccoon with a gambling problem.
Klaus clapped his hands together, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "He's a little safecracker! Does he take requests? I've got an old padlock on a diary that's been driving me mad."
Adam scrambled to cover the drawer. "No! He doesn't take requests, he doesn't exist, and he's not... an accountant for small forest creatures." He looked at the raccoon, which was now meticulously counting the ancient money, making tiny little piles.
Just then, the raccoon's little paw knocked against something else in the drawer, and a small, delicate vase toppled over, shattering on the floor. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.
"Oops," Klaus said, not at all contrite.
"This is not 'oops,' Klaus, this is an existential crisis. This is a cosmic accident that thinks it's a financial auditor!" Adam whisper-shouted, trying to wrangle the tiny creature. He finally got his hands on the raccoon, but it bit him, just a little, a quick nip on the finger, and then with a soft pop, it was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of damp earth and a faint shimmer on the air. Adam stared at his hand. The faint, glowing aura that accompanied the summon was now a little stronger, almost a pale violet pulse.
Great. Now I glow. What's next, a magical girl transformation?
Klaus, however, was no longer looking at him. He was staring at the space where the raccoon had just been, his expression suddenly sober. The smile was gone, replaced by a strange, quiet wonder. "That's… that's different."
"What's different?" Adam asked, rubbing his now-sore finger.
Klaus looked at him, his gaze piercing through the usual drug-induced haze. He didn't answer, he just kept staring at Adam's hand, at the faint glow that pulsed there. "It's not screaming," he whispered.