The parlor smelled of cigar smoke and leather, the faint tang of expensive wine lingering in the air. Rosario's footsteps echoed against the marble floor as he approached the long table, his heart hammering like a war drum.
At the head sat his father, relaxed but lethal, crimson eyes fixed on him like twin blades. Beside him, a single envelope rested, stark against the polished wood.
"Young Master Rosario," his father said, voice smooth and deadly, "today you will begin learning the true weight of our family's legacy."
Rosario swallowed hard, forcing a bow. "Y-yes, Father."
The envelope slid toward him. Inside, he found documents, photographs, and a map of the estate's hidden passages. One name was circled in red—an employee who had allegedly betrayed the family's trust.
His father's eyes bore into him. "Your task is simple. Investigate this matter. Report to me with results by sundown. Do not fail."
Rosario's mind spun. Simple? The book had described scenarios like this ending in death for the unprepared. Even the slightest mistake could be fatal.
"Yes… Father," he said, voice firmer than he felt.
Alone in the hall after the meeting, Rosario exhaled shakily. He could feel every guard's eyes on him, even when none were looking directly. The Lobélia estate wasn't just a home—it was a chessboard. And he was both pawn and target.
He spent the morning carefully tracing the employee's steps, observing without revealing himself, noting patterns, and mentally rehearsing questions he could ask. Every movement had consequences. Every word could be twisted.
By the afternoon, Rosario had pieced together the employee's betrayal: secret meetings, coded messages, and suspicious transactions. Reporting this to his father would not only prove his competence—it would earn a measure of respect in a house ruled by fear.
When he finally stepped back into the parlor, the air seemed heavier, almost expectant. His father didn't speak immediately. Just watched.
Rosario swallowed his nerves and presented the facts, each word precise and measured.
The room was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corners of his father's lips curled into the faintest smile—a dangerous, approving smile.
"Good," his father said at last. "You may yet survive, Rosario."
Rosario exhaled, tension leaving him in a trembling rush. He had passed the first test—but he knew it was only the beginning. In the Lobélia world, survival was measured not in days, but in inches and seconds.
And for the first time, a flicker of determination ignited inside him.
I will survive. I will adapt. I will live.
But even as he thought it, he knew the house was watching—and the next test would come faster than he could anticipate.