The first thing I learned was that this house did not like noise.
Not the ordinary kind — footsteps, doors, breathing.
It disliked unnecessary noise. Words. Questions. Hesitation.
The man who opened the door for me did not smile.
He was tall, thin, dressed in black so precise it felt ceremonial. His hair was pulled back neatly, his face unreadable in the way people learned after years of serving powerful men.
He looked at me once. Just once.
Then he stepped aside.
"Come in."
The doors closed behind me.
Not slammed.
Not rushed.
Just shut.
He waited until the sound faded before speaking again.
"You will listen today," he said.
"You will not work."
That surprised me.
I followed him through the entrance hall, my bag clutched tight against my side. The marble beneath my feet was cold even through my shoes. The ceiling stretched too high — designed to make people feel smaller than they already were.
"This is not a place for curiosity," he continued.
"It is not a place for ambition."
He stopped near a wide corridor, turning to face me fully.
"It is a place for obedience."
I nodded.
"Yes, sir."
That seemed to satisfy him.
We walked slowly. Deliberately. As if this wasn't a tour — it was a test of how well I could keep up without asking.
"You will not approach the masters unless spoken to," he said.
"You will not look at them unless necessary."
"You will not ask questions. "
"If you hear something," he paused,
"you did not hear it."
My throat felt dry.
"If you see something," he added,
"you did not see it."
He stopped again.
"If one of them addresses you,"
"you answer briefly."
"You do not explain yourself."
"You do not justify yourself."
"And you do not speak unless you are asked."
I swallowed.
"Understood."
He studied my face, as if weighing whether I would break these rules accidentally.
"This house does not tolerate mistakes," he said calmly.
"But it is… generous to those who know their place."
We reached a narrower hallway — plainer than the others, almost intentionally dull.
"These are staff-access corridors," he said.
"You stay here unless assigned otherwise."
"If a door is closed,"
"you do not open it."
He looked directly at me now.
"If a door is open,"
"you still do not enter unless told."
I nodded again. My neck was starting to ache from it.
"Your room is at the end," he said.
"You will rest today."
That surprised me even more.
"Tomorrow, you will observe."
"The day after, you will work."
We stopped in front of a simple door — too simple compared to everything else.
"This house pays well," he continued.
"You will be paid on time."
"You will not steal."
"You will not wander."
"And you will not mistake kindness for permission."
He reached for the handle, then paused.
"One more thing."
His voice dropped slightly.
"Do not try to be useful."
I frowned before I could stop myself.
He noticed.
"That is not your role," he clarified.
"People who try to be useful here tend to get noticed."
His fingers tightened on the handle.
"And attention," he said quietly,
"is not a gift in this house."
The door opened.
The room was small. Clean. Bed, desk, wardrobe. No luxury. No comfort. Just enough.
"Stay inside unless summoned," he said.
"Dinner will be brought."
He stepped back.
"Welcome," he added, without warmth,
"to the safest place you will ever regret entering."
The door closed.
This time, I did hear the lock.
I sat on the bed slowly, my heart beating too fast despite the potion's dulling warmth in my
veins.
Rules.
Silence.
Obedience.
I had wanted money.
I had wanted time.
Instead, I had stepped into a house that didn't need chains to keep its people in place.
And I had the unsettling feeling that this was the gentle part.
~Night arrived without announcement.
There was no sunset to watch, no gradual softening of light. The room simply dimmed, as if the house itself had decided that it was time for darkness. The lamps outside the narrow window flickered on one by one, casting pale, controlled light across the forest beyond. The trees stood still, too still, like they were holding their breath.
I sat on the edge of the bed, listening.
Nothing.
No laughter.
No music.
No casual sounds of people living.
Just the low, constant hum of something electrical — cameras, maybe. Or security systems layered so deeply they had become part of the house's pulse.
I won't stay long, I told myself.
That thought repeated itself over and over, like a prayer I wasn't sure anyone was listening to.
I hadn't seen them.
Not even a shadow.
And yet, fear sat in my chest as if I had.
The man at the door hadn't needed to describe the masters of the house in detail. He didn't have to. The rules alone were enough. Places that demanded this kind of silence, this kind of invisibility, did not belong to ordinary people.
This house did not want to be observed.
It wanted servants to exist the way dust did -present, useful, and unnoticed.
Unaccessible, I thought.
That was the word that kept circling my mind.
To live here, you had to erase yourself.
To breathe without being heard.
To move without leaving an imprint.
I lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
Get in. Get the diamond. Get out.
That was the deal.
That was the promise I had made to myself.
I replayed the man's instructions in my head, carefully, like a map I couldn't afford to forget.
Third floor.
Left wing.
Third room.
No cameras.
The only place in this entire mansion that was deliberately blind.
That alone should have been enough to scare me away, I thought.
Because nothing powerful enough to need hiding was ever harmless.
I turned onto my side, clutching the thin blanket around myself.
I'll observe first, I planned.
Learn the timings. Learn the patterns.
I wouldn't rush. I couldn't afford to.
The potion's warmth was still faintly present in my blood — not strong, but enough to keep my heartbeat steady. Enough to remind me that time was limited. Temporary.
"It's not permanent,"
the man's voice echoed in my memory.
"Within the time limit, you steal it and come back."
My fingers curled into the fabric.
Soon, I told myself.
Very soon.
I wouldn't let myself think about what would happen if I failed.
I wouldn't let myself think about why five men needed something so dangerous guarded this way.
I wouldn't let myself think about why this house felt less like a home and more like a waiting room.
Sleep came slowly.
Not the kind that rests you — the kind that drags you under because your body has no choice.
As my eyes finally closed, one thought slipped through, quiet and uninvited.
This place doesn't feel wrong because it's dangerous.
It feels wrong because it doesn't feel like it should exist at all.
And that was the last thing I remembered before the house swallowed me into its silence.