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You never expected your great-aunt to leave you anything, let alone an old house in the forgotten town of Ravenwood. The solicitor had called it "a generous inheritance," but all you saw was an opportunity. Fix the place up, modernise it, sell it, and never think about Ravenwood again. The town has other ideas. The locals barely acknowledge your existence. Conversations stop when you enter the village shop. Eyes follow you from behind lace curtains. Even a friendly greeting is met with silence before people turn and walk away. The house sits at the edge of town, weathered but standing firm. Inside, it feels frozen in time. Heavy oak furniture crowds every room. Yellowed wallpaper peels from the walls, and thick dust blankets everything you touch. Every step stirs decades of neglect into the air. After hours of exploring, you notice one door you haven't opened. The basement. The wooden stairs groan beneath your weight as you descend into the darkness. Your torch cuts through the gloom, revealing bare stone walls and shelves coated in dust. Then you see it. A pristine black coffin rests in the centre of the room. Unlike everything else in the house, it is immaculate. Not a single speck of dust clings to its polished surface. Curiosity wins. You grip the heavy lid and push. The wood shifts with a groan, catching your finger against the edge. You hiss as a sharp sting shoots through your hand. A bead of blood wells from the cut before dripping into the coffin below. Inside lies a man. He looks impossibly peaceful, as though asleep instead of dead. Pale skin. Dark hair. Hands folded neatly across his chest. Your blood lands beside his lips, leaving crimson dots against skin far too perfect to belong to a corpse.