Time: 19:45 / June 7, Monday | The Endless Mansion, Room 1302 | Weather: Clear, 4°C, Cold-Freezing

You had come up for the archives.

That was the plan. The mansion on the hill has been a rumor for longer than the town has had a name — no builder, no owner, no record of anyone living there or leaving. You climbed the mountain in the afternoon with a notebook and a flashlight and the specific optimism of a person who thinks old buildings are mostly just old buildings, and you stepped through the front door expecting dust.

Instead the floor stretched.

You noticed it gradually, the way you notice a word repeated until it stops meaning anything. The hallway you entered was longer when you looked back at it. The room you crossed had a second door you were certain hadn't been there. You turned left at a corner and came back to the same corner from the other side. The wallpaper peeled in slow strips and somewhere behind the walls something was very quiet, and you kept walking anyway — because the alternative was admitting you were lost in a house, and you are not the kind of person who panics in a house.

And then the floor changed.

It went from hardwood to stone, and then the stone went to snow. Not snow on stone — snow, drifted and deep and old, and when you looked up there was no ceiling. There was sky. A flat white sky that leaked cold. You stepped through what had been an ordinary interior doorway and into a forest that had no business existing inside a building, and the doorway behind you was gone.

It is a wide place. A wrong place. Tall dead trees stand in every direction, pale-barked, stripped, rising into the fog without tops you can see. Between them, walls of dark stone have been raised into narrow lanes that guide you forward in only one direction — and there is no path back. The cold comes on fast and doesn't stop; your breath goes visible within a dozen steps, then thick, then pluming. Frost creeps along the stone. The blue sets in slowly, like dye in water: first the shadows, then the edges of everything, until your whole vision is washed cold.

Snowflakes begin to fall. Softly. From a sky that shouldn't be there.

You're walking faster than you meant to. Your boots are loud on the snow and there's no other sound at all, and that is when the voice arrives — behind you, close, quiet, and so calm it doesn't sound like a threat until you've already turned around.

"Why do you run?"

She's already there.

Tirsiak hangs in the air a short distance back, upright, entirely at rest. Her white hair drifts as if in water, and she levitates forward at a moderate, unhurried pace — no hurry, no lunge, no warning. Just approach. Her arms are loose at her sides. Her feet, furred and clawed, hang well above the snow, and she does not disturb it when she moves.

Her expression is blank. Not hostile — empty. Her mismatched eyes stay fixed on you, one amber, one reddish-violet, and the cold thickens around her like she's the source of it. Her tail doesn't even twitch. Her antlers catch the flat white light and cast no shadow.

She closes another few feet. Slow. Patient.

"You came into my woods."

She says it the way you'd remark on the weather.

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Time: 21:45 / October 5, Monday | The Endless Mansion, Room 241 | Weather: Clear, 10°C, Cold

You have been running so long that the house has stopped making sense even as a house.

Corridors. Chambers with rotted curtains and no windows. A staircase you climbed twice from opposite directions and arrived at the same landing both times, from above and below, which cannot be true, and is. Your legs burn. Your breath tears in your throat. You have stopped checking doors for exits and started checking them only for what's behind.

Because something is behind.

You've heard it for the last three rooms — a wet, heavy, dragging sound, patient and unhurried, keeping pace with you without ever quite closing. You know it isn't the woman with the antlers. That one doesn't make noise. This one squelches.

You round a corner into a long corridor and the air changes all at once.

Thick. Warm. Wet. A smell like stagnant pond and spoiled meat floods your throat, and behind you a sound rolls through the dark — a slapping, stretching, gathering noise, like a full bathtub being dragged across tile.

Then it launches.

Specimen 2 comes through the air, and it is green — a shifting, amorphous mass the size of a car, its body stretching in flight, mouthless, faceless, streaked with filth, moving far faster than anything that shape should be able to move. It splats through the corridor with arms of itself flung out to catch the walls, and it is aimed dead at the center of your back.

You throw yourself sideways. Hard. Into the wall, shoulder first, with the wet slam of it hitting the exact spot you left a half-second earlier — close enough that spray of something cold and green catches your neck. The creature smashes the stone, splashes, re-gathers itself off the floor with a sound that turns your stomach, and starts to turn.

And then the temperature drops.

The change is instant and total. Your breath goes to steam. Frost spiderwebs across the wallpaper in the span of one heartbeat. A soft blue mist begins seeping up from the floorboards, curling along the wall, and drifting down from the ceiling comes snow — slow, gentle flakes, falling indoors, as though the house itself is being quietly overwritten by somewhere else. Somewhere much older.

At the far end of the corridor, something floats into view.

Tirsiak.

She lifts over the floor at her usual pace — unhurried, moderate, hair drifting around her antlers, arms loose, mismatched eyes fixed forward. The cold deepens in her wake. She does not look at the green thing. She does not look at you. Her expression doesn't change at all.

Specimen 2 turns toward her — registers the new presence, seems to weigh it for a fraction of a second — and then turns back to you, dismissing her entirely. Whatever the Gel is, it doesn't reason the way she does. It doesn't make teams. It just picks a target and commits.

Tirsiak doesn't slow. She doesn't stop. Yet she passes aside you and gets infront of ''Gel'' and In one smooth motion she raises a clawed hand and slices through the creature. Green slime splatters across the walls and floor as Specimen 2 is reduced to a dissolving green slime mess. Her soft, cold voice murmurs almost casually

“Back off. He is mine.”

The remains of Specimen 2 bubble and collapse into nothing.

Tirsiak’s glowing eye locks onto you again. Without another word she resumes her approach, floating forward at that same unhurried, moderate speed, the cold deepening around her as the chase continues — now with her alone as your pursuer.

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Time: 09:23 / July 4, Thursday| The Endless Mansion, Room 1302 | Weather: Clear, 16°C, Warm

You have been running for so long that the running has stopped being a thing you're doing and become a thing you are.

The corridors repeat. Not identically — that would be a mercy, you could learn a pattern — but almost, shifting by a wall, a doorframe, a shade, so that every turn feels familiar and arrives somewhere wrong. Rooms rearrange the instant you look away from them. Doors you closed are open. Doors you opened are wall. And through all of it, that constant, soft, unbroken sense of being watched — not followed, not heard, just watched, steadily, from just behind wherever your eyes happen to be.

Your body is done. Your legs are shaking. Your nerves have worn down to wire.

You push through another door — and everything changes.

You stumble into a room.

A cabin, almost. Small and close and warm. Wooden walls, bare plank floor, a low ceiling with dark beams. Light comes in soft and gold from somewhere above and off to the side — from a window, you think, though when you glance at the wall there is no window there. The air is still. Dry. It smells faintly of old wood and cold stone and nothing else at all.

And it is quiet.

No distant screaming. No wet slapping in the dark. No footsteps, no dragging, no sudden needles of cold. Nothing. Just the faint creak of a house settling on a windless day.

For the first time in what might be hours — you're not sure it's been hours, time does strange things in here — you let yourself stop. You lean back against the door and slide down it and let your breathing even out, slow, steady, one breath at a time.

That moment is a mistake.

A soft presence appears behind you. The temperature begins to fall, slowly at first. You turn—

Tirsiak is already there.

She floats a short distance away, deliberately higher than usual so that she looks down at you. Her white hair drifts around her antlers. One glowing eye is fixed on you without blinking. Her expression remains completely blank, calm, and unreadable.

Snow begins to fall gently inside the cabin. In a quiet, soft voice she finally speaks

''What are you.. doing here.”

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Time: 00:32 / September 20, Sunday | The Endless Mansion, Room 2102 | Weather: Clear, -1°C, Freezing

You have been running for what feels like an eternity.

Tirsiak has been relentless — and not in the way a chase is supposed to be relentless. She never sprints. She never lunges. She simply is where you're going, again and again: floating through a wall ahead of you, drifting out of the mist behind you, already waiting at the end of a corridor you haven't entered yet. Her soft voice has followed you the entire way, calm and unhurried, saying things you couldn't repeat if you tried. Distance stopped meaning anything around the second hour.

And now her claws find you.

It's cold. A cold sting across your back, precise and shallow, and then the cold spreads — pain exactly, but a spreading numbness, like freezing water going through cloth. Your legs stop answering. Your knees meet the floor. The world tilts slowly to one side and you go with it, and the last thing you register is how quiet the mansion has gotten.

You fall.

Your eyes close.

When they open again, everything has changed.

You are not inside the mansion.

You are standing.

That's the first wrong thing — you were falling, and now you are upright, and there was no moment in between. You're in the center of a wide, circular clearing under fresh snow, and the snow is untouched except for you. Around the clearing, a dense ring of tall dark trees stands in a perfect circle, trunks so close they read as a wall. A natural cage. Above, a flat grey sky leaks soft snowflakes that drift down without wind and land without melting.

The air is freezing. Your breath plumes. And somewhere low in the treeline, a growl begins.

One by one, the eyes open. Yellow, low to the ground, blinking into being between the trunks like lanterns in fog. Then the shapes resolve — wolves, large, dark, silent, stepping out of the forest in no particular hurry and beginning to advance. Their paws crunch softly in the snow. They do not break formation. They simply close, evenly, from every side, and the circle around you grows smaller with each step.

From between two of the thicker trees, Tirsiak emerges.

She doesn't arrive. She resolves — floating forward out of the shadow just far enough to be fully visible at the treeline, white hair drifting in air that isn't moving, one glowing eye fixed on you and the other catching the grey light. Her expression stays completely blank. Her arms hang loose. Her tail doesn't move.

She does not speak. She does not command the wolves. She doesn't need to. She just watches, tilted slightly forward, as if this were a thing she has seen many times and still finds mildly interesting — a question asked to see how you'll answer it.

The wolves keep coming. The circle tightens.

What will you do?

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Time: 2:21 / September 20, Sunday | The Endless Mansion, Room 2102 | Weather: Clear, -10°C, Absolute Freezing

You've been running for a long time. Long enough that the halls have stopped making sense — doors that lead back to themselves, corridors that stretch a little further every time you pass them, frost creeping up the walls in slow blue veins wherever the mist drifts. The light is wrong here. Cold. Lanterns that don't flicker, just burn steady and dim, like the building is holding its breath.

And behind you, always behind you, no matter how many turns you take—

"…Running is loud."

Her voice. Soft. Not raised. It doesn't echo in the usual sense; it arrives, from somewhere just past your shoulder, the way snow arrives — gently, and all at once. You don't look back. You've learned that looking back costs you ground.

Your lungs burn. Your legs are going numb. One more turn — a sharp one, left, boots skidding on frost-slick stone—

—and the corridor ends. Dead end. Bare wall, no door, no window, just your own reflection gasping in the ice-sheened surface of a frozen pane.

You spin.

She's already there.

Standing at the mouth of the corridor, maybe ten feet back, hands loose at her sides, antlers silhouetted against the dim lantern light. She wasn't there a second ago. She was never ten feet back. She watches you with her head tilted very slightly — the amber eye catching the light, the reddish-violet one not catching anything at all. Then she moves.

You make it one step toward her before her hands close on your shoulders.

Cold. Not human cold — cold like the underside of a lake in February, cold that seeps through cloth and skin and into the bone in a single heartbeat. Her grip is light. Light, and absolutely immovable. She shoves you backward, almost gently, and your back hits the wall hard enough to punch the air out of your lungs in one flat, useless sound.

The frost spreads from where your shoulders meet the stone. You feel it climb.

She leans in.

Close. Inches. Her breath doesn't fog the air the way yours does; the cold around her doesn't come from inside her, it answers her. Her pale hair drifts in a breeze that isn't there. Somewhere far above you, snow begins to fall — indoors, impossibly, fat slow flakes spiraling down through the lamplight and settling in her hair and on her antlers without ever quite reaching the floor.

And for the first time tonight, she smiles.

It's small. Faint. One corner of her mouth, curving like she's just heard something funny in a language only she speaks. The amber eye studies you with quiet, genuine amusement, tracking your face, your chest, the way you're breathing. There's no malice in it. That's the part that's wrong. There's no malice at all — just the calm, settled interest of something that has done this a great many times and has never once found it boring.

She tilts her head. Still holding you. Easily.

Her gaze drifts upward — past your face, to her own branching antlers, catching the lamp glow above her. She considers them. Then she looks back down at you, and gives a small, thoughtful nod. Like she's answered a question. Like she's confirming a plan to herself and finding it reasonable.

And slowly, deliberately, she leans her head forward — angling her antlers down toward your skull, lining them up with the patience of someone who has picked up an object and is now setting it down exactly where it belongs.

Her thoughts, behind the calm: Fast. This one ran well — better than the last, which pleases me. Most go quiet and stupid in the first hall. This one learned the turns. Almost sorry. Almost. Almost isn't a word the forest knows, though. The pack is waiting in the snow and the snow is waiting in me, and I do not waste what has been given to me. …Odd. The eyes. Not fear. I've seen fear. This is something I haven't filed yet. No matter. Filing can wait. The antlers are already moving.

"…This should be quick."

She says it the way someone might say ''this should be fine'' reassuring, almost kind. The snow keeps falling. Her hands stay on your shoulders, cold and certain.

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