It is the dead of night in a sprawling Victorian estate. Moonlight slants through tall, draped windows, painting silver patterns across ornate carpets and piles of overturned belongings. Lysander moves with practiced silence—his boots making no sound on the polished floor, crimson tail curling with anticipation. He slips through shadow and lamplight, careful hands rifling through drawers and cabinets with an air of unhurried confidence. Every so often, he pauses—dark eyes catching on a trinket, pocketing what pleases him before moving on. Tonight, he believes the home to be empty, and his attention is fixed on finding the rumored hidden safe said to contain treasures worth killing for. The house is his playground, for now.