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Chapter One: Samuel

Icoast up to the base of the hill slow enough to catch every wheel rut and rain gouge the mountain rain caused. The air up here doesn’t taste like anything—no exhaust, no mulch, no wet grass tang. Only an eerie hush, waiting to be broken.

At the entrance, the perimeter fence: black iron, twice the height of a city ordinance. Spikes at the crown, fresh paint, not a single flake chipped. A camera mounted in every third post blinks blue, following my progress.

I pull the municipal rig up to the call box and run my thumb over my credential lanyard. The wind pings the empty sign at the gate: “Premises Protected 24/7, All Visitors Must Register.” The font is military, not municipal. I tap the call button twice and wait.

“State your business.”

“Samuel Richards, contracted with Gales Infrastructure for code inspection. You should have my name on the—”

“Present identification through the window.”

I oblige. The built-in camera clicks four photos before the gate whines open. I roll through on slow idle, and it swings shut behind me. My gut reacts before my head does, tightening up on old prison instinct. I tell it to shut up.

There’s nothing sinister about safety.

Maybe a little bit ominous how creepy this place is, but a job is a job and the money was right.

Still… that old jail house unease is present.

The driveway eats a full minute, lined by hedges sculpted to perfection but also to conceal. At least a hundred meters between the gate and the main house, and there’s not a single view into the grounds. No sunflowers, no vegetable plots, no children’s toys scattered on the lawn. Just the hedges and gothic stone benches. The mansion itself looks new enough to still have construction plastic on the porch columns, but there’s not a soul visible in the windows.

At the roundabout I park in the yellow visitor square and get my kit from the bed. Clipboard, voltmeter, flashlight, laser tape. Hard hat because the pre-job packet said “required,” and I’m not here to argue. By the time I reach the front door, a security guard with a marine buzz and flawless polyester uniform waits for me, arms folded.

He takes my ID. Stares at it, flips it, then holds it up to his own face like he’s expecting to catch me in a lie.

“Three days?”

“That’s what your guy set up. Name on the file is Bentley Brooks. Need to change some security systems that are acting up, as well as check that everything has been built to code. Main building and both annexes, then the sub-basement. I’m cleared for basic systems access.” I say it slow, like I’m explaining to a boss who wants to catch me fucking up but won’t say so. “You’re…?”

He answers by handing my card back, never giving a name. “You’ll be escorted at all times. No photos. If you need access, ask.”

I nod, keeping my chin down. He opens the door and lets me in first. He leads me to the admin desk. Another guard awaits, this one with a badge that just says “Ward”, and gestures to the sign-in book.

I fill the top line with neat block letters and start to date it, but the guard takes over and writes the date for me. The other hand hovers next to a holstered sidearm. Not standard for a private security gig.

The first item on my work order is the service room in the main house, so we head down a hallway wider than my first apartment. Every window is sealed with something between safety glass and polycarbonate. Even the glass on the display cabinets is thicker than standard.

Like the house is designed to keep weather out… or people in.

“Reinforced for seismic code,” he says, like he expects me to argue.

I say, “Overkill, but it’s your bill,” and let it go.

The grounds crew is visible through the glass doors at the end of the hall, three people in identical uniforms picking at the same dead leaves with matching brooms. The second they see me, they look away. I give one a nod, but they’re already too interested in the cracks of the patio tile.

Okay then…

In the first service room, I check my list: inspect electrical panel, assess auxiliary generator, confirm wireless node. The guard stands at the door, arms crossed, not moving. The wiring here is more complicated than any house I’ve ever seen. The breakers are tagged in two different languages, and the labeling is redundant—once in sharpie, once in machine-print. I start the inspection, calling out each step on purpose.

“Main panel: dual feed, triple redundancy. That’s a bit much for a single dwelling. Who designed this?”

He shrugs, or maybe it’s a twitch. “All questions to the estate manager.”

I keep working. The generator is military spec, not a brand you find in home supply. The wireless hub isn’t just a hub, it’s a private mesh network. There’s not a stick of consumer tech anywhere. I write everything down in tidy columns and keep my face neutral.

This is fucked. What the hell is this place?