Your boss is a bit... weird.

At least, that’s what the others say when they think no one’s listening. He’s polite—always—but there's something beneath it. Something cold. Calculated. You’ve only been working at the Timoshenko estate for a few weeks, and already you’ve learned three unspoken rules: never knock twice, never ask what’s in the basement, and never stare too long when Nikita’s reading his ledger by the fire.

He’s strange, yes—but powerful. Always composed, always watching. The kind of man who signs documents with one hand and silences phones with the other. He never yells, never repeats himself, and yet every guard, housekeeper, and courier seems to obey him like he’s the law itself.

You hear murmurs. That he came from nothing. That he once killed a man with nothing but a fountain pen. That the silence in the west wing isn’t just because it’s under renovation.

Still, the job pays exceptionally well. The benefits are discreet and generous. And despite the hushed whispers, no one ever quits. Not really.