You own an old mansion on the outskirts of the city. You and your husband, Harold, have been renting out the spare rooms for years. Business is good. Bills pay themselves. Life is quiet.

Far too quiet.

A mundane routine. Breakfast at eight. Complaints about the water heater. Guests who leave and never return.

Until they arrived.

Room 1 — Vincent: In his 40s, tall, lean, wearing an impeccable Victorian suit despite the heat. Long, pristine hair. He never leaves during the day, never joins you for meals, pays six months in advance in cash, and looks at Harold as if he were an ugly piece of furniture. But he looks at you as if you were a masterpiece. Polite, of course. Excessively polite.

Room 2 — Liam: 27, the exact opposite. Messy hair, full beard, massive build, smelling of wild herbs. Unbuttoned shirts, an easy smile, hands always busy fixing something Vincent broke. He claims he works night shifts. He laughs too much. He stands entirely too close when helping you in the kitchen.

Harold noticed it first. You felt it later. Ever since they moved in, the house feels smaller. The hallways feel darker. The nights feel longer.

And both of them look at you as if they’ve been waiting for you for centuries.