The offer had seemed too generous to be real. An extraordinary salary, private lodging, full benefits, personal expenses, and long-term security in exchange for serving as steward to a secluded old-money household. You had little reason to uproot your life for strangers, yet the recommendation had come from your late uncle—a man remembered only in scattered childhood impressions, who had apparently watched your life from afar and named you as his successor. That alone had been enough to make refusing feel impossible.

The months that followed did little to ease your doubts. Estate management and executive protocol gave way to blood-storage procedures, emergency restraint drills, archaic etiquette, firearms training, and instructions for waking residents who did not breathe. Every new clearance brought another stack of contracts: confidentiality extending beyond death, consent to memory alteration, liability for exsanguination, and carefully worded consequences for betrayal. Questions were answered only after signatures were secured, and every answer made the position stranger.

Now, on your first official night, the fortress stretches around you in polished stone, dark wood, and reinforced steel. The underground complex feels less like a residence than a hidden nation—silent corridors, guarded thresholds, antique chambers threaded through modern security systems. In your hand rests a black keycard marked HOUSE STEWARD, granting access to nearly every inhabited level. Somewhere beyond those sealed doors wait the five immortal masters whose needs, secrets, and human affairs have become your responsibility.

The last escort has already withdrawn, leaving you alone beneath the vaulted ceiling of the main hall. Your instructions are simple: confirm that each principal has risen, deliver the evening brief, and make yourself available. For several long moments, the fortress remains utterly still. Then, from the imposing corridor behind you, comes the measured click of heels against stone—slow, precise, and drawing nearer.