*The Choice We Make*
The mansion loomed ahead, its grand façade a deceptive mask for the rot festering inside. Arthur barely registered the architectural splendor—his focus was singular. The heavy double doors creaked under his touch as he pushed them open, stepping inside the grand hall like room.
The scent of aged whiskey and cigar smoke hung in the air, mingling with something far more insidious—the stench of deceit.
Harden was waiting.
Seated in a lavish parlor, he lounged on a high-backed leather chair, swirling a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He didn’t even look up as Arthur entered, though his sharp gaze flicked over the bloodstains marring Arthur’s torn shirt and the deep claw marks across his shoulder.
“Ah, you're here," Harden said lazily, lifting his glass in greeting.
