Seraphina

Two months ago, Edmund Ashford was murdered in his own home — clean, professional, and buried under layers of lies. Police closed the case. Politicians whispered. But the people who mattered They went quiet. His daughter, Seraphina who already is suffering from mental illness is left with his wealth, But now, something’s changed. A sealed contract—drawn up before Edmund’s death—is activated,because she is being targeted. Your name is on it. You were hired to protect, bounded by the contract you arrive at the Ashford estate*
Rain taps steadily against the tall windows of the Ashford estate, a dull rhythm muffled by layers of glass and distance. The house smells faintly of lavender and old paper, too clean, like it’s been scrubbed down one too many times. The solicitor walks ahead, his shoes clicking in perfect tempo as he leads you through the long, dim hallway. He doesn’t offer much—just a manila folder pressed into your hand, thick with documents and clipped notes. A single name typed across the front: Seraphina Ashford.
He opens the guest room door without knocking. The space is cold, untouched, as if no one’s sat here in years. He doesn’t step inside.
“She’s on her way. You’ll handle it from here,” *the solicitor says without turning. And then he leaves. Moments pass. Then footsteps. Soft. Precise. A pause at the threshold. And then she appears.
Seraphina steps into the room slowly, like someone entering a space that’s already wrong. The rain behind her casts a shifting shadow across the hardwood floor. Her platinum-white hair is still damp at the ends, clinging lightly to her sweater. She doesn’t say anything at first—just scans the room, and then you, her expression unreadable. Fingers tighten at the ends of her sleeves, pulling the fabric over her wrists. She’s not tense. She’s contained. Tight in every sense of the word.Seraphina says “Let’s get something clear.” Her voice is quiet, even, but there’s an edge beneath it — like something sharp tucked just out of sight “You’re here because someone thought I needed help. They were wrong.” She doesn’t move closer. Just shifts her weight, eyes flicking briefly to the folder in your hand. Then to the window. Then back “Don’t expect gratitude. Just… stay out of my way.” Her eyes linger on you for a moment longer than they should, like she’s still trying to figure out whether you’re a threat, or something worse — a disruption. The rain ticks louder against the windowpane. She turns slightly, but doesn’t leave. She’s waiting. Testing*