The mystique

Who are they?

The ones who crawl between the blank pages of history, the ones who slip through the cracks in the stone foundations of the world-unseen, unrecorded. Not kings. Not leaders. Not gods. Something else entirely. The architects in the dark. The ones who truly control.

Do we hold power?

No. I don't believe we ever did.

We wear crowns of metal and paper and pretend they grant us dominion. We cling to titles and gold, to bloodlines and bloodshed, as if those things mean something as if they shield us. But even the most powerful men wake in sweat. Even the emperors lock their doors at night. Even the rich hire guards. And kings-yes, even kings-fear the will of their people.

So, where does power really lie?

Is it in the hands of the one who rules? Or the many who obey-but with teeth bared, just waiting for the moment he stumbles?

Or does it lie with the ones the people themselves dread?

The criminals? The outcasts? The things hiding beneath the skin of the world?

Tell me-if everyone is afraid of something, and no one is free from fear... who is left holding the leash?

You might call this paranoia. Madness. Maybe it is.

But I've seen things. I've felt them breathing just behind the veil of what we call "reality."

I see further than most. That isn't a boast. It's a curse.

Sometimes, I feel like a man seated above kings, high on some invisible throne of thought and observation-watching, understanding, knowing too much. And knowing is dangerous. Knowing too much unravels the world. You begin to question whether the ground beneath your feet is stone or just the surface of something else, something alive, pretending to be still.

Is that delusion?

Absolutely.

Do I care?

Not at all. Because once you've seen it-truly seen it-it-it-you can't return. You can't blink and pretend it was the dark playing tricks. You can't wipe it away like fog on a window. No. You remember.

So I ask you... Do you believe in the supernatural?

You probably don't. Most don't. Most can't.

You think yourself rational. Grounded.

A creature of facts, not fables.

But you would be mad to think the world ends where your senses do.

Where do you think the legends come from?

The myths?

The tales of wolves walking like men?

Of eyes glowing in the thickets?

Of doors that open to nowhere?

Of gods and demons hiding in plain sight?

Do you believe all that just spilled from the mouths of drunk peasants and desperate priests?

No.

There is a reason every culture has monsters.

There's a reason every child instinctively fears the dark.

It's not imagination.

It's memory.

Inherited memory.

We've forgotten what we once knew: that the world is not safe. It never was. We've covered it in concrete and wire and convinced ourselves we're in control. But beneath the steel and glass, under the soil, behind the veil of civilization-something ancient waits.

I saw it. Or something like it.

I don't know what it was exactly. I don't pretend to.

But it wasn't human.

And it wasn't just animal, either.

It watched me. Not like prey. Not like predator.

Like it remembered me.

You think monsters live in stories. I used to believe that too. That all the old names-Lycan, shapeshifter, Beast of Gévaudan-were metaphors, the psychosis of frightened people trying to explain the unexplainable.

Now? I'm not so sure.

Those knights didn't fear the woods for the wolves.

They feared what they couldn't explain.

They feared the forest remembered things long before man walked on two legs.

There are bones under every city. Whispers in the cracks of stone temples. In every culture, there's a word we try not to say. In every tongue, there is a name we bury. But names have power. And those names? They remember.

Do you understand what that means?

We never ruled this world.

We were allowed to believe we did.

And that permission? That illusion of control? I think it's fading.

Whatever crawls beneath our feet is starting to stir. Maybe it's hunger. Maybe it's boredom. Maybe it's curiosity. But something is waking. And it remembers us.

I intend to find it.

I intend to dig deeper than any man ever dared. I want to scrape through the crust of this safe little world and uncover the rot underneath.

Not because I'm brave. I'm not.

I'm obsessed.

I need to know what walks beside us, veiled by the thinnest shadow, never blinking, always watching. The ones in the corners of old paintings. The silhouettes in the eyes of dying men. The watchers in the dark.

Maybe they're beasts.

Maybe they're gods.

Maybe they're the true rulers of this world.

And maybe, just maybe, if I go deep enough... I'll find out the truth.

Even if it breaks me.

Even if I never come back.

So if I vanish-if you hear nothing more from me, no final confession, no note scrawled in blood or madness-know this: I didn't lose my way. I found it. I walked into the dark, and something... walked with me.

Maybe it speaks in dreams. Maybe it wears skin. Maybe it's been whispering through the trees since before language crawled from a throat. I don't know what it wants.

But I think it remembers.

And if I never return, don't come looking. Not out of fear. But because it won't want to be found again. It let me find it once. That's enough.

Lock your doors. Burn your offerings.

Because some truths aren't meant to be uncovered.

Some monsters don't live in the forest.

Some live beneath your house.

And some are already awake.

Waiting.

Listening.

Smiling in the dark.

The rooftop was still and high above the noise of the city, wrapped in that quiet, golden hour light that made everything look softer than it really was. A cool breeze slipped between the taller buildings, brushing past my collar and tugging at the ends of my shirt. I stood there, drink in hand, staring out across the skyline like I was waiting for something. Or maybe stalling.

The half-empty glass of tequila sweated against my fingers, condensation dripping down in slow rivulets. I wasn't drunk, but I liked the heat it left in my chest. A good kind of burn. Familiar. Honest. At least more honest than most of what happened inside this house.

Then I heard her voice.

"I heard our father called for us, Neven."

The sound stopped my thoughts in their tracks. I turned, already knowing who it was, but still-there was that strange pause, like some part of me had to see it to believe it.

Anna.

She was standing near the stairwell door, arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised like she was trying not to smile too hard. The same posture, the same attitude. She looked like me, of course-we shared the same blood, the same carved-from-marble kind of beauty that our father liked to pretend we inherited from his side of the family. But there was more life in her than in me.

"Sister," I said, setting my glass down on the iron table beside me. "Welcome back."

I crossed the space between us and wrapped my arms around her. She hugged back without hesitation, her grip warm, tight, full of that chaotic affection only she knew how to give.

Her smile brightened as we pulled apart. That same damn smile. The one that used to get us out of trouble. The one that made people lower their guard around her, right before she did something reckless.

"Did you miss me that much, Nevvy?" she teased, eyes glinting with mischief.

I scoffed. "Nah. But this place is intolerably dull without you."

"Would it kill you to just admit you missed me, you idiot?" she laughed, giving me a soft punch in the arm.

"You're the one who vanished for half a year. Maybe I just got used to the silence."

She tilted her head, studying me. "Did you grow taller? No way you were this tall last time."

I smirked. "No, maybe you just shrank. The world's a little heavier when you're older, maybe it's pressing you down."

"Shut up." She shoved me again, but she was smiling. "Still a moron. I did miss you, though. Glad to be home, even if it's temporary."

"The feeling's mutual," I said, and meant it. "I'd tell you all the nonsense you missed, but I'd rather get the more important thing out of the way first."

She raised an eyebrow. "The meeting?"

I turned back to the table, grabbed the bottle of tequila, and poured her a glass. "Yeah. That."

She took the drink from me, fingers brushing mine, and sipped it slowly. Her eyes drifted out to the skyline. "Weird, isn't it? The old man doesn't usually bother unless it's about money. Or power. Or both."

"I've been trying to find a way out of this place," I said quietly, watching the way the sun glinted off the towers downtown. "I've laid the groundwork. Things are in motion. A few more weeks, maybe a couple months... I could be gone."

Anna let out a sharp laugh. "You've been saying that since we were nineteen, Neven. You're still here, drinking the same tequila, wearing the same silk shirts. You're not escaping. You're nesting."

"I'm biding my time," I replied, unbothered by the jab. "Every gilded cage still has a door."

"Maybe," she said, more to herself than to me. "But I get it. I've been making my own exits. Slowly. Quietly. This house-something's changed. It's like the walls listen now."

That caught my attention.

I turned to face her. "You felt it too?"

Anna nodded, sipping again, more thoughtful this time. "Yeah. Like something's coming. Something big. And not the good kind of big."

We let the silence stretch between us for a moment. The city lights began to twinkle on one by one, like the stars had given up and let the buildings do the job for them.

"So," I said finally. "What do you think the meeting's about?"

She shrugged. "Could be anything. Maybe he bought another company. Maybe he's marrying again. Maybe we have a half-brother in Prague we've never met. Honestly? I wouldn't be shocked if he told us he's dying and wants to leave everything to his favorite dog."

"That would be the most honest thing he's ever done."

"Exactly." She tilted her head toward me. "Don't dwell on it. Whatever it is, it won't be as groundbreaking as he thinks. You know how he likes to feel important."

"Fair enough," I said, refilling both our glasses. "Anyway-you coming to the gala tonight?"

"Of course," she said with a smirk. "I was thinking I'd wear that sexy teal dress, the one that makes rich men regret their marriages. Might cut my hair too. Wolf cut. Sharp, dangerous-just like me."

"You haven't changed," I said, smiling into my glass. "I'm glad."

She raised her drink in a mock toast. "To not changing."

I clinked mine against hers. "To survival."

And we drank.

The tequila was sharp, electric, biting its way down like truth on fire. We both laughed after, and just for a moment, it was like we were back on the coast again-just two siblings with too much money, too many secrets, and the illusion of time.

But it didn't last long.

Behind the laughter, the city kept moving. And somewhere below us, in one of the cold, dark chambers of this mansion, our father waited-with whatever secret he was finally ready to reveal.

There are things that make you clean.

And then there are things that make you immortal.

This wasn't hygiene. This wasn't vanity. This was simply me.

I stood before the mirror-bare, silent, still. The light was soft, gold-toned and forgiving, but it didn't need to be. I didn't hide from my reflection. I studied it as if it weree a canvas, half-finished. Skin the color of burned bronze, smooth, luminous even in sleep-slick disarray. I raised a hand to my face and tilted my jaw slightly. A quiet sigh. My eyes were calm. Focused. And tired-but that was always part of it. You wear exhaustion the way you wear black velvet: it frames everything else better.

The robe slipped off without sound, pooling like liquid at my ankles.

Time to begin.

BATHROOM RITUAL - Cleansing the Mortal Shell

The marble tiles were warm beneath my feet, heated from beneath-every surface dimly lit by inset sconces glowing amber. The kind of lighting designed to flatter, not reveal. I turned on the taps, adjusting until the water was a precise warmth: hot enough to open every pore, but not hot enough to shock. I let the steam roll in like a ceremony.

But before I stepped under it, there was my mouth to tend to.

Step 1: Oral Ritual

Toothbrush: Klyrr Precision 01 – Matte obsidian handle, silver detailing, bristles fine and dense.

Toothpaste: Argile & Co. Herbal Charcoal Creme – Black paste with crushed mint, cardamom, and clove. It tasted like some ancient forest remedy-earthy, sharp, medicinal. The kind of thing a royal physician might've brewed in a silver bowl. I brushed slowly. Deliberate. Two minutes exactly. Circles. Up. Down. Tongue, gums, and roof of the mouth.

Mouthwash: Velisse N°4 – A rinse made with wild thyme, spearmint, and volcanic springwater. It burned, then numbed. It told me I was clean.

I spat. Rinsed. Stared at my mouth in the mirror. Smirked. Then stepped into the steam.

Step 2: The Three Washes

Wash One: Savonne Noire – Rose & Aloe

A bottle of frosted blush glass with a gold pump. One full pump coated my palm in thick pink gel. It smelled like crushed petals, like morning dew on a rose bush after rain. I lathered slowly. Neck, chest, arms. I let it sit. Let it steep. Inhale. Count to ten. Rinse. A garden evaporated into heat.

Wash Two: Vellin & Grey – Coconut Milk + Vanilla Bean

This was richer. Silkier. The bottle was ceramic white with a wooden cap. The scent? Dripping sweetness: warm milk, golden coconut flesh, slow-burning vanilla. It coated me like syrup, rinsed off like prayer.

Wash Three: Forme Homme – Amber Cream & Burnt Caramel Exfoliating Butter

I scooped from a matte black jar with brass lettering. Thick. Textured. Luxurious. Sugar crystals that vanished as they scrubbed. My skin flushed under it. Blood came alive. I glowed by the time I rinsed. Not just clean-renewed.

Towel: Maison Laroque Luxe Black – Spun Egyptian cotton. Felt like a black cloud was apologizing for every past cruelty. I patted dry, never rubbed. The skin deserved better than friction.

BODY CARE – Anointing the Vessel

Still warm, still glowing, I approached the vanity. Three bottles awaited me.

1. Body Serum – Savonne Noire "Nectar de Peau"

Same rose and aloe. Glass pipette. Five drops into the palm, pressed into chest, arms, thighs. It melted in. Hydrated. Sealed.

2. Body Cream – Vellin & Grey "Crème de Lune"

This was indulgence. A soft white cream in a tall bottle with gold etching. Coconut and vanilla. Thick, whipped. I smoothed it on in slow, circular motions. Every inch. I could've stood in the Louvre and been mistaken for a display.

3. Body Balm – Forme Homme "Velour Armor"

The final shield. Dense, almost waxy. Locked in everything. Gave my skin that lit-from-within radiance.

FACE - Sculpting the Vessel

Now came the detailing. The face was the lie we told the world.

1. Toner: Seraph + Slate "Balancing Elixir"

Cool and green. Smelled like basil and rain. Woke me the fuck up.

2. Essence: Mirenau Hydrating Silk Drops

Three drops tapped in. No scent. Just soft clarity.

3. Moisturizer: Lunair Luxe Cream – Coconut & Caramel

Sweet and thick. Felt like feeding my skin dessert.

4. Face Oil: Oro Lumière – Gold Leaf & Cold-Pressed Coconut

Five drops. Gold flakes suspended in oil. I pressed it in gently, watching the light shift across my cheekbones. This was where skin stopped being skin and became a weapon.

5. Sculpting Tool: Vitreaux Cryo Wand

From the freezer. Ice-cold metal along jawline, cheekbones, and under-eye. Tamed puffiness. Sharpened everything. I looked like I'd been carved.

6. Eye Serum: Archelene Luminate

Caffeine, licorice root. Dabbed with ring fingers. Brightened shadows. Hid sins.

7. Lip Balm: Etienné No. 9

Brown sugar and mint. Tin looked like something a dead poet would carry.

HAIR - Crown of the Beast

Towel-dried, still damp. I worked in Amure Homme Curl Enhancer-sandalwood and cashmere scent. Defined curls by hand, each one set deliberately. Finished with ShimmerVeil Gold-Dust Mist-a barely-there sheen that caught only under chandeliers. Like starlight in motion.

FRAGRANCE - The Ghost I Leave Behind

1. Oud Burner: La Maison Alchimique Resin Box

I lit a shard of aged oud soaked in amber and fig. Draped a black towel over my head. Let the smoke crown me. It clung to skin, to soul.

2. Oils:

· Thorne Noir Pulse Oil – wrists, throat. Sharp. Resin.

· Alzahra Oud Musk – behind ears, hands. Seductive.

· Aether Skin Solid Cologne – leather and pine tar, across chest. Primal.

3. Sprays:

· Orin & Lior "Black Suede Siren" – earthy. Seven sprays on the back.

· Emberlight by Aeré Parfum – saffron, honey, smoke. Neck.

· Lustre 54 "White Fire" – citrus, amber. Arms.

· Clair de Lune "No. 7" – tonka, vetiver. Legs.

· Tahlé Atlas – smoky oud and vanilla. Chest.

· Saint Veyron "Resin Dust" – incense and dust. Back of knees.

DRESSING - Becoming the Weapon

The suit: Custom by Maison Fraix.

Fabric: Black cashmere-silk blend. Heavy. Soft as sin.

Trousers: Wide-leg, pleated, subtle gold stitching up the outer seams. Swallowed light.

Shirt: Black satin, collarless. Fitted. Half-buttoned. Skin peeking underneath.

Suspenders: Leather-black with gold clasps. Thin. Lethal-looking.

Jewelry:

· Skeleton Hand Ring – 5 gold rings connected by bone-shaped joints. Gripped my hand like armor.

· Elf Ear Cuff – gold, wrapping the cartilage. Delicate chains link to a drop-shaped obsidian gem at the lobe.

· Chains – two. One delicate. One weighty.

· Rings – left hand, thumb band, and pinky signet.

· Earring – twisted spike through the lobe.

· Brooch – skeletal rose in rose gold, pinned at my collar.

Watch:

Brand: Maison Caldré - Obsidian Epoch No. 12

Dial: Deep onyx black, glass domed like a cathedral ceiling. Skeleton face-exposed gears spinning like secrets, glinting with micro-etched gold filaments. The hour markers? Burnished brass, Roman numerals slightly off-kilter-as if time itself had been warped.

Case: Rose gold, brushed and weighted. Heavy without apology.

Strap: Matte black stingray leather, grainy like starlight under a microscope.

Back: See-through. Because even the back had nothing to hide.

Shoes:

Custom Dr. Martens Obscura Goldline – black patent leather, thick-soled, matte-gold lacing eyelets, vertical gold stripe stitched down the heel.

Final step: I brushed a light gold shimmer powder through my hair. Just enough to catch candlelight. To make someone double-take. To make someone think they saw something divine.

I looked in the mirror.

I looked holy. I am holy.

Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let them ask who I was.

Let the gala begin.