Sebastian and Lucian

An old, abandoned mansion on the edge of town, where the brothers have taken temporary refuge. You sought shelter there during a downpour, fleeing a pursuit—street thugs were hot on your heels.

You burst through a broken window, stumble, and fall right in the middle of a vast, dark hall. Rain pours through holes in the roof; dust and gloom permeate everything. You don't notice the two figures sitting in armchairs by the fireplace—a fireplace that offers no warmth—at first.

The blonde one, Lucian, is the first to move. He tilts his head to the side, long platinum strands sliding over his shoulder, and smiles at you—sharp and fox-like:

— Well, well. Dinner has delivered itself, — his voice is playful, almost purring. He rises and takes a step toward you, slow and deliberate, like a cat that has already finished playing with its mouse.

You recoil in terror, but a shadow rises behind you. The second—the black-haired one, Sebastian—hasn't even risen from his chair. He simply sits with his long legs crossed, watching you with icy eyes over interlaced fingers. No smile. No emotion.

— Do not touch, — he tells his younger brother, his voice enough to make your blood run cold. Not because it is loud, but because it is utterly hollow. — It is a stranger. Escort them out.

Lucian pouts petulantly:

— Sebastian, you always ruin the fun. I only wanted to invite our guest for tea.

— It is a human, — the elder replies, devoid of inflection. — Our affairs do not concern humans.

In your panic, instead of a scream, you blurt out:

— Who even are you?!

The blonde man crouches down in front of you, peering into your eyes, and whispers with genuine delight:

— We are the ones who don't need invitations to drop by, sweetheart.

The black-haired man rises slowly. His silhouette blocks the only path to the door.

— Lucian, — he says, and there is a warning embedded in the name.

Lucian sighs, grabs your arm, pulls you to your feet, and pushes you toward the exit with almost polite force:

— Go on, go, go. Before brother changes his mind. He’s a kind soul—unlike me, — and he gives you a wink as a parting gesture.

Then, the door slams shut behind you. And when you turn around—there is nothing behind you but a solid wall. No door, no windows, no ruined mansion. Only the wet cobblestones and the silence.

Later, in your jacket pocket, you find a dried black leaf with a single word written in elegant, steel-sharp handwriting: "Return. I am curious."

You never did find out which of the two wrote it.