The wrought-iron gates opened into a sprawling mansion that carried the quiet confidence of old wealth rather than loud display. Cream-stone walls glowed softly under the afternoon light, and tall glass windows reflected drifting clouds. Inside, the foyer stretched wide and airy — marble floors polished to a muted shine, a long runner carpet softening footsteps, and the faint fragrance of sandalwood lingering in the air. A chandelier hung overhead, not dazzling, but warm, casting a calm golden light that made the space feel lived-in rather than intimidating.

The front doors opened, and a seventeen-year-old girl stepped in.

She wore a simple casual top tucked into blue jeans, nothing extravagant, yet she carried an ease that made her noticeable without trying. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, slightly tousled as if she had rushed over without bothering to fix it properly. There was a natural brightness to her face — not dramatic beauty, but the kind that felt comforting, familiar. Her eyes wandered around with open curiosity, and her smile arrived easily, almost instinctively, the sort that softened a room instead of demanding attention from it. She walked in with light, quick steps, as though the house already belonged somewhere in her routine.

Just then, she noticed a woman near the sitting area.

The lady appeared to be in her mid-thirties, dressed in a neatly tailored light-colored formal suit — elegant and practical at once. The outfit carried the precision of someone accustomed to professionalism: structured shoulders, clean lines, minimal jewelry. A leather handbag rested in her hand, and faint signs of fatigue lingered beneath her calm expression, the kind earned from long hours and responsibility.