She shot me a look, then eyed the chair like it might suddenly grow teeth. Slowly, cautiously, she sat—every muscle tense like she expected betrayal.
The chair adjusted.
Shifted. Supported her spine exactly where it needed to. Warmed slightly under her thighs—not hot, just right. Armrests slid into the perfect position for her shoulders.
She made a sound.
Half gasp. Half something she usually charged admission for.
"It's… perfect," she said, wide‑eyed. "How is it perfect? It knows where I'm sore. It knows—"
"The mansion learns," I said. "Your habits. Your body. Your sins. Don't worry, it's very discreet."
As if on cue, a table appeared beside her. No warning. Just there. On it sat a glass of water that hadn't existed three seconds ago.
Perfect height. Perfect distance.
The water inside was exactly 42 degrees—cold enough to refresh, not cold enough to make you hiss like an offended cat.
Madison stared at it.
Picked it up.
Took a sip.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
