The Cursed Manor's Secrets

The air was thick with the smell of blood, and the silence weighed heavily in the room. As consciousness slowly returned to Surin, his chest rose and fell in sharp, gasping breaths, like a man who had just been pulled from drowning. His eyes shot open, wide with panic. He tried to move but found himself bound tightly to a wooden chair. The cold, biting metal of two daggers pinned his hands to the armrests, sending waves of searing pain through his body.

"This... is bad," he muttered through clenched teeth.

His vision was blurry at first, but gradually, the dimly lit room came into focus. The walls were lined with aged books and elegant, Victorian-style furnishings, the likes of which belonged to someone of considerable wealth. Surin glanced down at his bloodstained linen shirt, torn and tattered from recent abuse. He could feel the sting of multiple open wounds on his torso. It was clear—he had been through a lot before waking up here.

"Where... the hell am I?" he whispered to himself.

His nose twitched as he caught the overwhelming scent of iron. The blood was fresh, both his and... possibly others'. As he surveyed his surroundings, his eyes finally landed on two figures standing in the shadows.

One was a hulking man with a shaved head and skin so pale it almost gleamed under the faint light. His dark, smudged eyeliner only made the glint of his cruel smile more unsettling. Gorrik. That name sprang to mind, though Surin had no idea why. The other figure was shorter, thinner, with spiky green hair styled into a mohawk. His face was riddled with piercings, and his leather jacket jingled with chains. Spine. That was what they called him. They looked like the kind of punks you'd avoid in a dark alley at night—but this was no alley, and Surin had no choice but to confront them.

And then there was that arm.

Gorrik's right arm wasn't human. It was a complex network of brass gears, steel rods, and hissing steam pipes, ending in a bulky cannon-like device. Steam puffed out intermittently, as if it had a life of its own, a grim relic of a bygone era. This wasn't just any old prosthetic; this was something far more dangerous.

"What is that... some kind of... steam-powered weapon?" Surin thought, his mind racing despite the pain.

"He's awake," Gorrik growled, his voice a gravelly rumble. He stepped closer, his boots echoing on the hardwood floor. "No point in pretending anymore, kid. We know you're not dead."

Surin's pulse quickened. His eyes darted toward the exit, but escape was impossible in his current state. His hands were skewered, and he was bound too tightly to the chair.

Spine sneered, his thin lips curling up into a grin. "You're a tough one, aren't ya? Took more than a little beating to put you down."

"Yeah... but not for long," Gorrik added, cracking his neck. "Now... you're gonna tell us why you're here. How did you know about this place?"

Surin blinked. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory, but nothing added up. How did he end up here? The last thing he recalled was opening a strange email, a flash of light, and then... darkness.

"Shit," he thought. "Did I... get transported?"

His hands throbbed in pain as Spine twisted one of the daggers. Surin hissed in agony, his body tensing as fresh blood dripped onto the floor. He wasn't sure what these men wanted, but he knew one thing—they weren't going to let him live.

"Speak," Spine demanded. "How'd you find this manor? No one knows about this place. Hell, even the Guild's got no records of it."

"The Guild?" Surin mumbled, still disoriented.

Gorrik leaned closer, his breath reeking of tobacco. "We know you're not just some random nobody. The big shots in the Inner City put a price on your head, and here you are, snooping around a cursed estate? You got secrets, kid, and we want 'em. Talk, or we'll make you wish you had."

Surin's mind scrambled to make sense of it. Cursed estate? The Inner City? This didn't sound like anything familiar from his world. And why did these people think he knew something?

Then it hit him—a memory, sharp and clear.

He looked down at his own reflection in the gleaming floor. The face staring back wasn't his. The bloodied reflection showed a teenage boy with dark brown hair, his face smeared with blood. He wasn't in his own body.

His thoughts spiraled as he realized the truth: he had taken over someone else's body. "I've... I've been transported," he thought. "This isn't my world."

But he couldn't let these two thugs know he didn't belong here. They'd kill him for sure.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to buy time. "I don't know anything about this place," he muttered. "I just... woke up here, same as you."

"Don't play dumb!" Spine spat, slamming his fist on the armrest. "This is no accident. You were looking for this place."

Surin's mind raced. He could feel the edges of his consciousness beginning to expand, strange data flashing in the corners of his vision. Codes, symbols—none of it made sense. He blinked, and the symbols vanished.

"Think, damn it!" he cursed inwardly. "If I don't come up with something, I'm dead."

Gorrik stood, pacing with his mechanical arm hissing steam. "Enough of this. You think we care about your excuses? We'll carve it out of you piece by piece if we have to."

Surin's breath quickened. "Alright, alright!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "I was... I was sent here, okay? I don't know by who, but I was sent to find something. Some kind of artifact. That's all I know."

The two men exchanged glances. For a moment, Surin thought he saw a flicker of doubt in Gorrik's eyes.

"Artifact?" Gorrik grumbled, his hand flexing at the mention of the word.

"Yeah," Surin pressed, trying to seize control of the situation. "Something powerful, hidden beneath this place. That's why I came."

Spine narrowed his eyes. "You expect us to believe that?"

Surin leaned forward as much as his bonds would allow, wincing at the pain. "Think about it. If I knew more, would I be here, tied up like this?"

There was a tense pause as Gorrik and Spine seemed to weigh his words.

Finally, Gorrik's mechanical arm hissed with released pressure. He turned to Spine. "Maybe he's tellin' the truth."

Spine looked less convinced. "Or maybe he's stalling."

Gorrik shrugged, then turned back to Surin. "Either way, we're not done here. If you're lying, kid, trust me, you'll beg for death before we're through with you."

With that, the two men retreated to a corner of the room, their voices low as they discussed their next move.

Surin exhaled shakily. His reprieve was temporary, but he had bought himself a little more time.

He glanced around, looking for anything that could help him escape. His hands were still impaled by the daggers, the pain a constant, throbbing reminder of his precarious situation.

And then he saw it—a key, glinting faintly on the ground, just a few feet away.

Hope surged in his chest. If he could somehow free one hand...

He took a deep breath and began to work, inching his chair closer to the key, the sound of the wooden legs scraping against the floor masked by Gorrik and Spine's heated conversation.

This was his one chance. He couldn't afford to fail.