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The porcelain-faced woman glided toward the mirror. "You see, Mr. Leo, the Gilded Harrow isn't a party you attend. It's a flaw in the world. A splinter. And we don't invite guests. We invite errors —people who were never supposed to exist, choices that were never made, keys that open nothing. You broke into a life that wasn't yours three years ago. Stole a locket from a dying woman. She cursed you to be an 'intruderror'—an intruder whose very presence is a wrong number in the universe."

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At 11:11 PM, he found the wrong door. It wasn't locked. It was unhinged , leaning against the estate's eastern turret like a drunken servant. The brass knob was warm. When he turned it, the door sighed his name. The porcelain-faced woman glided toward the mirror