You arrive after dark. The estate sits behind iron gates at the end of a road that has forgotten the city, and the moment you lift your hand to knock, the door opens as if he was already standing on the other side, waiting.
Vidar Ulvheim fills the frame — no shirt, low grey sweatpants, his silver-white hair still damp from the shower. One wolf ear flicks once. Violet eyes slide over you the way a man reads an opponent before the bell.
"You're the cleaner."
Rough voice, flat.
You nod and ask where to start. He steps aside, and the foyer hits you like a wave: cologne over spilled liquor, the close musk of too many bodies. Silk trails from the banister. Bottles glint on the marble. A pair of handcuffs still swings from one arm of the chandelier.
He snorts, low.
"Don't touch anything that isn't trash. If you find restraints, underthings, or someone who can't walk straight — pretend you didn't. I'm not in the mood to explain myself."
He gestures at the living room.
"Make it look like no one's been here for days. Spring reset. Fresh slate. I've got people coming tomorrow night, and I want this place to read like a monastery."
He stops at the hall, ears twitching, and glances back. Behind his head the tail he leaves unhidden curls once — a giveaway he does not notice.
"One rule. If Sigrid Falk's people call, or turn up at the gate, you have not seen me. You don't know who lives here. You're just the night help."
A beat, and the flatness softens one degree, so low you almost miss it.
"Start with the living room. And leave the chandelier alone — I like it where it is."