The tension had been building for days. Callum Fraser, young policeman and new tenant of the house in the fields, had watched his housemates with growing unease. Étienne's pale elegance, Lukas's quiet restraint, Adrian's unsettling calm — all of it gnawed at him. He was trained to trust instinct, and his instinct screamed danger.
That evening, the four sat together in the living room. Lukas had brought bread from the bakery, Étienne poured wine, Adrian scribbled notes in his journal. Callum sat stiffly, his jaw tight, his eyes darting between them.
Finally, he snapped.
"You're not normal," Callum said suddenly, his voice sharp. "None of you. I see it. I feel it. You're hiding something."
The room fell silent. Étienne raised an eyebrow, Lukas set down his bread knife, Adrian closed his journal calmly.
"Callum," Adrian began, his tone measured, "we are not your enemies."
But Callum's fear boiled over. He grabbed the empty glass from the table and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, shards scattering. One piece grazed Adrian's cheek, leaving a thin line of blood.
Adrian froze, his hand rising to touch the wound. His eyes met Callum's — not angry, not vengeful, but steady, controlled.
Callum's breath came fast. He backed away, his face pale. "Stay away from me," he muttered, retreating toward the stairs. "Stay away."
He slammed his bedroom door shut.
The house fell into uneasy quiet. Étienne sighed, setting down his glass. "He is frightened. Fear makes men violent."
Lukas frowned, his calm demeanor strained. "He's a policeman. If he talks…"
Adrian wiped the blood from his cheek, his expression unreadable. "He won't talk. Not yet. He's too afraid."
Hours passed. Callum did not emerge. His footsteps paced inside his room, then stilled. The others left him alone, but Adrian knew silence could fester into something worse.
He stood outside Callum's door, knocking gently. "Callum," he said, his voice calm, diplomatic. "We need to speak."
No answer.
Adrian leaned against the doorframe, his tone steady. "You are frightened. I understand. But hiding will not help you. You threw a glass at me, and yet I am here, unarmed, speaking softly. Does that not tell you something?"
Still silence.
Adrian continued, his words deliberate, persuasive. "You fear being eaten. You fear being prey. But if that were true, you would not still be alive. Étienne has not harmed you. Lukas has not harmed you. I have not harmed you. We live here, as men, not monsters. And you are part of this house now."
There was a pause. A faint creak of floorboards.
Adrian pressed on. "You are a policeman. You are trained to face danger, not to hide from it. Come out, Callum. Speak with us. Let us prove to you that your fear is misplaced."
The door opened slowly. Callum stood there, pale, his hands trembling. His eyes flicked to Adrian's cheek, where the cut had already begun to heal.
"I don't understand," Callum whispered. "You should have killed me. But you didn't."
Adrian placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Because we are not what you think. We are not your enemies. We are your companions."
Callum swallowed hard, his fear still present but softened by Adrian's calm. He nodded slowly, stepping out of the room.
The four sat together again, the tension lingering but eased. Callum's suspicion had not vanished, but Adrian's words had planted a seed of trust.
For now, the house in the fields remained intact — fragile, uneasy, but united.