Rose Island. Part 1.

May 13, 2257

Arnold Voss gritted his teeth as the chopper rose into the sky, clutching the harness the crew had shown him. He was on his way to meet his mentor, Professor Isaac Isley, on an island off Madagascar. There, he would also encounter the Shangle family—patrons of a strange expedition to study ecosystems that had begun appearing across the globe.
The roar of the helicopter swallowed every thought. Each lurch sent Arnold’s stomach tumbling. He pressed his headset. “Excuse me… are these things always so loud and shaky?”

A click, then the pilot’s voice: “Yes, Mr. Voss. Perfectly normal. You’re safe. Forty-five minutes and we’ll be there. Try to relax.”
Arnold sighed, hugging his bag to his chest. Under his breath he whispered his mantra: Fear is only temporary. God’s love is eternal. He repeated it until the coastline appeared in the distance.

“Ten minutes out,” the pilot said.

Arnold leaned back, exhaling. “Thank the Lord.”
The pilot chuckled. “Yes, sir. Welcome to Lindine Manor.”
The island glistened below, waters turquoise, its forests capped with an eerie blanket of snow. “Look to your left, Mr. Voss,” the pilot said.
Arnold’s eyes widened. On 1,900 acres stood Lindine Manor, founded in the 1700s by Lindie Shangle. A red-brick fortress crowned with four watchtowers loomed like a relic from another age.

“My God,” Arnold whispered. “Who would’ve thought a treasure like this hid in the middle of the ocean?”

“Wait until your feet are on the ground,” the pilot snickered.
The chopper settled onto the rooftop helipad. Arnold spotted Professor Isley waiting, flanked by three men. One tall and broad in a fur coat. One crouched, lighting a cigarette. One stiff, proper, hands in his pockets. Snow swirled, obscuring their faces.

Arnold rushed forward, embracing his mentor. The tallest man pointed at him. “Isaac, your friend looks ready to barf.” The three men laughed.
Isley glared, then took Arnold’s bag. “Pay them no mind. Wealth can erase manners.” He gestured. “Come. Meet the Shangle brothers.”

The brothers led them down a long corridor. Arnold leaned toward Isaac. “Might I learn their names before the week begins?”
The tallest stopped, his fur coat draped like a pelt of some fallen beast. His eyes bored into Arnold’s.
Then he grinned, slapping Arnold’s shoulder. “I’m Grisham Shangle. This is Chadwick. And Drac.”
Chadwick, the smoker, sauntered forward, exhaled smoke into Arnold’s face, and kept walking. Arnold coughed.
“Chadwick!” Isaac snapped.

Chadwick shrugged. “Must we always be polite to guests who vanish after a week?”
Arnold lowered his gaze.
A hand settled warmly on his shoulder. Drac smiled. “Forgive him. Times have been hard. If you need anything, ask me—or our butler, Jona.”
Arnold straightened. “Thank you. I hope this week proves worthwhile for us all.”
Chadwick blew a smoke ring. “Oh, it will, Mr. Voss.”

A tap on his shoulder made Arnold spin. A butler in a crisp uniform stood before him.
“Good morning, Master Voss. I am Jona, your butler for the week. Should you need anything, I am never far.”
Arnold clutched his chest. “Do you always sneak up on guests? I’ll need eyes in the back of my head.”
Jona smiled faintly. “Only when needed, sir.”

“Jona!” Grisham boomed. “What’s for breakfast?”
With a flick, Jona draped a towel over his wrist. “Fruits and breads to begin. Eggs benedict and potato scramble for the main.”
Drac brightened. “My favorite.”

Arnold’s gaze caught a painting: a man on camelback, pistol at his hip. “Jona, who is this?”
The butler bowed. “A much younger version of myself, sir.”
Arnold blinked between man and portrait. “I don’t see it.”

A lighter flicked. Chadwick leaned back. “That’s our grandfather.”
Arnold inclined his head. “He must have lived an extraordinary life. My condolences.”
Servants entered, carrying trays.

The meal ended with Grisham slapping his belly. “Jona, splendid. What’s for dessert?”
“Blueberry cheesecake,” Jona replied. “I was told it is Master Voss’s favorite.”
Arnold’s eyes lit. “Yes—it was, back in the States.”

“How long were you there?” Drac asked.

“Three years, studying.” Arnold replied.

“And where are you from originally?” Drac continued.

“Sierra Leone.” Arnold takes another sip of wine.

“So you’re here for the bird Grisham caught?” Drac pressed.
Arnold nodded. “Yes. Grisham, Isaac said you captured it?”
Grisham leaned forward. “A horned bird. If it had struck me, I’d be dead. Never seen the like.”
Arnold reached for his bag—gone. “A horn? What shape? What color? Is it nearby? Can we—”

Jona reentered, carrying small plates. “Blueberry cheesecake for all.”
He placed one before Arnold: a perfect circle glazed in blue, crowned with five immaculate berries.
Arnold stared. Jona bowed. “Enjoy.”
Arnold raised his fork, took a bite—then froze. His arm went numb. The fork clattered to porcelain as his body collapsed into the cake.

Grisham roared with laughter. “That’s right—dig in!”

Drac leaned forward. “Jona, he’s out.”

Chadwick exhaled smoke, lips curling. “And so it begins.”

Hours later:

Arnold blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The first thing he noticed was the damp, moldy smell. The second was the cold bite of cuffs on his wrists. He tugged instinctively, and the chair beneath him tilted with each struggle. A bitter taste filled his mouth—cloth gagged across his tongue. His muffled cries echoed into silence.
With one desperate lunge, the chair tipped backward. Arnold’s skull struck the floor with a sharp crack.

A pair of boots appeared in his vision. Spurs glinted on the heels. Arnold looked up at a ghastly face as the man struck a match, lit his pipe, and inhaled deeply. He let the smoke roll from his lips for seven long seconds before flicking the match to the floor.

Without a word, he hauled Arnold upright and set him back in place. A second match hissed, this time catching the wick of an oil lamp. A dim glow pushed the shadows back just enough for Arnold to see the table before him.
The stranger leaned close, knife drawn. “Shh,” he murmured. The blade sliced the gag loose.
Arnold gasped for air, then froze, every muscle rigid.

“No need to be afraid… yet,” the man said, voice low and eerie.
Keys jingled. The cuffs fell from Arnold’s wrists.
“The feet stay bound,” the man added, spurs jingling as he circled the table.

The sound made Arnold’s skin crawl. He straightened his back, forcing composure. From the darkness came the scrape of something heavy dragged across the floor. The man emerged carrying a chair, placed it opposite Arnold, and sat down.
From his holsters, he drew two revolvers and laid them on the table—barrels aimed squarely at Arnold.

One gleamed in solid gold, the other in silver.
“This is Daisy,” he said, tapping the gold pistol. “And this is Rosa.” His eyes never left Arnold’s as he settled into the chair and reclaimed his pipe.
Arnold lifted his chin, meeting the man’s gaze.

The stranger removed his hat and set it aside. Smoke curled between them.
Arnold swallowed hard. “What do you want?”
The man leaned back, boots kicking up on the table. “Arnold, is it?”
Arnold nodded.

“Let’s see… nineteen, Sierra Leone. Ph.D. from Yale at fourteen. Fluent in four languages. Plays with physics when you’re bored, staring out the window, angry the world isn’t moving fast enough for your mind. That Arnold Voss?”
Arnold locked eyes with him, unflinching.
The man smirked. “Ah, fire in the boy.” He leaned forward.
Arnold mirrored him, voice slow and sharp. “What. Do. You. Want.”

The man’s hand slid toward Rosa.
Arnold lunged, grabbing Daisy. Both guns came up. Two barrels stared each other down across the table.
“What now, Arnold?” the man asked with a grin.
Arnold squeezed the trigger.

Click. Empty.

The man’s expression flickered with surprise, then broke into a smile. “For once, Isaac picked well.”

Arnold pulled again. Click. Again. Click. Nothing.

The stranger plucked Daisy from his hand, holstering both weapons.
“Do you even know where you are?” he asked.
Arnold shook his head. “What’s happening?”

The man puffed his pipe, smoke coiling in the stale air.
“You want the easy truth,” he said, “or the hard reality?”
Arnold didn’t flinch. “Reality.”

The stranger chuckled low, leaning back into the glow of the lamp. “Good.” He took a long drag, exhaled a curtain of smoke, and let the silence stretch until Arnold’s heart beat louder than the spurs.
“Then for now…” his voice dropped, steady as steel, “address me as”—he tapped ash onto the table, eyes never leaving Arnold’s—“Mr. Newport.”

The name hung in the smoke like an omen.