1919, East Egg, Long Island, New York
The late afternoon sun bathed the lush green fields of the Buchanan estate in a golden hue, casting elongated shadows across the pristine polo grounds. A gentle breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass, mingling with the distant salt of the Atlantic. The grandeur of East Egg was evident in every direction—lavish mansions lining the waterfront, each a monument to old wealth, tradition, and privilege.
Tom Buchanan, dressed in crisp polo attire—a fitted knitted T-shirt, well-pressed riding breeches, and polished leather boots—exuded effortless confidence as he led his wife, Daisy, toward the field. His dark hair was slicked back, every strand meticulously arranged, a testament to his vanity.
"Daisy, my dear," he announced grandly, squeezing her hand. "Today, I'll show you the true charm of polo. You'll fall in love with me all over again—trust me."
Daisy laughed, her voice like the chime of delicate crystal. "Tom, darling, don't I already love you?"
Her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, cascading over her shoulders in perfect waves. She stood beside a chestnut-colored horse, absently running her gloved fingers through its mane. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep brown of the animal made her look almost ethereal, as if she belonged in a dream rather than reality.
As Tom prepared to mount his horse, a long, sleek automobile rolled past the estate's hedgerows, its black finish gleaming like polished onyx. Unlike the common coupes or boxy town cars of the era, this vehicle bore an unusual design, its front end shaped in a way that resembled the letter "H."
Tom's eyes narrowed in curiosity. With a flick of his wrist, he gestured toward a nearby attendant, a young man dutifully holding a towel.
"Has anyone been to the Howlett mansion recently?" he asked, his voice laced with intrigue.
The attendant turned, following Tom's gaze toward the passing automobile before answering. "Yes, sir. A motorcade arrived two days ago, and yesterday, I saw quite a few servants and workers bustling around the estate. It seems someone important has moved in."
Tom straightened, an excited gleam flickering in his eyes. "So, Howlett's finally taken up residence." He muttered to himself before turning abruptly toward Daisy.
"Daisy! Change of plans. We're not playing polo today."
She blinked, surprised by his sudden shift in mood. "Oh? Then where are we going?"
"To pay a visit to the Howlett estate."
Daisy tilted her head. "Howlett? I've never heard of them."
Tom let out a short chuckle, a hint of smugness creeping into his tone. "Of course, you haven't. Only certain people know the name Howlett—those with real power." He handed his polo mallet to a nearby servant and adjusted the straps of his riding boots.
"But Tom," Daisy protested playfully, "you can't just drop by unannounced in riding boots and without a proper introduction. It's simply not decent."
Tom hesitated, glancing down at his attire as if seeing it for the first time. Then, with a decisive nod, he barked an order to his valet.
"Lawrence! Prepare a formal letter of introduction. Mention my father's name and request a visit for tomorrow."
---
The Howlett Estate
Inside the grand halls of the Howlett mansion, the butler, Casper, handed a sealed envelope to his employer. James Howlett—a man of quiet authority, his presence alone commanding respect—took the letter between his fingers and examined the embossed crest on the wax seal.
"Tom Buchanan? Son of the old Buchanan family?" he mused, raising a brow.
Casper, now well into his fifties, offered a knowing smile. Though his hair had grayed, his posture remained upright, his sharp mind unsoftened by age.
"Not the elder Buchanan you knew, sir. This is his grandson—the youngest heir of the Buchanan legacy."
James exhaled, setting the letter down with an air of mild amusement. He had moved to New York seeking a quieter existence, but clearly, East Egg's elite had other plans.
The Howlett name carried immense weight in industrial circles. With vast holdings in energy, steel, and manufacturing, their family was one of the most influential in the world. It was no surprise that his arrival had already stirred curiosity among the city's upper crust.
Meanwhile, at the Howlett Mechanical Pilot Factory in Brooklyn, an ambitious team of engineers worked tirelessly in secrecy, developing technologies far beyond their time—advancements that, for now, remained hidden from the public eye.
---
A Dark Alley in New York City
In a shadowed alleyway, the evening air was thick with the stench of whiskey and sweat. A group of burly men, reeking of alcohol and poor decisions, surrounded a lone figure. Their fists rained down in clumsy, rage-fueled swings, but the young man in their midst remained eerily unfazed.
He stood hunched slightly, taking the blows with unnerving ease. His only reaction was a smirk, his lips curling in a way that made his attackers angrier.
"That all you got?" he taunted, his voice laced with amusement.
The drunks cursed, swinging again, but their strength waned. After what felt like an eternity, they finally stumbled back, panting and defeated. Muttering a few half-hearted threats, they staggered away, leaving their target standing in the alley, entirely unscathed.
With a slow stretch, the young man straightened his brown jacket. For a brief moment, the air around him shimmered—a strange distortion of light that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He ran a hand through his jet-black hair, pushing the unruly strands into place. His face, despite the recent encounter, was unmarked, his eyes sharp and full of restless energy.
As if nothing had happened, he casually strolled out of the alley, crossing the street toward a modest hotel. Inside, he changed into a light gray double-breasted suit, adjusting the cuffs before picking up an envelope from the table.
The words embossed on the paper read: "Bedlam Psychiatric Hospital—Interview Invitation."
Today was an important day—the beginning of a carefully laid-out plan. He knew he was more than qualified for the position, but it wasn't just about getting the job.
It was about the bigger picture.
---
Bedlam Psychiatric Hospital
Seated across from him in the interview room was a thin, middle-aged woman with sharp features and a scrutinizing gaze. Ms. Farmer, the hospital's administrator, peered over his résumé with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Adjusting her precariously perched glasses, she studied him.
"Sebastian Xiao," she murmured. "You look much younger than the age listed on your résumé."
Xiao offered an easy smile, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. "A positive state of mind keeps a man young, don't you think, Ms. Farmer?"
Something about the way he smiled unsettled her, though she couldn't quite put her finger on why.
Glancing back at the paper, she raised a brow. "You originally studied engineering at Cambridge, then switched to psychology. Why the change?"
Xiao leaned back slightly, his voice taking on a thoughtful cadence. "My father always wanted me to pursue engineering, but my real passion was psychology. After graduation, I served as a technical officer in the war. You know how it was—every young man of the right age was enlisted."
He took a sip of tea, savoring the taste before continuing. "I saw too many broken souls on the battlefield. The trauma, the nightmares… they never truly left those men. That's why I chose this path—to help mend what war had shattered."
Ms. Farmer studied him for a long moment before finally nodding.
"Well, Mr. Xiao—Sebastian—welcome to Bedlam."
A slow, knowing smile spread across Xiao's face. Everything was falling into place.
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