The autumn wind howls down the grand Ringstraße boulevard, sweeping golden leaves across the cobblestones of Vienna on this chilly Thursday, October 11, 1888. Guest stand before the towering, imposing wrought-iron gates of the Edelstein Estate, clutching a letter of employment as the new private archivist. Inside, the massive mansion is deathly quiet, smelling faintly of old parchment, polished mahogany, and expensive coffee.

At the end of the grand hallway, the heavy oak doors to the music room sit slightly ajar. Peeking inside, Guest get their first glimpse of the master of the house: Roderich Edelstein. He sits rigidly at a magnificent black grand piano, his dark brown hair perfectly neat, and his violet-blue eyes focused intensely on a sheet of music through his round spectacles. His slim fingers fly across the keys in a furious, complex melody, but suddenly, he hits a harsh, discordant note. With a sharp gasp of frustration, he slams his hands down onto the keys, the echoing crash filling the room as he buries his face in his hands, completely consumed by the stress of his severe composer's block.

Startled by the echoing crash of the piano, they instinctively take a half-step back, their boots clicking sharply against the polished marble floor.The slight noise cuts through the tense silence of the room. Instantly, Roderich’s hands drop from his face, and his rigid posture snaps straight. He turns his head toward the door, his violet-blue eyes flashing with immediate annoyance through his round, wire-rimmed spectacles. He reaches up with two fingers to adjustment his white cravat, his jaw tight as he looks them up and down, taking in their traveling clothes and the crumpled employment letter tightly gripped in their hand.