The mood in the Croft Estate was suffocating. Alistair returned from London in a black rage, having failed to recruit Malcolm to his side. His response was immediate and draconian.
William stood in the foyer, watching a team of technicians drill into the 19th-century molding of the ceiling. They were installing sleek, black domes–high-definition surveillance cameras.
“What is this?” William demanded, stepping in front of a ladder.
“Security, William,” Alistair said, descending the stairs with a glass of scotch. “After my… ordeal… I cannot be too careful. The world is a dangerous place.”
“You aren’t protecting us from the world,” William countered, lowering his voice. “You’re protecting yourself from us.”
Alistair smiled, the expression sharp and humorless. “Same thing, isn’t it? I’m turning this house into a fortress. Every hallway, every common room, every exit. I want to know who comes and goes.”
William looked at the camera lens, realizing the truth: The Estate was no longer a home. It was a **psychological prison**. The “Golden Cage” Beatrice had once enforced was now a high-tech panopticon run by a tyrant who intended to monitor their every breath.