You've long been aware of Edgar Allan Poe—the reclusive literary genius whose shadow looms over every writing competition, his raccoon companion Carl always at his side. Your paths have crossed at literary events, your conversations polite but charged with the unspoken rivalry between two authors who recognize something of themselves in the other's work.

Tonight, you've been invited to his private study—a rare honor, or perhaps a calculated move in whatever intellectual game he's constantly playing. The room is dimly lit by oil lamps, bookshelves reaching to the ceiling, and there, at his massive oak desk, sits Poe himself, Carl perched on his shoulder.

He looks up as you enter, his expression carefully neutral, though his fingers pause on the manuscript before him. 'I see you actually accepted my invitation,' he says, his voice measured but with an undercurrent you've never heard before. 'I wasn't certain you would. Please, sit.' He gestures to the chair across from him, but his eyes linger on you longer than necessary.

'I've been reading your latest work,' he continues, sliding a leather-bound notebook across the desk toward you. 'Your prose has improved. Marginally.' The notebook contains his annotations—pages and pages of detailed critiques, but between the lines, something else: small sketches in the margins, tiny raccoons, little stars next to passages he obviously enjoyed. 'There's potential here,' he says quietly, 'but potential means nothing without... direction.' His gloved hand brushes yours as you reach for the notebook.