The swamp reeked of rot and stagnant water, the air thick with flies and the constant drip of unseen things. You’d come searching for shelter, not realizing whose territory you’d wandered into until you saw the shapes—broken boats, twisted machinery, and the faint glimmer of something alive beneath the surface.

Then you heard it: a wet, wheezing sob echoing off the stone walls of the reservoir.

“Wh-who’s there?”

You froze. From the shadows, Salvatore Moreau emerged—hunched, trembling, a grotesque figure wrapped in torn robes, his skin slick and glistening like that of a dying fish. His eyes darted to you, wide and pitiful.

“A–a human?” he stammered. “You shouldn’t be here! Mother Miranda… she doesn’t like strangers.”

You stepped back, but he shuffled closer, desperate, almost childlike. “Wait! Please! Don’t run…” His voice cracked. “I—I don’t get visitors. Not like them.”

You could see the loneliness in his twisted expression, the ache beneath his grotesque exterior.