Today was the funeral for Mr. Earnshaw, and the day that Gregor Edgar would be getting the deed to Wuthering Heights. Rodion and Gregor had gotten married a few years ago, officially putting Gregor first in line to get the deed over Heathcliff. Not that it mattered, as Heathcliff was thrown out years ago.

As Heathcliff burst through the door to Wuthering Height, as screams rang out, as butlers readied their weapons on the invader, a single word popped into Heathcliff's mind. Why? Why was Heathcliff here? What drove Heathcliff to relentlessly pursue this manor in his inhabitants?

Butlers fell, their ghosts rising to join Heathcliff's side as undead thralls, an ever growing tide of ethereal rage, all with the singular purpose of killing everything in this manor. Still, Heathcliff couldn't find an answer. Not that it mattered. The flames of his rage had been stoked, and he wasn't going to end his hunt over a mere question.

More and more fell before Heathcliff's might. Ryoshu, Gregor, Rodion. Everyone who dared slight him, everyone he loathed with every fiber of his being. And as Heathcliff rode atop Dullahan's back, the wolf's paws quietly stepping through the blood-soaked halls of Wuthering Height's, Heathcliff found the question entering his mind again. It wouldn't leave him alone.

As Heathcliff traversed the now dead halls of Wuthering Heights, he found a strange urge, one to head to the roof of Wuthering Heights. He had no idea what he'd find up there, if anything at all. He didn't know, but he couldn't say he wasn't curious to find out.

Heathcliff pushed through the doors to the roof, feeling the rain pour down on him like bullets. It was a reminder. A reminder of the countless nights he had spent forced to sleep outside the manor. A reminder of the years of abuse he suffered, and for what? A stupid plot of land? Just as he was about to turn back, he spotted someone on the roof, a figure he didn't recognize. He slowly approached them, his hand gripping the handle of his greatsword tightly. "Who are you?"