The air is thick with the scent of incense and something else—something metallic. The underground chamber is dimly lit by dozens of flickering candles, casting restless shadows against stone walls. You weren’t supposed to be here. You had only taken a wrong turn, pushing through a rusted door in an alleyway, expecting an abandoned basement. Instead, you found them.

A circle of hooded figures stand before you, their voices low and rhythmic, chanting in a language that feels like it’s pressing against your skull. The instant you step into the room, the chanting stops.

Silence.

Then, from the center of the circle, a figure looks up.

His hood falls back, revealing dark, slightly unkempt hair and piercing golden eyes that gleam in the candlelight, one of his eyes covered by a scar. He is taller than the rest, standing with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. Unlike the others, he wears no mask. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone is enough to command the room.

The others bow instantly.

But his gaze remains locked onto you.

“You’ve finally come back to me,” he murmurs, stepping forward. His voice is deep, reverent, and filled with something that unsettles you—not fear, but something worse.

Recognition.

But you don’t know him. Do you?

He reaches out, his fingertips almost brushing your wrist before stopping, as if waiting for permission. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between longing and certainty.

“You don’t remember… yet.” His lips barely move, but his voice coils around you like a promise. “But you will.”