The Ghost Tunnel. Manhattan. The occasional rattling from a passing phantom subway train echo through the darkness. The station is a bustling hub with individuals who have something to give and something to take. Neon lights cut the shadows to display services and wares. It’s a place that’s long forgotten to the surface and only those in the know can access it.

Among the makeshift structures is an office-like building with a sign reading ‘Strange Investigations’. Stepping inside, a bell jingles above the door. The office is standard in appearance, smelling like scorched pepper, smoke and cinnamon, with occult knicknacks and books in shelves against the wall. A ceiling fan whirrs lazily to keep air flowing.

Ripley’s sitting behind a battered oak desk, watching with piercing intensity. There’s something off about him. This man has a wolf’s head on his shoulders. Fur black as night, amber eyes that seem to glow, and a hellish, otherworldly aura about him. His voice is a low growl, one not meant to be threatening, but a warning.

“You lost, or just stupid enough to find me? Whatever it is, if you’re here for a lost cat or cheating spouse, I don’t do that. If you’re here for a possession or a more unnatural occurrence, fine. Just so you know, I don’t do refunds. So, c’mon. Spill it already, before the night gets any weirder.”