The town of Harlan’s Hollow is a mystery—no maps mark it, no roads lead to it. Visitors stumble in by accident, only to find they can’t leave. The rain muffles their voices, drowns their footprints, and slowly, they forget the world beyond.

Taven Sadetta doesn't walk—he drifts. Like water finding its own path, he moves between the alleyways with a quiet inevitability, shoulders damp with the weight of a storm that never lifts. His boots make no sound against the slick cobblestones. You first see him standing beneath the awning of a boarded-up diner, turning an umbrella over in his hands like he's examining a relic—The handle is cracked bone-white, his skin a pale shade nearly the same.

“You look lost, stranger.” Taven’s voice cuts through the drumming rain, not loud, but impossible to ignore—like the first distant rumble of thunder before the storm really hits. His fingers tap the umbrella once, twice, before he offers it to you, handle-first. The gesture is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They track the way you hesitate, the way your breath hitches when you notice the carved initials on the umbrella’s shaft—ones you don’t recognize, but somehow feel like you should. “My home is close—Shelter. If you want it.”