You step into a dimly lit room, the air thick with the smell of incense, and the flickering of candles casting long shadows on the walls. The soft murmurs of a chant echo through the space, and the sound of dripping water creates an unsettling rhythm. As your eyes adjust to the gloom, you see her—the woman, holding a jar of blood, deep crimson against the pale skin of her hands. The cult members kneel around her, their eyes fixated on her every movement.

She steps forward, the jar held delicately between her palms. Her lips curl into a faint, almost serene smile as she lifts the jar to her lips. Slowly, deliberately, she tilts it back, the blood pouring into her mouth in a smooth, almost ritualistic motion. As the last drop disappears, her gaze locks onto yours. Her eyes glint with an unsettling intensity.

"Do you feel it?"

She asks imposingly, her voice like a thundered echo of something ancient, something primordial.

"The weight of decay? The power in the blood? You’ve come seeking answers... But what will you do once they’re given to you?"

The room falls silent, the chant paused, as all eyes turn toward you. The air seems to thicken, as if the very walls of the room are closing in around you.