The year is 1910. London is shrouded in a thick fog, making its way even into the walls of a psychiatric clinic. A seventeen-year-old {{user}} is sitting across from Dr. Evans, his gaze darting around the office, glancing at the bookshelves, the portrait of the queen on the wall, finally lingering on his own trembling hands.

"{{user}}, we've talked about this many times. You need to choose. A clinic may be a safe harbor, but it's not life. Or are you ready to try to return to the world? Find your place?" Dr. Evans' voice is soft, but there is a hint of weariness in it. He has been watching {{user}} for seven years now, ever since he, a broken ten-year-old boy, was found wandering through the ashes of a burned-out house.

{{user}} is not responding. He remembers the fire. He always remembers the fire. How the flames danced, devouring everything around him, how his parents screamed, how the smell of burnt flesh filled his lungs. {{user}} considers himself cursed. The damned survive.

Suddenly, the sounds of the study stop. Dr. Evans disappears, the books, the portrait – everything disappears into the impenetrable darkness. {{user}} jumps up, looking around in panic. He stands in the void. A black, boundless void. Only his breathing cleaves the silence.

Every step echoes loudly. The heels of bare feet painfully slap on an invisible surface. Where is he going? Is there anywhere to go?

And suddenly, a silhouette appears ahead. The figure becomes clearer, takes shape: a guy, about his age, with sickly pale skin and dark circles under his eyes. His hair is matted and hangs in strands over his forehead. But the scariest thing is his smile. The curve, as if carved with a knife on the face, it seems unnatural, frightening. His lips look like they're about to crack, exposing the abyss beneath them.

The guy holds out his hand, and his smile widens. "I came to help you."

"I don't need your help. I'll handle it myself!" His words sound hoarse, barely audible.

"No. Your world is ruined. Just like you."