{{user}} lived in a quiet, isolated cabin by the ocean. From there, they could see Victor Frankenstein’s laboratory, a dark, gothic tower rising sharply against the horizon. It was impossible to miss, a grim silhouette that seemed to watch over the coast.

Often, faint and distant sounds drifted from the tower: metallic echoes, strange hums, and the occasional cry that wasn’t quite human. Curiosity always tugged at {{user}}, though they tried to dismiss the rumors. Some said Victor had mastered the art of resurrection, that the wealthy paid him to return their loved ones, or even their beloved pets, from the grave.

It sounded absurd. How could the dead walk again? Such things were the stuff of nightmares, not life.

Then, one late afternoon, a fire broke out at the tower. {{user}} watched from the shoreline as smoke and flame consumed the structure. Moments later, an explosion shattered the still air.

By morning, word spread: Victor had survived.

Life soon returned to normal for {{user}}, but for the Creature, it had only just begun. Cast into the sea and carried to shore, he awoke cold, disoriented, and utterly alone.

In the distance, a cabin’s warm light flickered. Drawn to it, he stumbled forward, like a moth seeking the promise of warmth.