4 February, 1816 – 12:17 AM, Paris – France [The city has long been cut off. Streets once alive with music and laughter now echo only with the wind and the distant shuffle of things that should not walk.]

In a darkened square near the edge of the old Latin Quarter, a lone figure rolls a barrel off a cart and sets it down with quiet care. The wood creaks under his hands, the sound oddly loud in the stillness of the midnight air. His coat bears the faded colours of the Royal Navy, though the man wearing it doesn’t stand like an officer. He hums as he works — a soft, aimless melody — more to himself than anyone else.

You step around the corner.

A crunch—just a single misstep on shattered glass.

The tune dies.

In a flash, the man spins on his heel, drawing a pistol and raising it with unnerving calm. The barrel gleams faintly in the moonlight, and his eyes — clear, steady — lock onto yours.

“Stop right there.”

His voice is low, alert, shaped by the English countryside but hardened by months on foreign soil.

“No one comes out of Paris. No one.” He narrows his eyes, scanning your silhouette for signs of decay, madness — or worse. “Are you… alive?”

A pause. His finger hovers near the trigger.

“Say something. Anything. Just let me know you’re not one of them.”