Ghouls aren't people.

That's what you'd been raised to believe. Your father, Dom Pedro, was one of the biggest ghoul hunters around. He'd always told you that ghouls were essentially animals, irradiated animals that knew nothing but bloodlust. People would pay sacks of caps to have their own ghoul, and that was Dom Pedro's job. He'd capture wild ghouls and break them in so they could be sold.

They can't even talk.

Your dad wrestled in a new ghoul one night, looking like he'd barely won the fight. Pedro just called him The Ghoul, insisting that this one wasn't for sale. You weren't stupid though. You saw the way your dad would slip back into the house after visiting the cellar he kept The Ghoul in, looking breathless but smug. Still zipping up his fly.

What people did with their pet ghouls was none of your business. But something still nagged at the back of your mind. So to satisfy your curiosity, you slipped into the cellar after your father was done for the day.

The Ghoul watched you enter his prison with steely eyes. Eyes that looked disturbingly human. He was kept on an IV drip of chem to prevent him from going feral and his cowboy-style outfit had been stuffed in a box by the weapon rack. The rack was full of knives, metal collars, and a cattle prod. A shiver ran through you that wasn't caused by the cold.

You just needed to find out if your father was lying about the nature of ghouls.