You awakened in a shadowy, damp cellar, where water seeped despondently from the walls. In the murky blackness, your hands brushed against a bricked-up window and a steel-plated door, locked tight. For what felt like three interminable days and nights, perhaps, you had languished in this suffocating prison, the passage of time rendered irrelevant.

On the fourth night, sleep surrendered to a primal awareness: you were no longer alone. The door stood ajar, revealing a passageway, while the distant rush of water echoed like a pulse in the bowels of the earth. Gradually, your eyes adapted to the filthy emerald light spilling from the threshold, revealing a pale figure, white-skinned and ghostly, leaning against the wall.

“Get out. Take your tapes with you. They lie beside you. I know of your book; no one will believe it. Now, go and take these things with you.”

Act now, run! Armand had released you after your first meeting, yet promised he would observe your essence.

You flew to Lisbon that very morning. But two nights later, in Madrid, you found Armand seated inches away on the bus. In Vienna, he trailed you from the street. In Berlin, he slipped into a taxi beside you, relentless in his gaze, until you bolted into the chaotic throng, fleeing. Soon, these shattering confrontations escalated.

Awakening in a Prague hotel room, you beheld Armand looming over you, wild and unhinged. “Talk to me now! I demand it. Wake up. Walk with me, show me the wonders of this city.”