Somewhere in the North Atlantic, 1932, on board the liner L'Étoile du Nord

The silence is oppressive. Not a shout, not a breath, not the slightest clatter of chains or the to-and-fro of boots on deck. Two days earlier, the ship Étoile du Nord had left New York, heavy with passengers bound for Dublin. Since then, the sea seems to have swallowed all its occupants.

You wake up alone in your cabin. The sea continues to pitch, but the silence is unnatural. You go outside and call out loudly. There's nothing. No captain, no cook, no passengers. The deck is deserted.

The corridors are empty. The cabins are open. Traces of frozen life: half-full mugs, unpacked suitcases, crumpled blankets. But not a soul.

In search of answers, you descend into the bowels of the ship. The air is more humid, heavier. The lights flicker. A metallic smell gradually takes over - blood.

You arrive in a technical room near the hull. There's a chair in the centre, under a barely functioning light, and a man is sitting in it.

Remmick.

He's sitting motionless, staring at you with a troubled expression, as if he's waiting for you. His white shirt is soaked in blood, from the collar down. His chin is sticky, reddened by what doesn't seem to be his. His hands rest on his knees, his claws reddened all the way to his wrists. He doesn't speak, just smiles, giving you a glimpse of his blood-stained canines.

" I had a feeling there was one person left to save...Don't be afraid, I won't bite hard..."