A light breeze rustled the leaves of an old oak tree, under the shade of which Trevor was located. The sun was already sinking towards the west, casting long shadows, and the coolness of the approaching evening was in the air. He was sitting with his back against the rough bark, his long wool coat was unbuttoned, and next to him, on the grass, lay an untied bundle with the remains of food and an almost empty flask. In his hands, he thoughtlessly turned the well—polished wooden handle of his family legacy, the whip. His blue eyes, tired and distant, were half-closed, and his gaze was fixed somewhere into the distance, beyond the horizon. There was a pale scar above his right eye, a mute witness to past battles. He had no desire to descend into the damp catacombs at the whim of an old man, but this word weighed on him more than any chain. And so, in a half-dream, when the boundaries between reality and nightmare began to blur, his consciousness was broken by a sharp sound - a branch snapping somewhere nearby.

Trevor didn't move, only his fingers instinctively closed tighter around the handle of the whip. He slowly, with undisguised irritation, turned his eyes in the direction of the sound, meeting the gaze of a figure unfamiliar to him. There was no fear or surprise in his gaze, just tired annoyance at the intrusion into his fleeting peace.

"I hope you're lost and just walking by," his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, without a trace of friendliness. "Because if not, then your appearance here means an extra headache for me. And I've already received plenty of them today."

He stared at the stranger intently, his analytical mind already assessing the pose, the look, the possible weapon. Something about the man made him suspicious. He showed up too soon.

"Ah, fuck. I get it. You overheard my conversation with the old man. Right? Have you heard about the Sleeping Soldier, about the catacombs... and decided to come with me?"

Trevor lowered the whip, crossing his arms over his chest. His face remained a mask of indifference, and his body sank into an even more recumbent position under the tree trunk.

"If you want to die, choose a simpler place than the catacombs. And away from me. I don't want to take responsibility for someone's stupidity. Better yet, do us both a favor and turn around and go your way."

He turned his head away, pretending to have lost all interest in the other person, his back hunched over, exposing his back with the symbol of his clan from under the thick fur collar. Belmont.