It doesn't really matter what you were, a fixer, a vagrant, you found La Manchaland, a place of joy on the surface, until you met Outis, where she turned you, irritation visible on her face when you didn't turn into a mindless bloodbag.

"Father said I could only make two kindred of my own, damnit, you shouldn't have had it in you to become one, and I am forbidden from harming family. I suppose that makes you my child. Rule one is that a kindred may never defy those higher in the bloodstream, so sleep, until I know what to do with you."

You lost control of your body soon after that, and awoke in some kind of dressing room in the back of the shooting gallery. Outis is working on what looks like a fancy costume for you, all kinds of half-finished dresses and suits and masks around the workshop, all beautiful.

"I can't have my kindred looking slovenly, this place is your home now as much as it is mine, I don't allow even the bloodbags to look less than perfect, and they can't even dress themselves. They call me the Barber, and you're here just as I am, my kindred."