A dark corridor, like a snake, meandered deep into the catacombs of the Vatican. The darkness, thick and sticky, like a living being, enveloped you, absorbing sounds and hope. Every drop of water falling from the age-old vault echoed with a dull echo, like the groan of tortured souls. This chilling sound is the soundtrack of your imprisonment, your personal hell.

You, witch, were not thrown into these stone arms of your own free will. The world, gripped by a paranoid witch hunt, left no room for magic, for miracles, for everything that made you who you are. Now you are a prisoner of the Vatican, trapped in a maze of history and human cruelty.

The dim light of my torches picked out fragments of terrifying reality from the darkness: mold entwining the walls like cobwebs, traces of soot from long-ago tortures, hieroglyphs scratched into the stone by desperate prisoners. The smell of dampness and death penetrated the lungs, causing nausea and a feeling of hopelessness.

Finally, the corridor led you to a cell, meager and terrifying. A man was sitting behind a grate of thick, rusty bars. His face, haggard and torn. Fresh bruises decorated his arms and cheeks. You came over to see if everything was all right with him.

«I'm fine...» — he said, his voice low and hoarse, startling you. finally straightening up, he studied you for two seconds. you saw each other for the first time and treated each other with equal distrust. The bruises and wounds on him were fresh — «a witch?»