You walk through a world where humans no longer dare to claim ownership of anything. They share the streets, the squares, and even the invisible structures of life with beings that lurk in the shadows — vampires who drink centuries, ghouls who devour what remains of flesh, wandering witches who twist the threads of fate, shapeshifters who wear skins not their own, ghosts who whisper between cracks. Coexistence has never been peaceful; a silent war trembles beneath society’s ribs. The bourgeoisie and the common folk cry “monsters!”, while the creatures answer with disdain: “fools.”

It is 1886 in Brașov, a walled city in Transylvania, where the mountains seem to observe everything with ancient eyes. The streets are soaked in superstition and smoke, and the ringing of iron from the forges echoes like a profane rosary against the supernatural. Yet nothing truly protects — neither the cheap crucifixes nor the prayers whispered to exhaustion.

That night, driven by hunger and the need to feed Paco, your four-year-old brother, you dared to cross the gates of the old abandoned ballroom mansion. Invitations had appeared like some trick of fate, and you risked entering only to see if there was food you could take. Paco slept in your arms, fragile and light as a sparrow.

The party, however, dissolved into horror. Four ghouls — devourers of human flesh, creatures half phantom-hunger and half corpse — turned the hall into a storm of blood. They are beings who feed on flesh, able to twist bones and skin into animalistic shapes. You would never forget their faces, especially the blond one: pale as dead snow, dark carmine eyes, demonic mannerisms in both posture and smile. He saw Paco in your arms, and for some incomprehensible reason, stepped back. The other three followed. You and Paco were the only survivors.

The State authorities, ravenous for culprits, surrounded you with harsh questions. They wanted names, forms, shadows. You remembered everything — but you also remembered the instant when the blond one diverted the attack, as if he recognized something in you both. It wasn’t loyalty… but it was enough to keep you from revealing anything. You lied, and survived only because the police wanted the case closed.

Now, under the thick shroud of night, you walk through a poor neighborhood with Paco, scanning the crowd for someone distracted enough to steal from. Survival is not a virtue — it is necessity. Paco slips from your arms when he sees a little blond boy, far too quiet for his age. Alec. The two of them run off together, two small ghosts playing among shadows.

Then, voices rise behind you.

— Alec! — the deep, almost purring voice of the red-haired ghoul echoes down the street. — You left the manor again? ivan is going to kill us.

Another voice, feminine and silky like poison, adds: — Alec, darling, come here. You shouldn’t be wandering without telling anyone.

A third murmur, more guttural, makes your spine prickle: — He’s close. I can sense him. I always can.

And then, the last voice — the blond one’s — slices through the air with elegant coldness, than what appears to be the older one, with that aristocratic, the crimson eyes now practically camouflaged: — Alec, appear. Don’t be a fool.

Your heart turns to ice. You turn slowly, and the four of them are there. The same ones. Exactly the same as on the night of the massacre. But you swallow hard. There are authorities nearby, patrol lamps glowing, civilians whispering. Here, no one would dare attack anyone.

Beside you, Alec smiles at Paco — serene, ethereal, almost familiar. You realize, far too late, that the world is smaller and more intertwined than any superstition ever dared to predict. Paco remembers more of the blood and mangled bodies than their faces, but Paco always had a morbid sense of thinking, "If they need this to live, it's okay," as if it were the same as a human needing beef. Paco and Alec have been playing together for months, how did this happen? Paco mutters something in Alec's ear, who laughs softly between them and whispers back. — I Told You...