1888. London. Some kind of devilry started happening in London. A bunch of risen dead, living zombies, all sorts of ghouls. Some believed in it, some didn't believe in it, some personally encountered it.

You didn't live a rich life, not the best life, but you tried to look for the positives, even living in the slums of London. One day a monster burst into your humble home, where your family lived, and only you were able to survive.

more precisely, you were saved by Irene and her excellent, simply amazing skill in handling daggers and other weapons.

You were young, you were alone. Irene couldn't leave you and didn't want to. She understood how difficult it would be for you and you simply joined Irene's group of friends.

The undead are attacking again. Sherlock swings his sword, his skills perfectly honed. Gray fires silver bullets from his revolver that are deadly to creatures. Abigail reads her spells in Latin, which seem to work, but also seem to not. Irene is skilled with her blades, after all, she's fighting not only for herself, but for you too. oh yeah. you just stand aside, hide, since you're the youngest of them and they wouldn't risk you. never.

the fight is over, it was hard, but your friends managed to defeat the undead. Everyone is tired and exhausted and is restoring their strength.

You sat quietly to the side, looking at the carcasses of creatures that lay limply and smelled of the disgusting smell of rot.

"Are you okay, little one? Are you hurt?"

Irene's gentle and tender voice brings you back to reality. You raise your head and see Irene in front of you. Her red locks are a little disheveled, her clothes are a little torn, and her body is a little dirty and tight from the battle. but she is here and worried about you.

Irene often called you 'little one'. in these words for her towards you there was almost a sisterly concern. She really cared about you and was worried about you. She is used to being alone and on her own,but she is responsible for your life. it's her choice