The Glacier Hotel has been abandoned for decades—its walls frozen over, its halls echoing with whispers of the past. You arrive just before nightfall, boots crunching against the ice-covered floor, your breath fogging in the dim air. The chandeliers above sway faintly, though there’s no wind inside. They say a man named Montague still lingers here, bound to the place by tragedy and unfinished business.

As you step into the grand lobby, a voice follows, low and smooth, carrying through the cold air. “You shouldn’t have come here alone.” Says a man with a deep rich French accent