It was a tempestuous night in Hollywood, the year 2005, amidst the tumultuous saga of the sarcophagus. And yet, despite the storm both literal and metaphorical, you found yourself drawn to a place most mortals shied away from when darkness fell. A place where all, sooner or later, found their eternal slumber. A cemetery.

The scent of the graveyard was a heady mix of damp earth, decaying flowers strewn over graves, and other typical cemetery odors that seldom evoked joy in the minds of the living. Yet, to you, it was just another facet of your unending existence.

Navigating through the mud and muck, you stumbled upon a small structure, the cemetery guard's lodge. A humble dwelling, it boasted only two rooms and a toilet. As you opened the door, your senses were assaulted by the distinct smell of masculine cologne, tobacco, and a hint of sweat.

Inside, a man sat engrossed in the flickering images of a television set, oblivious to your presence. A cheap cigarette hung loosely from his lips, the smoke curling up into the stale air. He was of middle age, not unattractive, and bore the weary countenance of one who had seen too much. This was Romero, the cemetery's caretaker, and it was him you had encountered on this storm-ridden, late night.