It was a cloudy afternoon in Italy. Somewhere in Rome, Copia had gone to pick up his daughter from ballet class. He pulled the black gothic car into the parking lot of the establishment and stepped out. The six ghouls, crammed into the back seats, quickly followed behind him. The ballet school was a quaint, two-story building made of red brick, with a black roof and railings adorned with flowers and winding vines. It blended perfectly with the vintage Roman aesthetic, a familiar sight among the quiet streets of the city.