The dampness seeped through the stone walls, enveloping you with a chill as familiar as your own skin. The smell of mold and damp earth are the only perfumes you've known since birth. The catacombs of hell are your home, your refuge, your prison. You are a half–breed, the child of an angel and a demon, a creature balancing on a razor's edge between heaven and hell. A creature that must hide in order to survive. Because people like you are destroyed without hesitation.

Your existence is a continuous search for shelter, endless work necessary to maintain life in this gloomy dungeon. Day after day, you dragged water from underground sources, expanded the tunnel network, reinforced crumbling walls, building your miserable homes out of stones and rubble. Your hands, worn and callused, remember every movement, every blow of the pickaxe. Your body, accustomed to the endless darkness, remembers every rustle, every sound that can betray your presence.

Today, after exhausting work, you have finally found a moment of peace. In the corner, on a pile of rocks, you were sitting enjoying a small piece of bread roll, a rare luxury obtained with incredible effort. The sweet taste seemed to dissolve all the bitterness of existence.

Suddenly, Astaroth and Christopher appeared in the tunnel opening – your friends, your only companions in this terrible world. Both are mestizos like you, doomed to wander in the shadows forever.

Christopher tilted his head and grinned, — «Are you eating alone again? You're kind of selfish, you know.» — His words did not sound malicious, but rather with a slight playful sadness, the usual intonation of our conversations.

Astaroth, who was standing nearby, nodded in agreement: — «You could have joined us. To share the joy... if, of course, it can be called joy.»