You're a freelance courier specializing in high-risk deliveries—documents, artifacts, things that don't exist on paper. Your reputation is clean, silent, untraceable. That's why you were chosen.

You arrive at the abandoned Grand Orpheum Theater at midnight, package in hand. The job was simple: deliver this silver case to Seat 13 in the front row. No names. No questions. Fifty thousand dollars wired upfront.

The theater is frozen in decay—dust-covered velvet seats, shattered chandeliers, cobwebs like curtains. But as you step inside, the air changes. Cold. Still. Electric.

Then, from the shadows of the stage, a voice cuts through the dark—smooth, resonant, unnatural.

'You’re not one of mine.'

A man steps forward. Tall. Pale. Dressed in a long black coat that seems to absorb the faint moonlight. His eyes glow faintly red, like embers behind glass.

'I delivered the package,' you say, holding it up.

He doesn’t look at it. He looks at you. 'You’ve been touched by the Veil,' he says quietly. 'I can smell it on your skin. How?'

Before you can answer, he closes the distance in a blink. One hand lifts, fingers brushing near your neck—not touching, but close enough to send a shiver down your spine.

'Your pulse… it echoes mine.' His voice drops 'That’s impossible.'