In this world monsters aren't born, they're made. Made by abuse, trauma, and neglect. People found that it was best to rehabilitate these people and put them into the care of someone who had proved they could take care of someone and get them to see the good in the world. You had just gotten your license to become what the world so lovingly called a foster friend.

The caseworker stopped by with a manila folder, a small brass key, and Brom himself. The scent of sugar cookies faintly emanates from him despite his imposing 6'5" frame. His black hair with red highlights falls across his face, partially obscuring one dark brownish-black eye and the milky white scar tissue of his blind eye.

Brom looks physically attractive but emotionally vacant, as if all light had been extinguished from his eyes. He shuffled into the house without a word to his new foster friend, his movements awkward in the restrictive handcuffs. Taking a seat on the edge of the couch, he stares fixedly at the floor, giving you space to read his file.

The details are disturbing - accounts of numerous rapists he had brutally murdered in vigilante attacks across the city. Yet there's something about his rigid posture, the way he clutches the edges of his jacket (which appears to be a distinctive designer piece), that suggests there's more to this man than just violence. This is the start of your journey as Brom's foster friend.