Stumble through life like a drunken man on his way home, with no purpose. Every step faltering with the risk of collapsing in the snow and dying gets higher and higher, like a machine work thoughtlessly and emotionlessly until the day you die. Live without purpose, where creed and cause are swallowed up by apathy and poverty. Where the young die for the old and the old to die from a common cold soon after. Where corruption is allowed because it's the lesser evil to anarchy, where the common people accept it as a daily occurrence with a sigh and say 'that's just how things are.'

A place where you don't just have to worry about the monsters inside a man's heart but you need to be weary of every dark corner and street. Where beasts come out to hunt in the night and where men come to prey in the light.

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Desmond Sixte is afraid, finding a dead body in New Industrial Isabella at winter isn't a strange occurrence. It's a lucky one if the body hasn't already been looted by other orphans. No the reason he is not just afraid but terrified, is the monster searching for him.

A werewolf.

When Desmond was walking back from working in the coal mines, he took the usual shortcuts going home. The frigid biting of the cold tormented his skin and the howling wind laughed at him, hurrying his steps to get home to his uncle and aunt. His mother passed away when he was much younger and he never knew his father, his uncle and aunt took him in but not out of benevolence and familial responsibility. No, they would sooner sell him on than keep him, however they care too much for their image and what their neighbours would think if they heard. So they sent him to the mines as soon as they could and they spend the money he earns as "rent". Desmond was glad they don't share the same surname, even being hit and his mother called a whore by her own sister was better than starving in the cold. After all it had now become a daily life for him.

And then Desmond saw them.

Snow stained red with blood, gore and a man wearing strips of cloth who appeared to be a cannibal. Desmond swore he could smell her blood, bones and bowels. However what the man smelled, was Desmond. Hands stained red with blood that went to its nose, it took a deep breath in through its nostrils and sneezed. Then looked at Desmond with its piercing black eyes.

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Desmond took a step back and tripped over his own feet. The man began changing, his arms grew longer, his nose elongated into a snout, black hair erupted all over his body. The remaining cloth that the man wore shredded as it gave way to lithe and powerful muscles. The monster released a growl that chilled Desmond's bones much more than the wind and snow. Desmond couldn't breath, the cold and dry winter air clogging his throat. He felt lightheaded with his vision already dimming because of fear. He couldn't stand, he couldn't even move. The Werewolf bared its fangs as a smile and slowly sauntered over Desmond already tasting the fresh kill in its mouth. It got so close that Desmond could smell it, its smell was akin wet dog and blood. It raised its clawed hand towards Desmond to crush his head swiftly, it was too hungry to play.

Desmond closed his eyes well before he seen the Werewolf reach for him, and behind his eyelids memories played out in his mind. His Aunt and Uncle, how he would never get the revenge he so desperately craved for. He promised himself one day he would kill them. He wanted them to feel fear for a change but instead he was going to die and be eaten by a monster.

Why is this happening to me? Why did my mother have to die? Why did my father leave? Why am I denied the Revenge I deserve?

These feeling building up began to boil into anger, fueled by rage he opened his eyes. He wanted to at least see his death coming to him. The Werewolf was barely paying attention to him now, already sure that Desmond was as good as dead, until...

A red mist poured out from his body, it's colour is darker than venous blood, heavier than air and almost seemed oppressive. The Werewolf felt a drastic change in temperature it's hand heating up and yelped. It's hand burned by the red air, as the snow around Desmond melted and soon the steam from the water evaporating began. The Werewolf growled, more confused than hurt. Desmond could see the monster debate with itself if killing him worth it.

The mist began spreading across the snowy floor, melting it and the Werewolf took a step back to avoid it. It made up its mind then and roared at Desmond then leapt onto the roofs, sending slate tiles clattering and falling into the snow below. Desmond continued lying there on his back for a few minutes longer and as he calmed himself the red mist gradually dissipated into the air. When it was all gone he stood up and cautiously made his way to the dead body.

The woman had her stomach split open and her ribcage snapped outwards, the werewolf had already eaten her heart, liver and other organs. Desmond felt bile rise up in the back of his throat, he tried to fight it but that bore no fruit. When he had gotten a grip over himself a second time he did the unsavory act of looting whatever isn't broken from her mangled corpse. Most of what she had was now useless to Desmonde, a revolver with a bent barrel. He couldn't even find the extra ammunition. But what he did find was a small vial of holy water used as a necklace, a telescopic spike made out of silver, a standard hunter's weapon for vampires and werewolves called a needle, the emblem for the Hunters Organisation, they were the ones who helped people place bounties on the monsters that had harmed them or their family.

And money, just what Desmond needed. She had a single pound, four pence and a shilling. This is the most money Desmond has ever held in his life, it would take another two years to earn a pound working in the mines. He clutched the money in his hand tightly, he couldn't tell if he should curse or thank God for this encounter.