1980 - St Mars Bay - City of ArchNorth 

In one of the old apartments on the outskirts of the cold town of ArchNorth, a thin, short-haired man sat in front of a desk full of various papers. 

The typewriter - Royal Fleetwood - in front of him no longer bore the sparkle of a new one, and accused clear signals of continuous use of many years. However, Jared Faram was paralyzed by a blank paper positioned in the center of the device. In the last eight years that he's been writing, he never had such a hard time to produce anything, he did not know where to start, but he understood exactly where this letter was going to end, he was determined.

The setting sun shone through the single window on the wall of his apartment, illuminating the small room that contained all that was left to him. In spite of the clear signs of the time that marked the paint of the wall and the wooden floor of the room, the place looked perfectly organized. Jared was concerned that, despite the decay of his life, at least the exterior would be flawless for the photo of the newspaper that would expose his body. 

Yes, Jared had finally decided to end his own life, immortalizing his career that was at its peak, keeping intact the one thing that still made him proud. He had fulfilled his dreams, became one of the most renowned novelists in the country, how everything went wrong so fast?

The year before, he lived in a beautiful house, his book stamped all the local and neighboring bookstores, and his pseudonym, J. Fleetwood, was one of the subjects most commented on in the cultural channels and meetings of the high society. Never really thought he would get rich, just wanted to pursue his passion, writing. 

But full of money and without really knowing where to spend it, it attracted the worst kind of people. False smiles and evil intentions surrounded his life, and before he could realize the trap, had found he had lost everything in an investment in a ghost bill. Worse than that, he had taken on debts with loan sharks, people who represented the most rotten of society.

He tried to squeeze himself into the small, comfy chair he had used for so long to weave his dreams, his body aching from the last beating he had suffered at the hands of Mr.Gaston henchman. Some of his precious fingers, who hit the keys of his beloved machine, were swollen and a little crooked.

The only person he still trusted was a fan, with whom he communicated through letters that grew increasingly scarce until one day she made a decision. 

Set to take his own life, a rope already tied in the wooden beam that connected one wall to another, and all he needed to do was to write his suicide note, climb one last time on his beloved padded chair, and ...

He decided to take another sip of cheap whiskey, and then began to write. Two hours passed and he finally finished his last work. The chill of the night and the maritime wind of the harbor passed through his half-open window, causing a sounding reaction that seemed more like an endless howl. He moved to the front of the window with the intention of closing it and end that cry when ...

"So you really ..." He heard a female voice from the back of his room.

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Frightened, he quickly turned toward the desk, and there was a person. A woman who appeared to be no more than 25 years old was staring at him with black, dark eyes that did not appear to have life, it would be light to say that she was pale, could see the light blue contours of her veins beneath her skin, she had dark hair, full and curly. He saw that she wore a coat over a dark dress that surely cost more than all that remained of his things.

"Who are you? The ... What do you want with me? "Jared Faram could not imagine this woman having any connection with Mr. Gaston, but he felt, deep down in his soul, that even 10 Gastons were no more dangerous than she.

"My name is Emily Orsh, we communicated by letters, Mr. J. Fleetwood," she said with a small bow as she introduced herself.

So he could finally find the last and only friend he had left. He felt his body relax and then sat on his bed, causing a small creak that stretched across the floor of the apartment. She approached him slowly, and then sat down beside him, but without causing any creaking. Emily's pale hand overlapped his bruised hand, it was cold, but her touch warmed the bottom of his lost, lonely heart.

"Mr. J, what happened to you? Why are you so hurt? You did not answer me anymore..."

Emily turned and looked at the rope hanging from the ceiling, and then looked at Jared again. For some reason he felt compelled to speak, and then began to tell her his story, wept and entrusted to her his feelings, his fan, Emily, his last friend. 

After two hours of talking, while she listened carefully to everything he said, she asked him.

"What can I do to help? Mr J ... no, Jared. I cannot let you die like that! "She held his hand tightly, which caused him more pain, Emily let go of Jared and apologized. 

"I already gave up, Emily. I'm sorry I cannot continue to write the romance you love so much. I'd rather die now than become a slave to Gaston "Jared said with determination in his eyes.

Then Emily made a decision. "Jared, look at me ..." she said.

Jared looked into her deep black eyes and felt himself drunk, in love, as if she had the secret, the cure for all his ills. They then kissed. He could not remember how long he saw the whole scene as if he were outside his own body, Emily's cold lips came down his neck, light hands of both of them removed the clothes while each piece of clothing removed from her revealed a soft and Icy pallor, while Jared felt her tongue wander around his naked body, placating the pains of his wounds, as if she were removing them.

She then mounted him on top, pulled his hair and kissed his mouth, and after some time Jared could no longer count, felt a kiss on his neck, and then, pain. The pain of knifes piercing his skin, pain and pleasure mingled with a euphoria of howls and groans, and then, nothing.

How much time has passed? How many days?

He could feel a familiar pain, yes, the pain of birth. But not from the feeling that comes from life that produces life, but from death.

"I ... I'm thirsty ..." Haunted and naked, Jared tried to get up from a huge bed, rich and with wood details, certainly he was not in his small apartment, more than that, he had no idea how much Time had passed. He felt his body asleep, but at the same time as if his senses were extremely sharp. 

In front of his bed, sitting in a single chair, was Emily, who was looking at him a little apprehensively. She then stood up and brought him a glass of something that reminded him of wine, but certainly with a familiar slimy texture. As if he could trust Emily with his life, Jared drank from the cup without hesitation, he could feel an inexplicable bond for her, as if he loved her.

Emily broke the silence.

"Jared, I did something horrible to you, I'm sorry ..." her calm, cold voice carried a bit of feeling in her words.

"What did you do to me?" 

"I cursed you, you are now a nightwalker, just like me."