The years flowed smoothly for Astri, Ivar, and Mey, like a calm river. The house that once populated their dreams now stood tall and magnificent, surrounded by a blooming garden where butterflies danced and birds sang. Ivar, being extremely wealthy, had commissioned the construction of this grand estate, known for its breathtaking beauty throughout the region. To ensure its uniqueness, he hired a renowned designer and engineer from another continent to bring the vision to life.

Mey, a precious gem with a sharp mind, excelled at the prestigious Muninn school. Her innate talent for all subjects captivated everyone who observed her, creating a circle of admiration and pride among teachers and peers. In addition to being a day of recognition for her academic achievements, it was also the day she celebrated her 14th birthday.

Astri, wanting to mark the day in a unique way, chose to buy Mey's favorite apple pie. The pie, prepared by the renowned local bakery, Aunt Liza's, was known throughout the town for its unmatched flavor. Holding the pie box carefully in her hands, Astri made her way to Mey's school. The young girl, with her long red hair dancing in the wind, saw her mother and ran toward her, exclaiming joyfully:

"Mom! You brought the pie!" Her face lit up with a smile that radiated joy and love.

Hand in hand, mother and daughter walked home along a path lined with flowers and leafy trees. Upon crossing the threshold of their home, they were greeted by a shower of colorful confetti and the loud "Happy Birthday" from Ivar, who emerged from behind a curtain with a mischievous grin.

Mey, still surprised by the warm reception, exclaimed in awe:

"Dad, this is amazing! Look at these kitty-shaped confetti!" Ivar laughed, happy to see his daughter's reaction.

The family gathered in the kitchen, where Astri, with a motherly smile, revealed the apple pie—Mey's favorite dessert. "I can't believe it, is it Aunt Liza's apple pie?" Mey exclaimed, her eyes shining with excitement.

"I love you, Mom!"

"And me?" Ivar intervened, pretending to be jealous.

"I love you both! We're going to be happy forever, the three of us!" Mey responded, jumping with pure joy.

"The four of us," Astri corrected, with a sweet and enigmatic smile.

Confusion overtook Mey, while Ivar dissolved into emotion. He jumped, screamed, and cried with joy, tears tracing warm lines down his face. He enveloped Astri in an emotional embrace. Mey, still puzzled, looked at them, trying to understand what was happening.

"We're expecting a baby," Astri revealed tenderly.

The news brought a whirlwind of emotions for Mey, who hugged her parents, sharing in the happiness and excitement of the moment.

And so, that day, so wonderfully perfect, ended, leaving a trail of happiness in the house and in the hearts of the family. They went to bed that night, with smiles on their faces and love in their hearts, eagerly awaiting the dawn and the promises it would bring.

In the freshness of the following dawn, the first rays of sunlight slipped through the curtains, waking Mey. While still rubbing her sleepy eyes, she overheard her parents' murmurs coming from the hallway. They were discussing the possibility of moving to a nearby town. An exceptional proposal had been made to Ivar to establish a hospital with Astri in the neighboring city, an offer that came with promises of land, prestige, and a chance to elevate their status.

Even though Ivar was incredibly wealthy, he knew that certain things—like noble titles—couldn't be bought, no matter the size of his fortune. Despite this, the prospect of a prestigious new venture excited both him and Astri.

The idea of moving stirred mixed emotions in Mey—a whirlwind of fear and curiosity about the unknown. However, when she saw the joy and excitement in her parents' eyes, she chose not to question their decision. She packed her feelings away in a small mental box and prepared for school.

By a twist of fate, the news of the family's possible move spread through the town like wildfire. Even the jeweler Sigurd, whose fortune was forged in the flames of greed and the fire of opportunity, had become a symbol of opulence and excess. His castle, an imposing structure built with the money extorted from Ivar, was more than just a residence; it was a monument to his illicit success. Every stone and every carving reflected the wealth accumulated through unscrupulous deals and blatant manipulations.

The interior of the castle was a spectacle of luxury and extravagance. Sigurd had commissioned the finest materials and furnishings from all over the world. Persian rugs adorned the floors, while crystal chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling, illuminating the rare works of art that decorated the walls. The furniture, custom-made by renowned craftsmen, boasted astronomical prices, each piece a masterpiece in itself.

Sigurd wasn't content with simply acquiring wealth; he delighted in overcharging for every item, inflating the prices to absurd levels. Every sale to Ivar was calculated to maximize his profit, exploiting the rich man's generosity and lack of financial attention to detail.

The news of Ivar and his family's potential move came as a shock to Sigurd. He saw his empire of easy profit threatened, his endless source of income drying up. In a fit of rage, he destroyed several of his precious porcelains, each broken fragment symbolizing a piece of his shattered greed.

This incident stripped away any remaining facade, exposing Sigurd's true nature in all its horrifying clarity. He had long abandoned any pretense of decency, no longer caring how others perceived him. Now, his pure malice stood bare for all to see. The peace that once surrounded this family would be shattered—he would make sure of it. His rage was boundless, a seething storm of hatred that fed his monstrous desire to tear them apart, piece by piece. He didn't just want their wealth; he wanted to destroy their very essence, to crush their spirits and extinguish any trace of joy or peace they held dear.

It was no longer about profit or power—it was personal. Sigurd would ensure that every ounce of happiness they had ever known would be erased, that their dreams would be twisted into nightmares. He would revel in their suffering, devouring every last hope until nothing but despair remained. His goal was clear: to drain them of any will to live in peace, to annihilate their happiness forever.

By the end of the day, Astri went to pick up Mey from school as usual. She stood there, watching the other children run into their parents' arms, but Mey, who was always the first to come out and run toward her, was inexplicably absent. Troubled, Astri entered the school to inquire about her daughter. She found the teacher and calmly asked:

"Hello, do you know where Mey is?"

The teacher's response left her confused:

"Hi, she already left with her father."

"That can't be. When I left home, my husband was still there. Where is my daughter?"

"I'm sorry, but a man with gray hair came to pick her up, claiming to be her father. Since you've always been the only one to pick her up, I had never seen your husband before. Besides, Mey seemed to know him..."

Astri left the school with her heart pounding in fear. When Ivar heard what had happened, he desperately tried to think of who the mysterious man could be. It was at that moment that the phone rang.

"Hello, who's speaking?"

"The day is beautiful today, isn't it, Mr. Ivar? Especially in the Skirnir Forest. I assure you, if you decide to visit it alone, your precious daughter will continue breathing."

The call ended abruptly, leaving Ivar frozen in place. For a moment, he stood still, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He knew. Deep down, he had always known it was Sigurd. A chill ran down his spine as he thought about the old jeweler, whose greed had darkened into something far more dangerous over the past few years. Sigurd had always been eccentric, but lately, he had become more withdrawn, more strange, and his insatiable hunger for wealth had spiraled out of control. Ivar had begun to distance himself, sensing that Sigurd's presence had grown uncomfortable, almost oppressive, like a looming shadow. Yet, never in his darkest thoughts had he imagined that Sigurd would go so far as to hurt someone for the sake of his greed.

To Ivar, Sigurd had always been just a peculiar old man, who had aged in an odd way, his obsession with money driving him further from genuine relationships. But now, Ivar realized just how dangerous he had truly become. Trembling with the anger and fear rising in his chest, he turned and ran to fetch the reins of his horse. Astri, tears filling her eyes, pleaded:

"Who was it?... Where... are you going? And... our daughter?"

"I'm going to get her. Lock the door and wait for me here," Ivar replied, his voice shaken but determined.

Astri, her face streaked with tears, called after him, "Wait, please! Talk to the guards first. Maybe they can help—"

Ivar shook his head firmly, already gripping the reins of his horse. "No. Sigurd's probably paid them off. They won't help us. He's bought their loyalty with his auors. Just wait for me... trust me."

Astri, trembling, whispered one last word, her voice barely audible: "Ivar..."

Submerged in the vastness of the forest, the last beam of sunlight bid farewell to the horizon, succumbing to the imposing rise of the moon. The night began to weave its starry cloak across the sky, tinting everything with shades of mystery and fear. Ivar, desperate, ran with palpable urgency, his hurried and resounding steps getting lost in the shadows that embraced the path. He felt an intrinsic call to reach his destination before darkness claimed the world entirely. The anguish of the unknown accumulated in his mind, clouding his ability to foresee the dangers that awaited him.

Emerging from the gap between the threatening trees, a cave appeared, its diffuse entrance displaying a faint iridescence, a sadistic invitation to the dance of perdition. Ivar, with meticulous caution, entered the dark mouth of the earth. The light gradually faded as he ventured deeper, plunging into ever-thicker darkness. His eyes scanned the gloom for any sign, until finally, they found the indescribable horror: his daughter lay motionless on the ground, the brutality of the scene evident by a pool of blood around her head.

Rage, like a devastating wave, flooded Ivar, his mind becoming a bubbling cauldron of revenge against the perpetrator of this vile act. His heart pounded with fire, urging him to challenge the lurking shadows. However, as he approached Mey, a black cloud enveloped him, obstructing his vision and sending him crashing to the ground. Reality in his vision slowly faded, giving way to a nightmare as Ivar reached out toward his daughter, his eyes catching the traces of her tears staining her pale, lifeless face.

When Ivar woke up, he found himself confined in a cold and damp cell, an abyss of despair. The wet walls dripped constantly, and the oppressive air of hopelessness seemed to intensify the weight of the surroundings. Stripped of his clothes, he felt a crushing vulnerability that resonated with the darkness around him. His eyes slowly opened to the gloomy scene, illuminated only by the faint moonlight seeping through cracks in the stone wall. And then, a sinister voice emerged from the shadows, a cold whisper promising an eternity of torment and agony.

"You finally woke up! I was curious to see how long you'd sleep!" said a familiar voice.

"You know, I discovered the truth about you. The power you carry is from a Djinn, a mythical beasts capable of creating auors at will. A truly fascinating Arcano. I, on the other hand, absorbed the strength of a Nuckelavee," as he spoke, a black smoke began to fill the cell, causing overwhelming nausea in Ivar, to the point where he choked on his own vomit.

Sigurd's Arcano, unlike Ivar's, was not visible. For an Arcano to reach its full strength, it had to be seen—its manifestation needed to be clear and present in order to unleash its full potential. But even though Sigurd's Arcano remained hidden, its power, though weakened, was still enough to inflict tremendous damage on Ivar. The very fact that it wasn't fully revealed made it weaker, yet it had already proven devastating.

"I won't overdo it, but it's essential that you stay alive. Your powers to create infinite auors are extremely valuable to me. I even tolerated your generous expenses based on my suggestions. But now, you think you can just leave?" Sigurd's voice exploded, full of venom and bitterness.

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Ivar, struggling to regain mental clarity, finally recognized the person responsible and said, stunned: "Why... why, Sigurd? How can a human commit such atrocities?"

Sigurd no longer saw himself as human. After purchasing the dying Nuckelavee, he had spent a fortune just for the opportunity to deliver the final blow and absorb its power. That moment had transformed him. No longer mortal, he considered himself a demon—repulsive, fearsome, and consumed by darkness. The arcane strength he now possessed was intoxicating, stripping him of any remaining shred of humanity. He reveled in his new identity, embracing the depths of his corruption.

"I'm sure you'll provide me with all the auors I need," Sigurd sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "And if you don't... well, I have something that will motivate you." He stepped aside, revealing the twisted horror in the shadows.

When Ivar, with tremendous effort, lifted his head, the sight before him crushed his soul. Despair swallowed him whole, choking his breath as he laid eyes on his daughter. Mey hung by her wrists, ropes cutting into her neck, her eyes gouged out in a gruesome display of cruelty. Her body was covered in countless bruises, deep cuts, and all her nails had been torn from her hands and feet. Against all odds, her chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths—barely alive, but alive enough to endure more suffering.

Ivar let out a scream so primal, so filled with agony, that it seemed to tear his very vocal cords. The sound echoed through the cold, damp cell, a cry of pure, helpless rage. The weight of it all was too much, and eventually, exhaustion pulled him into unconsciousness, plunging him into an abyss where light and meaning no longer existed. But even in the darkness, his hands—through sheer instinct—began producing auors, piling them up in mountains for Sigurd's sadistic delight.

Ivar's Arcano was a rare and peculiar force—unlike anything anyone had ever seen. It wasn't a battle Arcano, and in truth, it was something that only existed in myths. Legends spoke of the Djinn, a beast capable of creating unimaginable riches, but no one had ever actually seen it, let alone its Arcano. The golden glow radiating from both of Ivar's hands, unlike most Arcanos that manifested singularly, was proof of its uniqueness. The swirling patterns resembled veins of molten gold, running across his skin like treasure from ancient kings, but it was never meant for combat.

Ivar had kept this power a secret all his life, using it only to amass wealth in silence. It was not the kind of strength that would make him invincible in battle, but rather one that had allowed him to quietly build his fortune. Few ever knew the source of his riches, and none ever dared to question him.

But Sigurd had grown suspicious. The constant rise of Ivar's wealth, unmatched by any known source, had caught his attention. Curious and envious, Sigurd sent spies to uncover the truth, and what they found revealed the whispers of something greater—something tied to the legends of the Djinn. Sigurd, driven by his greed, had made it his mission to uncover and exploit Ivar's secret power.

As days passed, Ivar's exhaustion deepened. The production of auors began to slow, his body withering under the relentless demands Sigurd placed on him. He did everything for Mey, for the slim chance that keeping her alive would spare her from further torment. But as he watched her deteriorate, Ivar began to question whether death might be a release for them both.

Eventually, in a state of utter exhaustion, Ivar passed out once more, his consciousness slipping into the familiar, suffocating darkness.

When he awoke, the cold, harsh reality of his prison came rushing back. He was still bound, chains biting into his skin, mocking his weakness. The damp air clung to him, a constant reminder of the misery and pain yet to come. Each breath was heavy, each movement an agony. The chains that held him were not just physical—they were the weight of his failure, the crushing knowledge that he could not protect his daughter from the horrors that awaited them.

Gradually, Ivar's senses began to awaken, one by one. He could feel the roughness of the stones beneath his bruised body, the metallic vibration of the chains echoing with every movement, the putrid smell of dampness mingling with the metallic aroma of his own blood, and the gritty sensation of dust and gravel in his dry mouth. Finally, his eyes, heavy and tired, began to open.

Inevitably, Ivar's blurred vision adjusted to the dim light in the cell, revealing a familiar form on the ground. There, in the cruel cold of the prison, lay Astri's lifeless body, stretched out in a disturbing way. Her once colorful clothes were now torn and soaked in blood. Her belly, disfigured by unimaginable brutality, was the resting place of a horrific scene.

Astri's face, once radiant and full of life, was now pale and empty. Her eyes, which used to shine with an indomitable spirit, were now closed forever. In her hand lay the small and fragile body of a fetus—the unborn child of Ivar.

The blood, which once symbolized life and vitality, now formed a macabre circle around Astri, staining the cold stones of the prison. The dark red mixed with the browns and grays of the cell, creating a disturbing image that would haunt Ivar for the rest of his days. And in the midst of all that chaos, Sigurd's voice echoed, a dark melody that spread through the darkness, dragging Ivar even deeper into the abyss of his own desolation.

"If you fail again to meet the production demand, I fear your daughter won't share the same swift fate your wife had in meeting death. I wonder, will she also beg for my men to stop?" Sigurd's voice reverberated for a moment, a dark ghost hovering in the air, before gradually fading as he distanced himself.

Ivar summoned what was left of his strength to produce as many auors as possible. As the solar cycles marked the endless passage of years, Sigurd, driven by his insatiable hunger for power and wealth, accumulated influence, becoming one of the most powerful men across all continents. His immense fortune allowed him to raise formidable armies, fleets, castles, and even subjugate mystical beasts, further amplifying his dominion.

On a night of a deep eclipse, Ivar's cell was engulfed in darkness. Persistent, he worked tirelessly, producing auors in an almost vegetative state. Mey, now a twenty-year-old woman, was kept alive but mute, a gag preventing her from biting her own tongue. Her heart pulsed with deep hatred, daily fueled by the desire to repay the atrocities committed against her and her family. Memories of her mother and the muffled cries of her father haunted her mind. Her blindness only intensified her resentment, which grew insidiously with each sunrise. However, on that night of the eclipse, something extraordinary bloomed in that damp cell: a Banshee, a mystical beast that had silently observed Mey over the years, emerged from the shadows.

Though feared as harbingers of doom, Banshees are also revered as spiritual and mystical entities. They are believed to possess the gift of hearing and perceiving things beyond human auditory capacity, making them figures endowed with extraordinary hearing.

The appearance of this Banshee was connected to the death of someone. Astri, having long suppressed her feelings and thoughts, had nurtured an overwhelming desire to reunite with her daughter. This longing created this mystical entity. The Banshee, after years of observing and hearing Mey's thoughts, decided to bestow its supernatural powers upon her. A scarlet light, vivid like fresh blood, radiated throughout the cell. Mey experienced an indescribable pain, one that not even the years of torture could compare to. The sensation was so intense it bordered on madness, but even so, she felt she had to resist. Then, a soft voice from the Banshee echoed in her ears...

"Mey, dear, you are the most precious blessing life has given me. However, there's something I need to share: I am not your biological mother. Your real mother's name is Frey Sueno. She was the light that illuminated my path when I was young, her presence so powerful that it made my pursuers give up on following me. In the past, I served as a nurse in our village, and I was the one who brought you into the world. Unfortunately, Frey didn't survive the childbirth."

"The loss of Frey threw me into a desperate search for your family, but every attempt proved fruitless. It seemed that everyone refused to listen to me. Despite this, I decided to raise you as my own daughter, waiting for the right moment to reveal the truth. You are Mey Sueno, the descendant of Frey Sueno. I never wanted to steal her place as your mother, but… I love you more than I can express in words. I'm sorry... Please, forgive me... forgive me..."

The air thickened with biting cold as Astri's words fueled Mey, fortifying her resolve and merging the Banshee's power with her own. An arcane symbol, hidden on her back, pulsed with a violent crimson glow. Her once fiery red hair had turned ghostly white, and Mey collapsed as the transformation took hold. When she awoke at dawn, she could feel everything around her—beyond human senses.

Years of imprisonment had dulled her body, but now her perception stretched far beyond the cell. She could see through the walls, sense the movement of the guards, hear the fluttering of birds outside. Her awareness spanned to the depths of the ocean, every tiny detail imprinted in her mind. But more than that, she felt the presence of her father.

He was just a few feet away, shackled in front of her for the past six years. His once-powerful frame was now reduced to skin and bone, a decaying reminder of the man he had once been. Forced into a vegetative state, he had been made to produce auors under Sigurd's cruel command. Every groan, every scream of pain from him had echoed through her mind all those years, but she couldn't bear to think about him now, not without breaking. She had pushed that pain deep inside her, and even now, with this newfound power coursing through her, she forced herself to focus on everything else but him.

When the maids arrived for her daily bath, they didn't bother to look at her directly—too disgusted by the scars and the torn, ravaged state of her body to meet her gaze. The bath, intended to prevent infections from the wounds inflicted over the years, was routine, but their distaste was palpable. The arcane symbol on her back remained hidden, unnoticed by them. To them, she was still the broken, fragile girl who needed pity, a body too ruined to even warrant a second glance. Their faces twisted in discomfort as they undressed her, unable to stomach the sight of her disfigured form.

But what they didn't realize was that Mey had changed. Beneath the thin veil of weakness lay something fierce, something dark and powerful, waiting to strike.

As they prepared the bath, turning their backs to her for a moment, Mey moved with the speed of a ghost. Her body twisted unnaturally, slipping off the bench in complete silence. One maid barely had time to react as Mey's hand shot out, fingers like iron, crushing the maid's windpipe in a single, brutal motion. The sickening crunch of cartilage and bone snapping filled the air, but no scream escaped the maid's lips. Mey squeezed tighter, her fingers sinking deeper until she felt the woman's neck collapse entirely.

The second maid turned just in time to see the first fall, her eyes widening in shock. But before she could even part her lips to shout, Mey lunged at her, a flash of white hair and pale skin, moving with the deadly grace of a predator. She struck fast, delivering a blow that crushed the maid's sternum. The sound of bones shattering under her fist was sharp, brutal. Mey's other hand followed swiftly, slashing through the maid's ribs, her fingers piercing through flesh and muscle until they reached the fragile heart beneath.

The maid's eyes went wide with terror, but Mey was merciless. With a final twist of her hand, she ended the woman's life before any sound could escape. Blood poured out in thick, dark streams, pooling around her feet, but her heart remained as cold as the air that surrounded her.

The room, now filled with the coppery scent of blood and death, was silent. The maids had treated her like a helpless burden for years, but in less than a minute, they were dead at her feet. There was no hesitation, no remorse. She had waited long enough.

Wiping her hands clean on the apron of one of the dead maids, Mey turned her attention to the clothes waiting for her. They were the usual set, prepared as part of her daily routine. The fabric was wrinkled, worn, and slightly torn in places, a reflection of how little care had been put into maintaining her appearance over the years. She dressed quickly, pulling on the old, ill-fitting garments. The fabric clung awkwardly to her skin, uncomfortable and stiff, but none of that mattered now.

As she stepped into the corridor, Mey moved with the same deadly precision, her senses heightened, anticipating every guard's move before they even made it. She was invisible to them, not by magic, but by sheer control of her newfound abilities. They didn't even glance her way, unaware of the storm of violence that had just erupted behind her.

Her steps were silent, her heart steady—not with fear, but with purpose. She could feel the guards' unease, the subtle shift in their movements, their racing hearts. They were completely oblivious to the predator walking amongst them. Her mind tapped into their thoughts, sensing every moment of hesitation, every glance. She was a ghost in the castle's halls, unseen and unstoppable.

Mey moved deeper into the dungeon, her breath quickening. There he was—Ivar Hell, her father, a hollowed-out shell, his body suspended from chains like a forgotten relic. His chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven breaths, each one clawing at her mind. For six years, she had felt his agony—every rasping inhale a silent scream for release.

Ivar had once been strong, full of life, a man who had loved Astri. But now, his body was kept alive by Sigurd's cruelty, barely human, broken beyond recognition. Mey couldn't see him, but she didn't need to. She felt him. His suffering throbbed in her head, a relentless pulse of pain.

She stood frozen, her heart pounding, each second dragging like an eternity. She couldn't let him live like this. Not anymore.

Her hands shook as she tore a strip from her cloak. No time for hesitation. Every breath from his chest was a knife twisting inside her. She stepped forward, each footfall leaden, and pressed the cloth to his face. His body jerked—a weak, instinctive struggle. There was no fight left, only the dying reflexes of a man who had already endured too much.

His breaths grew fainter. Mey clenched her jaw, her own breath tight and shallow, as she felt the last ragged inhales stutter, then stop. Silence. A silence so crushing it was deafening, swallowing the world whole. Ivar Hell was gone.

Her lips brushed his cold forehead—no warmth, no comfort. The grief that ripped through her was too raw to cry, her body numb with sorrow. But she couldn't stop. She had to move. With a final, trembling touch to his limp hand, she turned away, choking down the grief threatening to paralyze her.

Into the shadows, she melted, her movements quick and deliberate. There was no room for hesitation now. Sigurd wasn't in the city, but the guards were—arrogant, oblivious, their thoughts clouded. She could feel their presence, like a cold hand gripping her spine. She had to escape, had to survive.

Then, a familiar, sickening sensation crawled over her skin. The jailer. The one who had tortured her whenever he could. His presence was unmistakable. He had reveled in her pain, wielding whips, pliers, and methods so vile that even demons would recoil. The crack of the whip, the burn of his tools—they haunted her every step, a constant reminder of the cruelty she had endured.

His shadow lingered in the corridor, oblivious to her, just another moment in his wretched routine. Hatred surged through her veins, every fiber of her being screaming for revenge. But she forced herself to stay calm, to move past him. Not now. She needed control. She needed to survive.

When Mey reached the courtyard, the sunlight hit her like a whip, burning her pale skin. It seared through her senses, but she pushed past the shock. There was no time for weakness.

She sprinted through the forest, her body moving on pure instinct. She couldn't stop, not even for a second, or the weight of her father's death would drag her under. She ran, her breath sharp, heart pounding, every step a fight for survival.

But that was five years ago.

After a long moment of reflection, Mey allows her thoughts to return to the forest where the boy who discovered her asks a question:

"You knew I was hiding, and now it seems like you know what I'm thinking, that's amazing! Let's test it: What am I thinking now?" the child asks, looking at Mey as if they were playing a game.

A slight smile appears on Mey's lips as she responds, "You're thinking about the warm bread your brother was baking before you left home, aren't you, Caelan?"

"That's incredible! How did you know my name… can I learn to do that too?" the child asks, his eyes full of curiosity.

"Maybe not exactly like me, but you can learn many wonderful things."

"And I will learn! By the way, what's your name?"

"My name is Mey Hell."