The off rhythm tick of a clock, and the acidic smell of blood. A lifeless body, and a letter, blood seeping into the floor of an inn I had no memory of. And a revolver, clutched in my own hand.

In an age of churning gears and steam engines that billowed columns of smoke high into the sky, one would think a murder would not require a supernatural cause. A revolver, would be enough. But why is that not the case?

Why exactly was I brought here? A scapegoat? A sacrificial lamb to bear the burnt of my look-alikes actions? No. There's something more sinister at play. It can't be that simple.

If it was that simple, I wouldn't be this. This monstrous creature.

This mangled, disjointed hound. Fueled by rage. By fear.