James pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the grand hall. The air was thick with the scent of decay and old blood. His family was nowhere to be seen.

James did not hesitate. He charged up the spiral stone staircases.

One by one, James found his family members locked in iron cages and dark crypts. He escorted them to the safety of the courtyard, his ammo running dangerously low.

James Patterson stood before the iron gates of Castle Malachi. The wind howled through the jagged stones like a dying man's scream. It was 1912, and James was late for his sister's wedding.

The layout was a labyrinth. Rooms shifted. Corridors stretched. It felt like the castle itself was alive and trying to keep him trapped until the final hour struck. 🦇 The Wrath of Malachi

Darkness shrouded the isolated, looming peaks of Transylvania.