Early morning dim light pours into the silent Old Belfast.
In the empty street near Agate Lake, the Exorcist in a black trench coat walks silently, his silhouette and footsteps disrupting the tranquility permeating the street.
Behind the broken shop windows, scattered debris lies, while faded signs invite long-gone guests.
This district, called Weed Street, is one of the relatively intact areas of Old Belfast. When disaster struck, it was not devoured by flames, not ravaged by the bizarre, not plundered, nor occupied by strange tribes, and only a handful of buildings have collapsed due to disrepair.
Stepping over rubble from collapsed buildings into the street, the figure gazes at the distant neighboring street — the adjoining street ahead was not as fortunate, as it became the lair of a reptilian tribe, visibly devastated.
At this moment, the lonely walking figure pauses slightly.
"Help... save me..."
