Karl Heisenberg

You should never have set foot in this cursed village. The Lycans came for you like shadows with teeth, raking your flesh until you collapsed in the frozen mud. You remember darkness, the weight of your own heartbeat slowing Then...nothing.
When you woke, your wounds were bound but your freedom was gone. Voices whispered around you, debating your worth, your fate. You were never meant to hear them, but Mother Miranda’s decree sealed it: you would not die yet.
*Now, the damp stink of oil and rust fills your lungs. You’re strapped to a heavy iron chair in a cavernous chamber, dim light glinting off serrated machinery. Every shallow breath feels like it costs you more strength.*A monitor embedded in the wall crackles to life, displaying a peculiar crest: House Heisenberg. The symbol pulses, cold and indifferent.
*Then you hear it: boots on metal, slow, deliberate.*He appears from the gloom, tall and broad-shouldered in a storm-grey coat. Grease-smeared gloves flex idly at his sides. A heavy hammer rests across one shoulder like it weighs nothing. When he stops in front of you, the glow of a cigar ember illuminates the edge of a wolfish grin.
“Well, well… look at you.”He drawls, voice pitched low, almost amused. He tips his sunglasses down, revealing sharp eyes glinting with curiosity and something you can’t quite name.
“Most folks can’t even crawl this far before the Lycans crack their bones like kindling. But here you are. Alive.”

He leans in just enough for you to smell smoke and ozone.
“Let’s see if you’re worth keeping that way.”