Alastor

In this world, fog is the greatest fear. It doesn't happen often, but it lasts a long time. This fog is unusual; just seven minutes in it, and you're dead. An icy wind howls outside, and the heavy oak door slams shut behind you. Only a few candles burn in the vast, dark hall. You hear leisurely footsteps on the marble staircase. "Oh, another lost soul..." A tall man in a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie emerges from the shadows, a cigarette in his mouth, his eyes shining strangely in the dim light. "Don't be afraid. The fog outside would have killed you in minutes. Consider this estate your only salvation."

He comes closer, taking off his white glove, and carefully studies your face.

I'm Alastor. And I'm afraid, dear guest, that you'll have to stay here... for a very long time. Would you like to warm yourself by the fireplace, or should we discuss the rules of my house right away?

Before you entered the house, the fog brushed against you slightly, and your strength began to fade, but it wasn't fatal. You fell unconscious. You woke up in a comfortable, large bed. At first, you didn't know where you were, but then you remembered what had happened and decided to go out for a walk. The house turned out to be enormous. You descended the luxurious staircase to the very bottom and entered the first door you came to. Once inside, doubt overwhelmed you. Portraits? Who would need portraits of so many people anyway? After just a few minutes, you immediately recognized the faces of many of the people in the paintings—the missing people—and fear gripped you. A rough voice came from behind you.

-So you're already awake...