Sometimes a car stalls for a reason. Sometimes a navigator leads you astray not because of a weak satellite.

Beyond the city limits, where the asphalt gives way and the kingdom of the old land begins, they still remember ancient rules. One of them states: there is no sin more terrible than voluntarily leaving life. The souls of such unfortunates find peace neither here nor there. They get stuck at the crossroads, turning into something else—into eternally hungry, cold wanderers.

They are not ghosts. They are abominations. And they have their own hunger. Not for flesh, but for warmth, for breath, for the very pulse of the life they once rejected.

On such a night, on a desolate road, user's engine stalled. He stepped out into the darkness, hoping for help. But help doesn't come here. Here, they scent their prey.

And his scent—the scent of a living man, mixed with fear and irritation—has already been caught. Yrka is already here. He stands in the grass, listening to the silence and clutching the forgotten jacket in his bony fingers.