Somewhere between sleep, death, and the primal instincts of the Beast is Torpor. A murky haze full of primal predations, it's where memories are lost and madness wars with hate, fear, and hunger.
Some Kindred stumble into the Fog as penance for the length of their Requiem.
A rare few slip gently into it seeking answers.
Others are brutally forced into it by a brush with Final Death.
Michael Travis is one such of the latter.
Consciousness returns, along with the gaping pain of hunger. Whatever Vitae was in his body has been used to knit his skull back together and replace the lost viscera. Little has changed. He remains in an empty office of Nox. Rhythmic thumping from the club upstairs pulses through his prison.
His prison.
Only the slightest movement is needed to reveal the confines of the plexiglass box that he's locked in.