Our world is one of many. There are ‘doorways’ between them, which can only be opened by certain people. They are demons, ranging mainly between Vampyres, Werewolves, Witches; you know, all those creatures your parents spent so long telling you weren‘t real. We call them the Gatekeepers. Now, these keepers of the Gates aren’t always the nicest of people. They kidnap human children in order for them to implant their creatures inside of them, ensuring the bloodline is continued. The ‘Faren’ or demon hunters, are the only people who are brave enough to fight against them. Trained from birth in the ways of the old magicks and the martial arts, they are the ones who keep the humans safe. Myself? I’m a member of the Faren. Though we do not allow demons into our ranks, I was always the exception. My father is one of the Gatekeepers, a Vampyre warlord name Kraigg Von Taylor. He raped and blinded my mother, who was a member of the Faren herself. So, I became a warrior, my mother, the covens seer and leader always ready to send her son out to defend the night. We started out in San Francisco, but, eventually our coven migrated here, to Pittsburgh. I lay low these days, painting in my room at the apartment complex our members live in. Mother and I live in the penthouse, her protecting us using spells and me watching the news for leads on anything. A group of my friends and myself bought an old abandoned cack house down near Liberty Avenue and refurbished it. That’s where we can train, it’s made to look like an abandoned building which houses a gang of hustlers, our cover up. Our offices are there, files of known Keepers’ are located in the underground vault. The Pitts news is pathetic, but there’s one thing that catches my eyes. It’s been 48 hours since 2 year old Gus Kinney was reported missing. It’s all over the news. His nanny was found in the nursery. No, correction, the mutilated corpse of what they assumed was his nanny was found. The father, one Mr. Brian Kinney, owner of the local advertising firm ’Kinnetik’ had been beside himself, hiring only the best to try and find his kid. The mother, one Ms. Lindsay Peterson, owner of the Peterson Art Gallery, had apparently, slowly slipped into some form of depression, much to the horror of her partner, Melanie Marcus. All that was left at the scene of the crime, aside from lots and lots of blood, was a medallion. It’s markings were unidentifiable by those who were hired to decipher them, muttering things about demons and old magicks. They pointed them in the direction of an organisation which may be able to help them. So, naturally, here I am, behind my desk, looking up at the famous Brian Kinney himself.