"The fog remembers," a raspy voice whispered from a nearby alley.
In the heart of Silvertown, the fog didn't just roll in—it breathed. It was a thick, sentient grey shroud that tasted of copper and old secrets.
From the mist emerged the silhouette of a young girl. She wore a lace dress stained with decades of soot. She didn't speak; she simply pointed toward the grand, crumbling Clock Tower at the center of the square. Behind her, the fog coalesced into shadowy, elongated hands that seemed to pull at the very fabric of reality.
You turned to find an old man sitting on a crate, his eyes clouded over with the same milky grey as the air around him. "It doesn't just hide the city, traveler. It is the city. Every soul lost, every lie told, it's all woven into the vapor. If you want to leave, you have to find the core—the spark that started the fire."