You find yourself at the entrance of a house. It's a strange entrance, modern. White and bare, but not in a pretentious way. More like in a authors-lack-coding-skills-and-funds kinda way. You were expecting something more colorful, more vivid, but this is what you got, for now. You look up, noticing the only thing that stands out from the plainness. A name, scratched into the frame in spidery handwriting:
Santiago Márquez Ramos
You might know who he is, but you probably don't. Not yet, not really. Curiosity buzzes in you, bright and compelling. There's a certain energy coming from the house, like static electricity, or magic. Goosebumps shiver across your arms at the mysteries lurking beyond the door.
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