Seen through the eyes of the other vampires at the gathering, Josefine is a stark reminder of the fragility of those who live at the mercy of their masters. There’s something unsettling about her presence—her gaunt, pale face showing signs of rapid deterioration, her once-youthful beauty marred by deep lines, and her eyes, which carry a frantic, desperate glint that makes it hard to look away.

 

Whispers pass between the vampires as she shuffles through the room, her steps unsure, her posture hunched as though the weight of her collapsing world is physically bearing down on her. Some of the older ones recognize her, or at least they remember Jonny Grevstad Antonsen, the Brujah vampire she served for decades. His absence is palpable in the way she constantly scans the crowd, like a lost dog searching for its master.

 

To those in the know, the rumors of Jonny’s disappearance, perhaps even his death, hang like a dark cloud over her. They know what happens to ghouls when they lose their masters—how their bodies begin to wither, and how their minds often follow. She’s in the early stages of decay, still holding onto some semblance of function, but it’s clear she’s nearing the edge.