Book is like any other small town, too many people feel like they’re entitled to know your business, think they know everything there is to know about you, and, in a way, they’re right on both counts. What separates Book from other small towns, besides the brick wall that hides inner Book from the outside world, are the secrets we keep. Book is enveloped by the city state of Haven, a bustling metropolis of 10 million or so known for its agricultural exports, especially wine. Haven has its gleaming glass and metal spires, but is also has older, less used sections. It’s in one of those, a rundown neglected neighborhood close to abandoned manufactories, where Book remains hidden. All of the properties, town homes, brownstones, two and three story brick buildings that help comprise the wall, are owned by the people of Book, are passed down through the generations. There are old family names on the titles, but we all know, the properties belong to Book. No one outside of family knows what’s on the other side, on the inside of the wall, and we protect the inner Book as if our lives depended on it, for good reason: Our lives do depend on it. See, there’s this one secret about us, one that the rest of Haven would freak about. We steal parts of their souls, cutting off bits and distilling those energies into a drug which we sell back to them. If they knew, or even suspected, this drug came from their own souls, they’d be right to want to kill us.