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Prologue

A cold night in Manchester, a blanket knitted of chilly winter sits upon the city. Jack Frost reaches his fingers through the narrow streets running straight and true, cutting through the forest of oppressive, stern brick houses. The houses, glowing warm and yellow inside, hearth's ablaze, illuminate a silhouette in the street. A man. Ragged, down beat and forlorn, shivering in a tatty blanket. Nowhere to go.
Then a hand lightly clasps his shoulder.
He turns around. His jaw drops in amazement.
A familiar face.