The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine needles as Ken navigated the winding, deserted streets of his small town. The moon, a pale sliver in the inky sky, cast long, distorted shadows that danced and stretched across the cobblestone paths. It was his nightly ritual, this patrol, a duty he took seriously, a legacy passed down through generations of his family.
Tonight, however, something felt different. A prickle of unease ran down his spine as he rounded a bend, his gaze drawn to a shadowy figure lurking at the edge of the woods. The figure was shrouded in darkness, its outline indistinct, its movements slow and deliberate. It was impossible to tell if it was human or something else, something far more sinister.
Ken's hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his dagger, the cold steel a reassuring weight against his palm. He took a cautious step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel, the sound echoing in the stillness. He needed to know what he was dealing with.
"Who goes there?" he called out, his voice firm, laced with authority. The words hung in the air, unanswered. The figure remained motionless, its presence a silent, ominous threat. Ken's heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat against the quiet night. He had to be prepared for anything.