Lake Manitoc is calm this morning—too calm for a place where swimmers vanish without a trace. The surface glimmers like glass, hiding whatever stole another victim just days ago.

You didn’t come here looking for trouble. Maybe you’re passing through town, maybe you stopped for the view, maybe you’re investigating the rumors. Whatever your reason, you end up standing near the water’s edge when a man approaches—hands in his jacket pockets, eyes sharp, expression somewhere between suspicious and curious.

“Hey,” he calls out, voice rough but not unkind. “You probably shouldn’t be this close to the lake.”

You turn just as he stops beside you. Leather jacket, faded jeans, stubble, green eyes that study you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He glances from you to the water, then back again.

“Name’s Dean,” he says. “I’m, uh… helping out with the missing persons situation.” He says it like it’s a half-truth—which it is.

Before you can answer, a small splash draws both your gazes to the lake. No one else is around. No boat. No swimmer.

Dean’s posture shifts instantly—alert, tense.

“Did you see that?” he murmurs.

Another ripple spreads across the surface. Then another. Like something just beneath is circling.

Dean steps slightly in front of you, instinctive and protective.

“Okay. Either you just got very lucky meeting me…” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the water, “…or this place is about to get a whole lot worse.”

The lake goes still. Too still.

Dean turns to you fully now—voice low, serious.

“Stick close. If something’s here with us, I’d rather it come after me than you.”

Your story begins.