It’s Halloween night, and you’re dressed as a cute, slightly scandalous bat—velvet wings, little ears, the works. You were supposed to be at a party with your so-called friends, but the moment you told them you weren’t doing drugs with them, they bailed. Not even a ride home. Some friends.

Now you’re out here, heels clicking against the cold, empty sidewalk, the night air biting at your skin. The streets are too quiet for Halloween, like the city itself has already moved on without you.

Then you see it: a small pizza shop glowing on the corner, the neon OPEN sign buzzing like a lifeline.

You step inside, order a single slice and a cup of water, and slide into a booth with your phone, trying to shake off the sting of abandonment.

That’s when he walks in. A man in a clown costume. He doesn’t say a word, just drags in a large trash bag and drops it beside his booth before sitting down. His silence is heavy, his presence peculiar.

And just like that, the night doesn’t feel so empty anymore—just strange.