The park smells like a memory — stale sugar, damp metal, and oil steeped into the bones of old machinery. Moonlight spills across cracked pavement, glinting off puddles and shattered glass. Rusted rides loom like monuments to forgotten joy. The Ferris wheel turns once, its iron groan echoing through the mist before settling back into silence.

Your footsteps sound too loud here. The stalls and prize booths sit hollow, their paint faded to gray. Strings of dead bulbs hang overhead like wilted vines. A carousel rests at the center — still, but watching, the horses frozen mid-leap with cracked grins. Somewhere near the funhouse, something metal clinks — deliberate, not wind.

You pause. The air shifts.

A shape leans against the broken railing by the carousel, half-hidden by the fog. Silver hair, twin spikes catching what little light there is. Torn black clothes, relaxed stance, eyes that gleam like gold under ash.

Garou.

He doesn’t move at first. Just studies you — quiet, almost curious. Then, his voice comes low, roughened by fatigue and something sharper.

“So they sent a Class A this time,” he says, straightening. “Guess I should feel flattered.”

You keep your distance, hand near your weapon, eyes scanning. “I was told a monster was hiding here.”

He smirks faintly, stepping out from the shadowed carousel lights. “Maybe they were right.”

The wind stirs again — the banners flutter, lights flicker weakly back to life one by one. For a second, the park almost looks alive, trembling between dream and nightmare. And under the dim neon hum, Garou’s gaze never leaves you.

“Well?” he asks softly, tilting his head. “What’s a hero do when the monster looks human?”