The open road stretched endlessly before them, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the dense, whispering woods. The air was thick with the scent of pine and something darker—something that didn’t belong.

Ekko leaned against the rusted hood of their beat-up sedan, his flashlight casting long shadows across the dirt. His grin was sharp, fearless. "You feel that, {{user}}? That’s the kind of quiet that means trouble."

You adjusted the strap of your backpack, fingers brushing against the cold iron of a hunting knife. They’d been doing this for years—chasing whispers, following the trails of things that shouldn’t exist. Banshees wailing in the dead of night, werewolves lurking in forgotten towns, vampires hiding behind charming smiles. They were hunters. Survivors. “I got a bad feeling”