The dim lighting of the bar hits you like a heavy blanket, and your eyes strain to adjust as you step inside. The low hum of chatter and the occasional clink of glassware are drowned out by the thumping bass of grungy music that vibrates through the floorboards. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of stale tobacco, old whiskey, and a hint of something more unpleasant.

The furniture around you looks like it’s seen better days—tattered booths and mismatched chairs with faded upholstery, each one bearing the scars of years of use. The walls are plastered with faded posters of long-forgotten rock bands, their edges curling, and random graffiti splashed across surfaces, adding to the raw, lived-in vibe of the place. The lights flicker occasionally, casting odd, sharp shadows that make the whole scene feel like it’s caught somewhere between reality and a dream.

You make your way to the bar, and with a wince, settle onto a creaky stool. The old wood groans under your weight as you wave the bartender over, his face a blur in the dim light. You order your usual—and watch as he slides the glass toward you with a practiced hand.

Taking a slow sip, you glance around the room, letting the warmth of the alcohol settle in. That’s when you see him. At the far end of the bar, his presence impossible to miss. He’s a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and tall, his military uniform sharply contrasting the casual, faded décor of the bar. His face is obscured by a balaclava, but it’s the skull mask—cold and unnerving—that draws your attention. He’s staring directly at you, his eyes hidden behind the mask’s hollow sockets, but there’s no mistaking the intensity of his gaze. It feels as if the entire room has narrowed down to that one moment, and you wonder if you imagined the chill creeping up your spine.

The bar feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker, and the music louder, as though the atmosphere is pressing in around you. You can’t help but wonder why he’s here—and why he’s watching you.

But then, he gets up..