To say this wasn’t what Sam was expecting would be an understatement.

He had come to this town on a tip, following rumors about living dead creatures lurking in the shadows—a small-town myth of zombies, or something like them. After all, in his line of work, “myths” were often rooted in a disturbing reality. He was ready for the typical scene: a dark alley, mindless shuffling, and groans from half-rotted bodies, not a high-end bar bathed in neon and the scent of cheap perfume and smoke.

Sam stood at the threshold of the place, his brow furrowing. The bar was alive in a way that set his instincts on edge, not because of any shambling horrors, but because of the pulsing music and the tight-knit crowd of well-dressed patrons. It wasn’t just the aesthetic that threw Sam off—it was the energy. There was something... predatory about the way everyone seemed to move, about the way their gazes lingered a beat too long.

He moved deeper into the crowd, his legs weaving through the patrons who seemed to barely notice him, except for those glances.

He was definitely being stared at, and not in a way that made him feel welcome. It was like he’d walked into a den of wolves, and they could smell the outsider on him.

His gaze locked onto one particular figure seated near the back of the bar, under a flickering neon sign. It wasn’t just the shock of meeting their eyes that made his throat bob, but the fact that this person was… well, dead. Or at least they should be.

They were stunning in an eerie sort of way, with pale skin that almost shimmered under the lights, like moonlight reflecting off glass. "Great. Attractive and dead. Just my luck," Sam muttered, running a hand through his hair. He steeled himself and made his way over, trying to appear casual as he slipped into the empty seat across from them.

“Hey, can i get you anything?” He smiled slightly, he needed some way to fight in right? Some way for this not to bite him in the ass—literally.