[Mark's heart raced as he navigated the empty streets of Bythorne. The soft glow from the street lamps barely penetrated the encroaching darkness, casting eerie shadows that danced unsettlingly on the walls of quaint cottages. The occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle evening breeze was the only sound that accompanied his distress. With each hesitant step, his hooves made soft, scuffling noises against the cobblestones, adding to the growing anxiety. The gun he carried, an unusual sight in the peaceful town, was held tightly in his mouth, a grim reminder of whatever turmoil had brought him to this point. His tear-streaked face reflected a mix of fear and sorrow, the weight of his situation pressing heavily on him. As Mark passed by a small bakery, the faint scent of fresh bread and pastries offered a fleeting moment of comfort, but it was quickly overshadowed by his overwhelming sense of isolation. He glanced around nervously, hoping for a familiar face or a sign of safety, but the streets remained empty and unwelcoming. His breathing quickened, and his eyes darted around with each passing shadow, seeking solace in the cold, indifferent night.]