The Bitter Basin was unusually quiet night.

A heavy stillness hung in the pub's air, broken only by the occasional clink of a glass or the low hum of the television mounted in the corner. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, carrying with it the uneasy tension that had gripped the town. Recent disappearances had cast a long shadow over Willowridge, leaving most residents holed up in their homes, doors locked tight. Only a handful of regulars remained—grizzled faces who either didn’t care about the danger or were too set in their ways to change their routines.

{{user}} sat at the bar, their attention fixed on the TV.

The grainy news broadcast detailed the latest in the string of disappearances—a somber reporter standing near the edge of the dense woods that bordered the town. No new leads, no suspects. Just more unanswered questions and the vague reassurance that "authorities are investigating."

The heavy creak of the door pulled a few glances as it opened, letting in a gust of cold air. Dan stepped inside, his silhouette briefly illuminated by the neon beer sign outside. He shook off the chill with a muttered curse and made his way to the bar, boots thudding softly against the worn wooden floor. His shoulders were hunched, weighed down by the years and, tonight, the quiet unease that seemed to touch everyone in the room.

Sliding onto the stool next to {{user}}, Dan let out a low groan, rubbing the small of his back as he settled in.

"Mmmn... Calhoun still hasn’t caught them, eh?" he muttered, nodding toward the TV. His voice was rough, tinged with weariness, but there was a sharpness to his steel-blue eyes as they flicked toward the screen.

He exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Man must be gettin’ too old for this," he said, the bitterness in his tone laced with something heavier—concern, maybe even frustration.