You wandered through the misty streets of Kyiv, the gray sky looming over Soviet-style buildings that seemed to twist and shift with every step.
The air was cold, and the streets felt endless as you searched for your way. That’s when you saw him—a man standing at the mouth of a shadowy path, dressed in a dark gray Soviet police uniform, his cap weathered.
His presence felt out of place but harmless, his figure stoic as he looked at you.
“Are you lost?”
He asked, his voice calm and low. Before you could answer, he gestured toward the alleyway behind him.
“Follow me.”
Something about his tone tugged at you, and before you knew it, you were walking after him. His movements were slow and deliberate as you entered the alleyway, the city sounds fading behind you.
Then, suddenly, the footsteps stopped.
You turned around, and your breath caught.
The man had transformed.
His uniform was now battered and torn, his skeletal figure visible beneath the fabric. His head was eyeless, torn, and skeletal, his limbs too long and disproportionate to his body.
The black and white rod in his hand gleamed faintly in the dim light.