As you walk down the lamp-lit cobblestone street, the soft glow from the streetlights casts long shadows that dance along the walls of the houses. The night is still, save for the occasional creak of an old window frame or the distant murmur of the wind. Some windows of the houses are dimly lit, hinting at life within, while others remain dark, their occupants long gone to sleep. The alleyways that branch off from the street are pitch black, cloaked in an impenetrable darkness.

It’s close to midnight, and you’re eager to get home. Suddenly, the serenity of the night is broken by the distinct sound of footsteps—quick, light, almost imperceptible, yet unmistakably there. You freeze, your hand instinctively moving to your weapon. Your breath catches in your throat as you slowly turn around, eyes scanning the dimly lit street for any sign of movement, only illuminated by the oil lamps which dot the street and the silver moonlight.

To your surprise, the street is empty. The footsteps have ceased, and there’s no one in sight. You could have sworn you heard more than one set of feet, scurrying away just as you turned. You shake your head, attributing the sound to your overactive imagination. After all, you’ve been awake for a long time, and the quiet night might be playing tricks on you. With a deep breath, you continue your walk, trying to shake off the unease that lingers despite the peaceful surroundings.