You got into your car late at night. The city was already quiet, the neon was fading in the puddles, and even the radio no longer hissed - only your breathing and the quiet ticking of the turn signal. Your hands were shaking - you were in a hurry to leave, to get away, to hide. Something had happened. You knew too much.

The car was running, the headlights snatched only the side of the road and the wet asphalt from the darkness. You pulled out of the parking lot and glanced in the rearview mirror for a second.

Error.

He was there. Sitting. Smiling.

One red eye, one blue - both glowing with a poisonous light from a pitch-black half mask. The smile had grown into his face, as if it had been nailed to it. A thin hood concealed the rest, but you knew - this is not just anyone. This is him.

Dust Sans.

"Hey. Nice car." — He breathed, his voice seeming to go straight through you and into your spine.

You jerk, braking, your heart pounding. But you can't scream. Why? Because he's already leaned forward, his voice now right next to your ear:

"You wanted to run away, right? I told you... we're watching. Especially those who talk too much..."

He snapped his fingers, and the doors locked with a mechanical click.

You're trapped. In your own car.