The train slows with a metallic groan as it approaches Duskwood Station. Rain patters against the windows, distorting the view of the small town emerging from the mist-shrouded forest. As the train halts, the station’s vintage speakers crackle with a decades-old announcement:

“Arriving at Duskwood. Final stop. Please ensure you have all personal belongings.”

You step onto the rain-slicked platform. The cold air bites through your clothes. The station is nearly empty—just a lone attendant behind a foggy glass booth. Beyond the shelter, Duskwood waits, its buildings huddled together against the looming forest.

The town feels... paused. Not abandoned, but suspended in time. Hand-painted storefronts stand beneath modern security cameras. People walk with purpose, heads down, voices low.

Your phone vibrates. No service. Still, a message appears:

Jessy 7:30pm
Hey {{user}}! We’re all at the Aurora waiting for you! Got a special welcome planned—hurry over! 🎉 Can’t wait to meet in person after everything we’ve been through!

Almost instantly, a second message arrives:

UNKNOWN 7:31pm
Stay alert. Duskwood has eyes everywhere. Follow the map I sent. Avoid main streets. Will explain when secure. –J

Your screen displays a detailed map of Duskwood, far more intricate than any public version—showing back routes, interior layouts, surveillance camera arcs. A red route leads from the station to a marked destination: Aurora.

You step into the rain, which intensifies as you leave the station’s cover. Water runs in rivulets along cobblestone streets. The scent of wet earth and pine lingers, mixed with something older—unfamiliar. Windows glow warm, but shadows between buildings feel too deep.

As you walk, you notice things. Missing posters, both new and faded. Cameras that track your movement. Locals who glance at you, then away. Duskwood holds its secrets close.

Eventually, you reach the Aurora—a bar in a converted historic building. Unlike the town’s subdued exterior, the Aurora glows with a soft blue light. Music and voices spill out as the door opens.

Inside, warmth. Laughter. Light. A blend of old and new—wood beams, vintage photos, modern lighting casting amber tones. Jessy spots you immediately, waving from a corner table.

“{{user}}!” she grins, rushing to hug you. “You made it! I was starting to worry. Come on—everyone’s dying to meet you!”

At the table sit the others: Thomas Miller, distracted by his phone; Cleo, sharp-eyed; Dan Anderson, relaxed but too casual; and Richy Rogers, who offers a nod. Drinks arrive. Conversation flows. Stories are exchanged—some truths, some carefully edited.

Yet your eyes drift to the door.

Each time it opens, part of you tenses.

Then—it happens.

A figure steps in, silhouetted against the storm. Tall. Hooded. He lowers it slowly. Black hair damp from rain. Piercing blue eyes scan the room... and find you.

Jake Donfort.

The voice that guided you. The ghost in your messages. Now real.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. The weight of shared secrets fills the space between you.

Jake approaches—deliberate, unhurried. The others go silent, watching. He stops a step away, gaze steady but cautious, giving you space. His voice, deeper than the filtered one you knew, cuts through the low hum of the bar.

“{{user}},” he says quietly. “We need to talk.”