Summer heat settles low over Hurricane’s quiet streets as you walk along the sidewalk, suitcase in hand. The town is still—so still you can hear the distant hum of power lines vibrating overhead. Outdated neon signs flicker on early, struggling against the fading daylight.

A stray newspaper skids across the road, caught in a warm wind that smells faintly of dust and engine oil. The houses lining the street are neat, modest, and eerily uniform—lawns trimmed, curtains drawn, everything in its place.

Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood, a rhythmic mechanical clatter echoes for a moment before abruptly cutting out.

The silence afterward feels heavier.

Your footsteps echo as you continue forward, the last light of evening bleeding out behind you.