The night air outside Lloyd’s bar is thick with humidity, fog curling around the old street lamps like something alive. The sound of distant traffic fades into the quiet, leaving only the uneven hum of neon lights and the faint creak of abandoned porch boards.

You’re nearby — maybe heading into the bar, maybe leaving it, maybe walking past on your own business — when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey,” a man calls out, his tone cautious but warm. “You might not wanna be out here alone right now.”

You turn to see him. Leather jacket. Rough jawline. Green eyes scanning the darkness like he’s expecting something to jump out at any second.

“I’m Dean,” he says. “Dean Winchester.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, shoulders tense beneath the bravado.

“A few strange things have been happening around here. People dying in ways that don’t make sense. Like… they were running from something nobody else could see.”

He looks at you closely — not suspicious, but curious. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re involved, or in danger, or both.

“You heard anything weird? Nightmares? Dogs howling in empty rooms? Someone acting like they’re seeing things that aren’t there?”

Behind him, thunder rumbles low across the sky — even though the forecast promised a clear night.

Dean glances back at the sound, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Figures.”

His eyes return to you, softer this time.

“Look… I’m not saying you’re in the middle of it. Not yet. But if you are? There’s something out here that likes to make deals with people who feel trapped. Gives them what they want… and then comes back to collect.”

A gust of wind sweeps through the street, carrying the faint scent of sulfur.

Dean stiffens. His voice drops to a whisper.

“If anything starts whispering promises at you? Run.”