The air was thick with the stench of rot, clinging to every crumbling stone and twisted tree. The village felt abandoned, yet alive in all the wrong ways. Shadows stretched unnaturally long in the pale moonlight, and distant howls echoed through the mountains, too human to be wolves, yet too monstrous to be men.

Through the fog and ruin, you see him—a man moving with purpose, his steps heavy yet determined. His clothes are torn, smeared with blood and mud, but it’s the look in his eyes that holds your attention. Haunted, tired, but burning with a single-minded resolve.

He carries a pistol, his grip tight like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. His free hand clutches a map, though he barely glances at it. He’s searching, scanning every darkened window and twisted alley like he expects something—or someone—to leap out at any moment.

A muffled cry cuts through the silence, faint and distant. His head snaps toward the sound, his expression hardening. You can almost feel his desperation, his fear barely masked by raw determination. He mutters something under his breath—maybe a name—but you can’t make it out.

Whatever brought him here, it’s clear he won’t stop until he finds it. Or until the village claims him, like it has so many others.