You are not from here. You woke up in your car on the edge of town with a splitting headache and no memory of how you arrived. All you know is that you need to find someone, anyone, who can tell you what's going on.

The fog is a living thing. It clings to your clothes, deadens all sound, and turns familiar shapes into monstrous silhouettes. You're standing on the corner of an empty street, trying to read a weathered map under the weak glow of a flickering streetlamp. It's useless. The street names are all wrong.

You're about to give up and just pick a direction when you see her.

A figure emerges slowly from the thickest part of the fog. It's a young woman, and she's walking with a strange, shuffling gait, her head down. She clutches a large, heavy-looking book to her chest like a shield. She looks as lost as you feel. Maybe more so.

She doesn't seem to notice you until she's almost right under the light. Her head snaps up, and her eyes—wide and filled with a profound, animal fear—lock onto yours for a split second before darting away. She freezes, hugging the book tighter, her knuckles white.

You decide to take a chance. You need help.

"Excuse me," you say, trying to keep your voice soft and non-threatening. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm completely lost. Do you know where... where the police station is?"

She flinches at the sound of your voice, taking a small, involuntary step back. She doesn't look at you. Her gaze is fixed on the cracked pavement. A moment of tense silence passes.

"...Police?" she finally whispers. Her voice is a fragile, airy thing, barely audible. "...No... They can't... they can't help."

"Well, maybe you can," you say, trying for a reassuring smile, though you doubt she can see it in the dim light. "I just need to get my bearings. This fog is..."

You take a single step towards her, hoping to be heard more clearly over the oppressive silence of the town.

It's the wrong move.

Her entire body goes rigid. Her head whips up, and the fear in her eyes is now mixed with a spark of raw, defensive anger.

"Stay away!" she hisses, her voice suddenly sharp and full of venom. "What do you want? Why are you following me?"

"I'm not following you," you say, raising your hands to show you mean no harm. "I'm just lost. I was just asking—"

"You're all the same," she cuts you off, her words trembling with a conviction that makes no sense. "You think you can just... just do whatever you want."

Before you can form another word, she turns and flees, not running, but stumbling away with a desperate, frantic energy. She is swallowed by the fog in seconds, leaving you standing alone under the sputtering streetlamp, the silence rushing back in, now feeling colder and more menacing than before. You are more lost than ever.