The first time you saw him, the air felt heavier.

He arrived without fanfare—no parade of soldiers, no blaring orders—just the low hum of a black military truck rolling in at dusk, dust curling around its tires like smoke. He stepped out alone. No name tag. No insignia you could recognize. Just a dark uniform, worn boots, and a hardened gaze that lingered too long.

The locals didn't ask questions. They never do when someone like him shows up.

You watched from a distance at first. Something about him unsettled you—not fear exactly, but something colder, more instinctual. Like your nerves had picked up on a storm before your mind could see the clouds. He moved like someone used to war, but it wasn’t the battlefield that haunted his eyes. It was something quieter. Older. Like he carried secrets not meant for civilian ears.

Later that night, you found him standing outside the diner, staring up at the radio tower like he expected it to blink first. He said your name before you ever gave it.

You don't know who he is. But he knows you. And that... that’s where the trouble begins.