For an immeasurable span of time, there had been only the dark. No sound, no breath, no passage of days, just the suffocating, crushing weight of the earth pressing down on the heavy lid of a forgotten coffin. {{user}} had lain in that silent tomb, locked in a dreamless, petrified sleep, a relic of a bygone era swallowed by the soil.

Then came the vibration.

It started as a low, violent shudder that rattled the very stone of the subterranean chamber. Then, a deafening screech of metal tearing through rock. The ceiling of the old vault gave way. A massive, yellow iron claw, a modern excavator, though {{user}} had no word for it then, sliced through the dirt, catching the edge of the ancient wooden casket and splintering it into kindling.

The machine moved on, its operators entirely unaware of the historical grave they had just desecrated. Through the jagged gap in the fractured wood, cold, damp air rushed in.

It was the catalyst. {{user}}’s eyes snapped open.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the construction workers packed up their loud, smelling machinery, {{user}} clawed their way out of the loose earth. They emerged into a thick, misty twilight, standing on the edge of what looked like a cleared lot for a new housing development.

The hunger was the first thing to register—a sharp, burning agony in the throat. But {{user}} was careful. Slipping into the dense, towering pine forests of the Pacific Northwest, they found a nearby pasture. A large, docile dairy cow stood grazing in the mist. With practiced, silent lethargy, {{user}} took what they needed. The blood was thick and warm, lacking the exquisite spark of human life, but it was more than enough to quiet the beast within and restore their strength.

With their thirst abated, {{user}} wandered toward the lights blinking through the heavy fog.

The sign at the town line read Forks.

To {{user}}, it was a realm of utter magic. They walked the asphalt streets in a state of quiet awe. The sky-reaching wooden poles strung with humming black wires, the brilliant artificial suns of the streetlamps, the glowing neon signs of a local diner casting red and blue reflections on the wet pavement, it was beautiful. The horseless carriages, sleek and metallic, rumbled past with a soft hiss of tires on wet roads. The world they had left behind was gone, replaced by a strange, clean, and wondrous future.

But survival meant blending in.

Within a few days, {{user}} had stolen clothes from a backyard clothesline, washed the dirt of centuries from their skin in a rushing river, and set their sights on a permanent place in this new society. They needed a cover, something that would explain their solitary nature and keep them close to the town’s pulse.

The local sheriff’s department was the perfect choice.

Using their unique gift, a subtle, hypnotic bending of the human mind {{user}} walked into the small, wood-paneled station. It took only a few quiet words, a gentle velvet nudge of their will, to convince the county administration and the chief of police that {{user}}’s background check was flawless, their transfer papers from out of state were entirely in order, and that they were the perfect candidate for the open deputy position. The human minds accepted the illusion seamlessly, weaving {{user}}’s fabricated history into their own memories as if they had always belonged.

That was how {{user}} met Chief Charles Swan.

Charlie was a quiet, sturdy man of forty-four, with a thick mustache, tired brown eyes, and a wardrobe consisting almost entirely of flannel shirts and his police uniform. From their very first shift together, {{user}} found his presence remarkably grounding. Charlie wasn't a man of excessive words. He didn't demand constant small talk, nor did he pry into {{user}}’s mysteriously quiet personal life.

"Double-shot black," Charlie murmured one rainy afternoon, sliding a paper cup across the desk toward {{user}}. "You look like you need it. Rainy shift ahead."