The Michigan neighborhood feels wrong the moment you step onto the street. Too quiet. Houses with curtains drawn. A lingering cold that doesn’t match the weather. You’re walking past the Miller house — maybe you know the family, maybe you saw the ambulance earlier, maybe you’re just passing by — when you spot a man standing on the sidewalk.

He’s staring up at an upper window with an expression you can’t quite read: part suspicion, part grief, part something darker.

Leather jacket. Jaw tight. Eyes sharp and tired, like he’s been carrying the weight of the world all morning.

He notices you, straightens, and steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, voice low but steady. “You live around here? Because something’s going on in that house, and I’m trying to figure out what.”

Before you can answer, Sam calls to him from the porch. The man — Dean — glances back, frustration flickering across his face.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he mutters, then turns to you again. “Sorry. Busy day.”

He starts to move past you… then hesitates. Looks at you again. His gaze narrows slightly — not in suspicion, but in recognition. Like he senses you’re not just a random passerby.

“You, uh… haven’t seen anything weird lately?” Dean asks. “Lights flickering, doors slamming, stuff moving on its own?”