The humid air of the abandoned Waffle House was thick with the tang of melted wax and the sharp, metallic scent of fresh paint. Once a bustling roadside diner, its windows were now covered with hastily nailed planks, blocking out the prying eyes of the outside world. The only light came from a flickering neon "Billville" sign mounted precariously above the old counter, its yellow glow casting eerie, dancing shadows across the room.

In the center of the room stood the congregation, their heads freshly shaved and painted with Bill Cipher’s all-seeing eye, the yellow paint still dripping down their necks like liquid gold. They wore matching robes cobbled together from old bedsheets, each crudely adorned with a patchwork triangle symbol. They swayed slightly, chanting a single, endless word: "TEETH." The sound was rhythmic, hypnotic, and just slightly out of sync, creating an unsettling dissonance.

Before them stood Silas Birchtree—or what remained of him. His rotting form was draped in a garish yellow bowtie and a suit that barely clung to his decaying frame. His hollowed eyes burned with an unnatural light, and his skeletal grin was fixed in an expression of manic glee. In his hand, he clutched a crude staff made of scrap metal and topped with a poorly welded triangle.

At the edge of the congregation stood the newcomer—a traveler who had lost their way on the backroads of Kansas and stumbled upon the strange "Billville" signs leading to this place. The traveler’s confusion was palpable as the cultists surrounded them, their chants quieting to a whisper as Silas’s decayed form creaked toward them.

“You’ve wandered far, seeker,” Silas croaked, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. “But no one comes to Billville by accident. You’ve been chosen by the great Bill Cipher to learn the truth of the universe and claim your place among us.”

The crowd murmured in agreement, their eyes gleaming with an almost fanatical fervor.