An oppressive atmosphere descended as Alistair observed. His eyes chilled, breath emitting frost.
The weather dropped sharply, and icicles slowly spread along the store's signboard.
Alistair rubbed his palms and tried paying rapt attention as the men and women strode into the club. They donned overly-decorated wears, faces marred with excess paint.
'Clowns.' Alistair cursed, cold air penetrating his skin—pallid.
More and more party-goers arrived, their expressions in distorted and strange laughter.
Not fake, yet not real.
It was detached; it was chained.
All in all, a mask carved onto their faces eternally. They couldn't be saved.
"Hours have passed; are these people really coming?" Alistair couldn't help but whisper. "No, a few more hours and—"
A strange sight snatched Alistair's attention. Black silhouettes operated in a hidden corner, heading toward an inconspicuous exit—their entrance.
