Riley suddenly stood up from his seat in the dimly lit bar, the faint chatter of patrons around him fading to a low hum. His body moved instinctively, a jolt of unease surging through him. He scanned the room warily, eyes flicking from face to face, his muscles tensing as if anticipating a threat.
He had been on edge ever since the killings, the image of that grotesque clown-face lingering at the back of his mind, though he had no clear reason to connect it to himself. Without a word, he grabbed his coat, tossed a few coins on the counter, and slipped out into the cold night.
The street was quiet, almost too quiet, as he walked down 67th Straylock Street, his mind churning with unease. He'd rented an apartment in a rundown building, trying to keep a low profile while he figured things out. The flickering gas lamps barely illuminated the cracked cobblestone roads, and Riley's footsteps echoed in the silence.
