The darkness was absolute, a suffocating void that pressed against him like a weight. At first, he didn't panic—he was used to the dark. It was his element, after all. But as he lay still, his mind slowly sharpened, something felt wrong. His eyes, usually sharp enough to pierce the night—saw nothing. He blinked, once, twice, expecting the familiar shapes of the room to emerge, but they didn't.
He reached out, expecting his senses to guide him: the pulse of life in the air, the scent of blood, the whisper of footsteps in distant corridors. Instead, there was nothing. Silence reigned, so thick it felt unnatural. His fingers touched the cold surface of stone beneath him, but no other sensations followed. His heart, usually slow and controlled, quickened.
He rose carefully, his feet unsure in the pitch-blackness. He extended his hands, hoping for some wall, some object, anything to anchor him to reality. Each step was deliberate, each breath shallow.
The coldness pressed against him from every direction as he moved forward blindly, his hands grazing the edges of the walls, feeling their texture—smooth and worn, but unyielding. Desperation prickled at him. There had to be something here, something to tell him where he was or how to escape this endless void.
His powerlessness gnawed at him, an unfamiliar helplessness. He wasn't used to feeling so vulnerable.
"What is this?" he whispered, his voice lost in the oppressive silence.
He took a tentative step forward, foot scraping against the floor, sending an echo that seemed too distant, as if the room stretched farther than he could imagine. Each step felt heavier than the last as he searched for a way out, but the room offered no answers.
The weight of the silence began to close in, tightening around him like an invisible hand. He wasn't used to fear, not like this, and it clawed at his insides. Yet he couldn't stop. He wouldn't. There had to be something here, some way to escape, to make sense of this suffocating nightmare. His fingers continued to reach into the void, desperate for anything that would lead him from this maddening prison.
His fingertips dragged across the stone wall, cold and unyielding. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to let panic overtake him. He knew better. He had lived long enough to understand that fear clouded judgment, but the darkness... it felt like it was alive, wrapping itself tighter around him with every passing moment.
Then, his foot kicked something small, and it skittered across the floor with a metallic clink. He froze, listening as the sound echoed and then faded into silence again. Heart pounding in his chest, he crouched down, feeling around the floor. His fingertips brushed against the cool metal of the object.
A lighter.
It was simple, small, and surprisingly warm to the touch, as if it had been waiting for him. He held it in his palm, feeling the weight of it, almost afraid to ignite it. But the urge to see, to break the thick wall of blackness, overpowered his hesitation.
With a flick of his thumb, the wheel ground against the flint, sparking once, twice, and then—fire. A tiny, flickering flame burst to life, casting a dim, wavering glow around him. It wasn't much, but it was enough to push back the overwhelming darkness.
He blinked, eyes adjusting to the newfound light. The room was small, almost claustrophobic, the walls rough and uneven as though carved from solid stone. The floor beneath his feet was jagged, patches of dust and debris scattered across it.
As he held the lighter up, the flame danced in his eyes, casting fleeting shadows on the walls. He moved it slowly, scanning the room, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
But it was more than just the room. The flame felt real, and the heat of it warmed his skin in a way that didn't belong in dreams. It brought with it a strange clarity, as if waking him from a deeper slumber.
The question gnawed at him: Was this really a dream after all?
He took a deep breath, staring into the flame, and decided. He wasn't going to wait to find out.
As he moved the lighter, the glow caught the rough stone around him, but nothing seemed familiar. The room was a cage, its oppressive silence heavy as if the walls themselves were waiting.
Then, in the corner—barely visible—his light caught something. A seam in the stone. His breath hitched as he stepped closer, holding the lighter high to examine it. A door, or at least the outline of one. His fingers traced the edges, finding a cold, rusted metal frame hidden within the stonework. The surface was coarse, worn with age and neglect, but unmistakably a door.
Relief mixed with suspicion. If there was a door, where did it lead? And why hadn't he sensed it before? The dream—or whatever this was—had masked it, kept it hidden from him.
He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear anything beyond. Silence. His hand found the handle, rusted and stiff under his grip.
With a firm pull, he tugged at it, and the door groaned, resisting as if it had been sealed shut for centuries. The sound echoed through the small chamber, louder than anything he'd heard since waking here. He gritted his teeth and pulled again, using more force. The metal creaked, protesting against his efforts, but finally, with a sharp snap, the door gave way.
Cold, musty air rushed in from the other side, carrying with it the faint smell of damp stone and something... older.
He held up the lighter and peered into the darkness beyond. A narrow passage stretched out before him, disappearing into blackness. But now, with this door open, there was only one way forward.
Taking a steadying breath, he stepped over the threshold and into the unknown.
The air in the passageway was thick, each breath heavier than the last as he made his way forward, the lighter still flickering weakly in his grasp. Every step echoed unnervingly in the narrow corridor, bouncing off the cold stone walls that seemed to close in around him. The deeper he went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, as if the darkness itself was a living, breathing thing, watching his every move.
Suddenly, the passage opened into a larger space. The air in the next room was heavier, colder, and as soon as he stepped through, the smell hit him. Metallic and thick, it coated his senses in a way that made his stomach twist. Blood. Everywhere. The lighter's flame flickered as if recoiling from the stench, but it illuminated enough for him to see the horror that awaited him.
Smeared on the stone walls, dark and dried in some places, fresh and wet in others. Crimson streaks painted in chaotic patterns, as though someone—or something—had clawed at the walls, leaving desperate marks in their wake. The floor was worse—slick with pools of blood that reflected the trembling flame of the lighter, making the surface gleam in a sickening red hue.
Then, cutting through the stifling air—screams. Distant, distorted, filled with terror. The kind of screams that turned the blood cold, a sound of pure agony and despair. They echoed faintly from somewhere far beyond the walls, barely audible but unmistakably real. The sound made his chest tighten, each desperate wail clawing at his mind, pulling him deeper into the nightmare.
His grip on the lighter tightened, knuckles white as he scanned the room, desperately seeking something that made sense, some sign of life—or of death. But the room was empty. Only the blood, thick and warm, and the faint screams that seemed to come from another world entirely.
The door behind him creaked softly as it swung shut, sealing him in. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. He just listened to the terrifying echoes around him, feeling the weight of the blood-soaked room press down on him.
His heartbeat hammered in his chest, the distant screams still echoing in his mind. He had to move. This place—it felt wrong, unnatural, like it was designed to swallow him whole. The metallic scent of blood clung to him, but he forced himself to step forward, searching the room through the dim flicker of the lighter.
And then, he saw it—a door on the far side of the room. Hidden in the shadows, slightly ajar, as though beckoning him toward it.
Without hesitation, he crossed the blood-slicked floor, his boots sliding slightly on the pooling crimson, but he didn't stop. His hand found the cold metal handle, and with a sharp tug, the door opened with an ominous groan.
The air in the next room was different. It wasn't heavy like the blood-soaked chamber he was leaving behind, but it was thick with dust and something else—something dry. He stepped inside, holding the lighter up to illuminate his new surroundings. The flame danced weakly, but it was enough to reveal the floor beneath his feet.
Flint. Scattered everywhere.
His eyes widened as the tiny stones crunched under his boots. The room was littered with flint shards, covering nearly every inch of the floor. They sparkled faintly in the dim light, sharp and jagged, like a thousand tiny blades waiting to be ignited.
He knelt down, running his fingers over the ground, feeling the rough, uneven texture of the flint beneath his fingertips. There was no pattern to the way it was spread—just scattered, random, as if someone—or something—had left it here for him. The deeper he moved into the room, the more of it there was, the sound of the stones scraping against each other growing louder with every step.
The room was otherwise empty, the walls bare, the silence once again pressing in on him. But this time, the silence felt different—more tense, more expectant. He looked down at the lighter in his hand, the flame still alive but trembling.
Flint and fire. A dangerous combination.
The realization hit him hard. And now, with every step, he felt as though he was walking on the edge of a trap, waiting for something to ignite the spark that could consume him.
He took a deep breath, his senses still dulled but his instincts screaming at him to be careful. This place wanted something from him, but he wasn't about to give it the satisfaction.
Another door waited ahead, this one slightly ajar, beckoning him forward. The strange scattering of flint felt like a warning, but with nowhere else to go, he had no choice. He took one last look at the shattered stones beneath his feet before pushing the door open and stepping deeper into the unknown.
He pushed the door open cautiously, the room beyond barely illuminated by the flickering light of his lighter. The silence was unnerving—heavy, as if waiting for him to make the first move. He stepped inside, his boots crunching on the remnants of the flint still clinging to his soles, and scanned the new space.
The room was larger than the last, but there was something different about the atmosphere. It felt... watchful.
His gaze drifted upward, and then he saw it. Perched high on a wooden beam above him, shrouded in shadow, was an owl. Its silhouette was stark against the dim light of the room, but its eyes—large, golden, and unblinking—pierced the darkness. The bird's gaze locked onto him, following his every movement, silently observing. Its feathers, dark and speckled, blended into the beam, but those eyes... they were all he could focus on.
For a moment, he froze. The owl didn't move, didn't blink, just stared at him, almost as if it knew something he didn't. Its presence was unnerving, yet strangely calming at the same time—a silent sentinel in this strange place.
He took a few tentative steps forward, half expecting the bird to react, to screech or take flight. But it remained still, its head turning slightly as he moved, eyes fixed on him, tracking his every motion with an eerie precision.
"What are you?" he whispered under his breath, unsure if he was speaking to the bird or himself. The owl offered no response, only the faint sound of its feathers ruffling as it shifted its position on the beam, still watching.
There was something almost intelligent in the way it observed him, like it understood more than just the simple instincts of an animal. It didn't feel like a random encounter, not here. It felt deliberate.
He stepped further into the room, the lighter's flame wavering in his hand. The owl's gaze never left him, its silent presence weighing on him as he searched the room. Was it a threat? A guide? He couldn't tell. But it didn't seem intent on stopping him—at least, not yet.
The room itself was sparse, almost bare, but there was something about the owl, perched high above, that made him feel as if he were being judged—like the creature was waiting for him to make the wrong move.
But he couldn't stop now. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the unsettling eyes watching him, and began to search for a way out, or a clue to whatever this room held.
The owl remained silent, its golden eyes still tracking him from the shadows.
He found another door at the far end of the owl's room, slightly ajar as though it had been waiting for him. The owl's unblinking gaze followed him until the last second before he crossed the threshold. He pushed the door open cautiously, stepping into the next room.
As soon as his foot touched the floor, he froze.
The sound hit him first—a faint, rhythmic clacking, like hundreds of tiny claws scraping against the stone. The dim light of his lighter revealed the source: scorpions. Dozens, maybe hundreds, crawling across the floor, their dark, armored bodies gleaming in the flickering light. Their pincers snapped open and shut with a sinister precision, and their stingers arched above their backs, twitching in readiness. They covered every inch of the floor, a writhing mass of venomous creatures waiting to strike at the first misstep.
He swallowed hard, lifting one foot slowly, high above the scuttling creatures, and carefully placing it down in a small gap between them. The moment his boot touched the floor, the nearest scorpions twitched but didn't strike. He let out a slow breath, realizing he would have to keep this agonizing pace—step by step, lifting his feet high and deliberate to avoid provoking the venomous swarm.
His eyes remained fixed on the ground, the flicker of the lighter in his hand just enough to light the path ahead, but his heart raced. Each movement had to be perfect. One misstep, and the sting of the scorpions' tails could tear through his skin in an instant. He could practically feel the venomous tension in the air as they crawled around his feet.
The room felt endless, the journey across it painstakingly slow. His muscles tensed with each step, his senses focused entirely on where to place his feet next. Every clack of pincers, every rustle of scorpion legs against the stone, made his skin crawl, but he pressed on.
His focus was singular, his gaze locked on the far side of the room where another door awaited. The scorpions continued to click and clack beneath him, as if mocking his efforts. He swallowed hard, keeping his steps slow and measured, his lighter's flame flickering wildly in the unsettling stillness.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the door. His hand shook as he grasped the handle, but he forced himself to remain calm, even as the scorpions continued to crawl beneath his feet. He pushed the door open slowly, carefully stepping through to escape the nightmare that crawled across the floor.
He stepped into the last room, his heart pounding from the ordeal behind him. The air was stale, the room dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb swaying ever so slightly from the ceiling. The weak light cast eerie shadows along the cracked walls, making the small space feel as though it was on the verge of collapse.
In the center of the room, two teenagers sat huddled together—one boy, one girl. They looked no older than sixteen, their faces pale, eyes wide with terror. They clung to each other as if holding on for dear life. The boy's lip quivered, his gaze darting around the room, while the girl sobbed quietly, her fingers trembling as they grasped the boy's arm.
"Please," the girl cried out, her voice breaking through the silence. "You have to help us!"
Her voice was raw, filled with desperation. She looked directly at him, eyes pleading, as though he were the only thing standing between them and some unspeakable horror.
He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. His senses tingled with dread, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop suddenly, an icy coldness creeping up his spine. He felt it before he saw it.
A presence.
Slowly, he turned, his breath freezing in his lungs as his gaze fell on the dark corner of the room. There, half-hidden in the shadows, stood a creature. Its form was indistinct, as if it were made of the very darkness itself, but its eyes—those eyes—glowed with an unnatural, sinister grey light. They radiated cold, a chilling energy that seemed to suck the warmth from the air.
The creature remained still for a moment, its gaze locked on him, its intent unmistakable. It was waiting, watching him, calculating its next move. Then, with a sudden shift, it lunged forward, its movements swift and fluid, a blur of shadow and ice.
His instincts kicked in, and he braced himself for the attack, but before he could react—everything shattered.
The blaring sound of metal music jarred him violently, pulling him out of the nightmare. His eyes shot open, and he found himself in his own bed, tangled in sheets. His alarm blared from the bedside table, the aggressive rhythm of a metal band vibrating through the room.
Heart pounding, he sat up, disoriented, the vividness of the dream still clinging to him like a second skin. The cold, the fear, the creature—it had all felt so real. But now, it was just a memory, fading fast in the harsh reality of his waking world.
Taking a deep breath, he turned his head toward the window. Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. The light warmed his pale skin, a gentle reminder that he was still here, still alive in this world, far removed from the nightmare he had just escaped.
Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, he checked the date, squinting at the screen. "Saturday," he muttered to himself, the weight of routine settling in. "Time to sell some crops."
It wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary. His mind still buzzed with the strange fragments of the dream, but he pushed them aside, knowing he had things to do. He stood, stretching out his stiff muscles before heading to his wardrobe. His usual clothes—a simple, black worn shirt and jeans—were laid out neatly from the night before. He dressed quickly, pulling on his boots with a practiced ease, then his leather jacket.
The basement was his next destination. Descending the creaky wooden stairs, he flicked on the single lightbulb, the space below immediately filled with the earthy scent of the crops he had stored there. Bins and crates lined the walls, filled with vegetables, herbs, and a few rarer plants he tended to with care. The basement was cool and dim, a far cry from the nightmare realm he had just escaped, but here, everything was under control.
He knelt by a crate filled with ripe tomatoes and another of fresh greens, inspecting them for quality before packing them into a wooden box. It was a routine he had done countless times, but today, something felt different. The dream lingered, its images creeping at the edges of his mind, and he found himself glancing over his shoulder more than once, as if expecting those grey eyes to appear out of the shadows.
But there was nothing. Just the comforting quiet of his basement.
Shaking off the unease, he hefted the box of crops, ready to head to the market. The dream had been just that—a dream. It was time to focus on the real world. Time to work.
His breath hung in the crisp late January air as he stepped outside, the cold biting at his face and hands. The contrast between the warmth of the house and the chill outside was jarring, but it was familiar. Locking the door behind him, he turned toward the driveway where his car waited—a black muscle car, sleek and powerful, its polished surface gleaming under the soft morning light. It was his pride and joy, a beast of a machine, four doors but no less intimidating with its roaring engine and smooth curves.
He approached the car, his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground, and popped the trunk. The cold metal of the trunk lid stung his fingers, but he barely noticed, focused on the task at hand. Inside, the trunk was already prepped for his usual market day, lined with old but sturdy blankets to keep the produce secure during the drive.
Carefully, he placed the crates of fresh harvest inside, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the gray of the winter landscape.
He paused for a moment, surveying his work. The crops were meticulously harvested, each piece of produce handled with care from his garden to the crates. It wasn't the largest haul, but it was enough to make a good sale at the market.
With the last crate settled in, he closed the trunk, the satisfying thud echoing in the quiet morning air. He rubbed his hands together, trying to ward off the cold before heading to the driver's side. The dream still lingered faintly in the back of his mind, but the routine of the day helped push it away, grounding him in the here and now.
He slid into the driver's seat, the familiar scent of leather and motor oil greeting him as he adjusted his mirrors. Turning the key, the car roared to life, the engine's growl vibrating through the seats. He couldn't help but smile at the sound. It was time to get to work, and the road to the market stretched ahead, just waiting to be conquered.
He pulled out of his driveway, the tires crunching over the frost-bitten ground as he navigated the still, deserted streets of Inkdale. The town was a strange blend of the old and the new—gothic spires and arches from centuries past stood side by side with sleek, modern buildings made of glass and steel. It was a place where history seemed to linger in every shadow, yet the present marched forward, trying to blend the two worlds together.
He drove past the narrow, cobbled alleys and towering churches with their grim stone faces, the car's engine humming a steady rhythm that cut through the silence. Inkdale always felt eerie in the early hours, the mist curling around the base of buildings and the cold air settling into every corner. It was a strange harmony, and he had grown used to it, though the town's mood always seemed to shift with the seasons.
As he pulled into the green market, the familiar hustle and bustle greeted him, though it was quieter than usual in the chill of January. The market was a mix of makeshift stalls and tents, most vendors driving up in weathered pickup trucks or vans with faded logos of local farms. His sleek black muscle car was a stark contrast, gleaming under the morning sun, catching the attention of everyone who passed by.
He stepped out, retrieving his crates from the trunk with practiced ease. As he carried them to his stall, he could feel the eyes of the other vendors on him—more so than usual.
He caught a few whispers, hushed conversations that stopped when he came near. He didn't know if it was the dream lingering in his mind, making him more sensitive to the world around him, or if something had shifted in the way they saw him.
But he kept his focus. He had perfected this routine, setting up his display so it stood out just enough without seeming too out of place. Today was just another market day. Another chance to sell, to blend in despite the ever-present feeling that he didn't quite belong.
He ran a hand through his hair, adjusting the final crate, perfecting the layout. His stall was ready, and despite the strange energy in the air, he had work to do.
Whatever those glances meant, they could wait.
The market was alive with the hum of conversation and the shuffle of customers browsing stalls, but that hum was abruptly pierced by a sneering voice.
"Well, well, look who we have here. Oswald Cruor, back again," the voice cut through the noise like a blade.
Oswald didn't need to look up to know who it was. He recognized that voice—contempt oozing from every word. Glancing up, he saw the stout figure of Patrick Avide approaching, his broad chest puffed out with a self-satisfied grin. Morley's mustache twitched as he sauntered closer, flanked by a few other farmers—his so-called "friends" who always followed in his shadow, nodding along to whatever he said.
Oswald's face hardened, his expression shifting into a cold mask. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Patrick's grin widened, the mockery in his eyes unmistakable. "We haven't seen you since December. Thought you might've thrown in the towel."
Oswald leaned against his stall casually, not breaking his cool composure. "Didn't have a reason to come around. Made enough profit in December to keep me busy."
Patrick's smirk deepened, taking a step closer, his voice dropping into a mockery of concern. "Things have changed, Cruor. And not in your favor."
Oswald's eyes flicked to the group trailing behind Morley, his gaze cutting through them before landing back on the man himself. "Yeah, I've noticed. You've got minions now. Fits your big nose and that balding head."
Patrick's smirk wavered for a second, his eyes narrowing as his bravado faltered. "Listen, boy," he growled, stepping closer, "I'm not here for a chat. I'm here to help you."
"Help?" Oswald raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "With what exactly?"
Patrick gestured toward Oswald's produce, his hand sweeping in a wide arc. "Aren't you tired of selling these scarred, pitiful crops? Tired of being poor? Sell me your land and work for me. I'll pay you more than you make now. You're strong, even if you're not the tallest."
Oswald's expression remained impassive. "No. My land isn't for sale. I'm proud of my crops, even if they're not perfect."
The fake niceties evaporated from Patrick's face in an instant, replaced with sharp, biting anger. "Listen to me, boy," he spat, his voice rising, "I don't know who you think you are, but this is your chance of a lifetime. Don't let stupidity get the best of you and pass up on this offer."
Oswald shook his head, his voice calm but resolute. "Stupidity? Hm, I'd rather call it ego. Ego of a farmer."
Patrick's face flushed red with fury. "Ego? What ego do you even have? You're a disgrace to all of us farmers! Look at your pathetic crops! So imperfect and riddled with scars!"
Oswald remained steady, grabbing a tomato from his stall. He held it up, then calmly sliced it in half with a pocket knife, revealing the juicy, fresh interior. "They might not look perfect, but they're good inside. It's the end of January—no one expects perfection. I know more about farming than you think. And hey," he added, a subtle smirk curling his lips, "at least my crops are chemical-free, unlike… well, you know who."
The other farmers shifted uncomfortably, but Patrick's face twisted with rage, his voice booming. "How dare you insult us! We've got more years in this business than you've got under your belt! Do you even know who we are?! We're the cream of the crop in this damn business! And a little whippersnapper like you has the nerve to mock us?! No one has ever refused me, boy! No one! You're gonna regret this, boy! You hear me?! You're gonna regret this!"
Oswald didn't flinch. "Mhm."
Patrick's hands balled into fists, his eyes flaring with frustration, but he turned sharply on his heel. "You'll be so broke, you'll starve!" he bellowed, storming away with his lackeys scurrying after him.
Oswald watched them go, his smirk returning. "I'll work for him when pigs fly," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he returned to perfecting his display.
As the hours passed, the foot traffic at the market increased, and Oswald's stall became a hub of activity. His modest assortment of produce disappeared faster than he had anticipated, leaving him with little more than empty crates and satisfied customers. By the afternoon, his table was nearly bare, save for a few leftover items.
With a final sale made, Oswald began counting his earnings, a stack of bills in hand. Out of sheer curiosity, he counted them, and to his surprise, he had made more than he expected.
With a sense of satisfaction settling over him, he surveyed the sparse remains of his stall—a few loose greens and a couple of root vegetables left behind. Things were looking up. Maybe Patrick's taunts weren't as prophetic as he had believed. Future profits seemed well within reach if this momentum kept up.
The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky with warm orange and pink hues. Oswald gathered what was left of his crops, stowing the remaining produce carefully in the trunk of his muscle car. The market was winding down, vendors packing up their goods, and customers trickling away. With a satisfied sigh, he shut the trunk with a soft thud, locking up for the day.
As he slid into the driver's seat, his stomach growled, the gnawing hunger catching up with him. He hadn't eaten all day. With his day's profits tucked safely in his jacket, he decided to make a quick stop at the local corner shop before heading home. A little reward for a good day's work wouldn't hurt.
The shop wasn't far—just a short drive through the winding streets of Inkdale. It sat on the edge of town, nestled between two taller, more modern buildings. The corner shop itself was an odd relic of the past, its gothic Victorian facade unchanged for decades. Its stone exterior was dark and weathered, with ivy creeping up its sides, but inside, it was as nondescript as they came. A familiar place where he could grab a quick bite and maybe something to drink.
He parked nearby and stepped out into the fading daylight, the chill in the air biting at his skin. Pushing open the door to the shop, the bell above jingled softly. The interior was cozy but unremarkable—wooden shelves lined with common goods, the faint scent of tobacco and old wood lingering in the air.
Oswald's stomach grumbled again, a sharp reminder of the day's neglect. He made his way to the small section of prepackaged sandwiches and snacks, his mind already focused on what to grab for a quick meal.
As Oswald approached the counter with his items in hand, the cashier barely looked up, her voice flat and familiar.
"Back again, Cruor? Hope you're not here for another tab," the cashier remarked casually, her tone a mix of familiarity and mild skepticism as she eyed him from behind the counter.
Oswald smirked, pulling out his wallet. "No worries, I've got cash this time. How much for a loaf of bread, some ham, salami, and roast meat? I'm feeling hungry."
The cashier, a woman in her late forties with short, graying hair, didn't bother to hide her boredom as she rattled off the prices. "Bread's a dollar, cheapest salami's $2.50, ham's $4.60, and roast meat's $9."
"I'll take those. Also, how much do I owe you now?" Oswald asked, pulling a stack of bills from his wallet.
She glanced at the register, her expression flat. "Your tab's at $67."
Oswald started counting out the total, placing the bills on the counter with a slight grin. "Well, you paying your debt is certainly surprising," the cashier remarked, raising an eyebrow but keeping her tone neutral.
Oswald chuckled as he handed over the cash. "Well, I guess miracles can happen."
She gave a half-hearted nod as she stuffed the money into the register, then slid the bag of food toward him. "Take care, Cruor."
Oswald gave her a nod in return, taking the bag and walking out of the shop. The cold air greeted him once more as he made his way to his car, the quiet streets of Inkdale bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. He tossed the bag of groceries onto the passenger seat, already planning out his dinner as he drove home.
Once back at the house, Oswald wasted no time. He dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter, pulling out the bread, ham, salami, and roast meat, and quickly assembled himself a sandwich that would've made a deli jealous. Grabbing two beers from the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the rare feeling of contentment that washed over him as he dug into his meal.
"Now that's a meal," he muttered, chewing a mouthful of sandwich, savoring the salty taste of the meat and bread. After a pause, he frowned slightly, eyeing the now-empty beer can. "I need more beer," he said under his breath, his mind already wandering to his next destination.
Later that night, Oswald found himself standing outside Whisky on a Stake, the town's favorite watering hole. The rustic bar's worn wooden sign creaked gently in the breeze, illuminated by the dull glow of the streetlights. Usually bustling with life, the place was unusually quiet tonight, with only a few scattered customers visible through the windows.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of whiskey and old leather welcoming him as he stepped inside. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the bar, and the low hum of quiet conversation filled the air.
"Oh, Ozzy! I haven't seen you in the last two weeks!" Moe Horton, the tall, brown-haired bartender and owner, called out with a wide grin, his deep voice cutting through the soft murmur of the bar.
"Yeah, it's been a while. Give me the usual," Oswald replied, settling onto a familiar barstool, the wood creaking under him.
"The usual? You've been gone so long I almost forgot what it is," Moe said with a playful smirk as he began to reach for a bottle.
"It's only been two weeks," Oswald said, raising an eyebrow.
"I know, I was joking. Come on, lighten up a little," Moe chuckled, pouring Oswald's usual—whiskey neat—and sliding it across the counter.
Oswald lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, the burn of the alcohol a welcome sensation after the long day. As he settled in, something across the room caught his attention. At a table near the back, he spotted Patrick Avide, the loudmouthed farmer from the green market. He wasn't alone; a woman sat beside him, leaning in close, dressed in a way that drew more than a few eyes in the bar.
Oswald leaned toward Moe, lowering his voice. "Am I seeing things, or is that Patrick with a… hooker?"
Moe followed his gaze, his expression unimpressed. "Yep, different one every day. Changes them like socks, so I've heard."
Oswald let out a low whistle. "I wonder what his wife thinks about that."
"Oh, the wife's fine with it. She participates too," Moe said matter-of-factly, wiping down the bar with a rag.
Oswald nearly choked on his drink, setting the glass down to cough. "I didn't know Patrick was like that."
"Yeah, word is he hasn't been the same since he won the lottery," Moe said, shaking his head slowly.
"If he won the lottery and is supposedly rich, why is he still hanging around here?" Oswald asked, his curiosity piqued.
Moe shrugged, leaning on the bar. "He's planning to move to LA soon, but he's keeping his land here for the cash flow. You know, just in case his new life doesn't work out."
Oswald snorted. "Hasn't been a millionaire for long, but he already acts like one."
Moe arched an eyebrow and lowered his voice. "Speaking of Patrick, mind if I ask you something?"
"Go ahead," Oswald replied, taking another sip from his glass, his mood mellowing under the effects of the alcohol.
"Did he offer you a gig? Like he's done with others?" Moe's tone was casual, but there was a flicker of seriousness in his eyes.
"Yeah, he tried. I turned him down, and then he made it sound like I'd regret it. You know, the usual—said no one's ever refused him before, blah blah," Oswald recalled, rolling his eyes at the memory.
Moe's brow furrowed slightly. "Doesn't that concern you?"
Oswald shrugged, setting his glass down. "Why should it? You think he's going to torch my land or something? He's got nothing to take from me."
Moe chuckled, but there was a lingering tension in his voice. "Fair enough. But he's got guys working for him. What if they decide to beat you up or worse?"
Oswald waved a hand dismissively. "If they fight as well as they look, I've got nothing to worry about."
Moe shook his head with a laugh. "Alright then, putting Patrick aside, how's life been lately?"
"As usual, you know the drill. Wake up, tend to my farm, sell, eat, drink, sleep, repeat," Oswald responded with a tired sigh, swirling his drink lazily.
"Patrick and the other farmers seem to have a more... intriguing life, if you catch my drift," Moe suggested, pouring another round of drinks. "Maybe try to branch out, meet some new folks. You're younger than most of them after all."
Oswald shook his head, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "I'm good, Moe. I've finally found the peace I've been craving. It's quiet... Well, sort of. But I've got all I need and all I wanted," he replied, though there was a faint undertone of longing, like he wasn't quite as content as he claimed to be.
Just as their conversation lulled, the bar door swung open with a burst of energy. A young woman, her tightly braided black hair pulled into a ponytail, strode into the room with an infectious enthusiasm. Her eyes scanned the small crowd before she confidently called out.
"Good evening, Inkdale! Private investigator Olivia Winchester at your service! Anyone got a case for me?" she announced, her voice bright and eager, almost like a performer on stage.
Her entrance was met with silence, the few patrons either uninterested or too wrapped up in their drinks to respond. Undeterred, she made her way over to the bar, landing right next to Oswald and Moe.
"Hi there! So, Mr. uh, Sir…" she began, flashing a playful grin as she leaned on the counter.
"You can call me Moe," the bartender replied with a chuckle, already amused by her infectious energy.
"Right, Moe. Well, maybe everyone's too shy or scared to say it, but do you have a case for me to solve? I'd really appreciate it!" Olivia's eyes sparkled with curiosity, practically daring Moe to give her something interesting.
Moe shook his head, still smiling but offering little hope. "Sorry, I don't have anything."
"Yeah, nothing interesting ever happens around here," Oswald muttered, taking another slow sip of his drink.
"Just the usual minor stuff, you know. Missing cats or stolen crops," Moe added, as though it were the most mundane thing in the world.
Olivia leaned in further, her voice dropping to a pleading tone. "Come on, guys, you've gotta give me something. Please?"
Moe exchanged a glance with Oswald, and with a smirk, said, "Well, maybe Oswald here has something for you. I've heard he has problems with Patrick."
"Oh, Patrick, huh?" Olivia perked up instantly, her enthusiasm reignited. "What's the deal with him? Corrupt? Part of a mafia? If so, I'm all in!" She grinned, her excitement almost comical as she focused all her attention on Oswald.
Oswald waved her off, clearly not in the mood for the dramatics. "No, no. It's nothing I can't handle. But who knows, maybe you'll find something intriguing elsewhere."
Olivia pouted for a moment, her lips forming a playful frown before bouncing back with a bright smile. "Alright, then. I'll leave you to it. But don't be surprised if I find something on my own! Enjoy your night!"
As she made her way toward the exit, Moe leaned in closer to Oswald, his tone quieter but with a hint of wisdom. "You know, Ozzy, sometimes you've got to be more open to surprises. You might stumble onto something worth your while."
Oswald took a slow sip from his glass, letting Moe's words hang in the air. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm fine just the way things are."
Moe chuckled softly, shaking his head. "We'll see, my friend. We'll see."
After knocking back a few more rounds, Oswald stumbled out of the bar, thoroughly intoxicated, his steps uneven as he tried to navigate the quiet streets of Inkdale. The crisp night air did little to clear his head, though it gave him a brief moment of clarity between sways. He fumbled with his jacket, pulling it tighter against the biting cold, but something in the alley nearby caught his attention.
In the shadows of a narrow alley just ahead, a black-haired woman struggled against a man dressed entirely in black. The man's face was hidden behind a mask, his figure towering over the woman. Her desperate cries pierced through the still night, dragging Oswald out of his drunken haze.
He squinted, trying to assess the situation through the fog of alcohol. It didn't take long for him to realize the man was attempting to abduct her. The masked figure sneered as he noticed Oswald stumbling closer.
"It's useless! Can't you see? He's clearly drunk!" the masked man scoffed, tightening his grip on the woman's arm. She whimpered, fear written all over her face as she tried in vain to pull away.
Oswald sighed, rubbing his forehead as if the situation itself was giving him a headache. He knew better than to get involved. He was drunk, tired, and already regretting it in advance. But something about the woman's terrified eyes struck a chord.
Without thinking too hard about it, Oswald shuffled closer. "Look," he began, his words slurring slightly, "I'm not trying to play the hero here, and I'd rather not get involved, but could you just leave her alone? It's in everyone's best interest."
The masked man's eyes narrowed, irritation creeping into his voice. "Get lost, hobo," he spat, clearly unimpressed with Oswald's drunken state.
Oswald rolled his eyes, his patience thinning. "Man, I swear, I'll definitely regret this in the morning," he muttered to himself, clenching his fists. Even in his impaired state, he could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline starting to stir beneath the alcohol.
He took a shaky step forward. The masked man released a low chuckle, loosening his grip on the woman slightly as if to mock Oswald's attempt at intervention. "Go home, before you embarrass yourself more than you already have."
With another weary sigh, Oswald muttered, "I'll definitely regret this in the morning."
Summoning what little coordination he had left, Oswald swung a clumsy punch at the kidnapper's chin. The masked man dodged easily, smirking as he retaliated swiftly. Before Oswald could react, a searing pain shot through his chest as the kidnapper landed a brutal punch, knocking the wind out of him. Oswald crumpled to the ground, his vision blurring, just in time to see three more shadowy figures step out of a van parked nearby. Each one wore black masks, and their presence made the situation far more dangerous.
"Fuck," Oswald muttered, struggling to his feet, his body protesting with every movement.
The men converged on him, their intentions clear. Oswald could feel their eyes locked onto him, their confidence building as they saw his weakened state. The first attacker lunged forward, thrusting a knife deep into Oswald's back, catching him off guard.
"My reflexes aren't what they used to be," Oswald remarked casually as he reached over his shoulder, effortlessly pulling the blade from his back, his expression one of mild irritation. He hardly flinched, as though the wound was little more than an inconvenience.
The men froze, recoiling in shock. Their initial confidence wavered as they processed what they had just witnessed. One of them, desperate to regain control, pulled out a gun. Without hesitation, he fired. The bullet struck Oswald squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground, the impact forcing him onto his back.
As Oswald hit the pavement, blood pooling beneath him, the woman's horrified gasp echoed through the alley. The masked men turned their attention to her, their sinister grins returning. They began closing in, ignoring Oswald's seemingly lifeless body.
But before they could reach her, Oswald stepped from the shadows, his wounds already healing, his expression calm and dangerous. The four assailants hesitated, their bravado crumbling as they witnessed Oswald's resilience.
"That's gonna leave a mark," Oswald quipped, cracking his neck before launching into action.
In a blur of motion, he grabbed the first two men by their heads and slammed them together with brutal force. Their skulls cracked under the pressure, and they dropped lifeless to the ground, their bodies crumpling like ragdolls.
The remaining assailants, now fully aware of the predator before them, scrambled in panic. They made a desperate dash for the van, but Oswald was faster. He intercepted one of them mid-run, his hand plunging into the man's chest and tearing out his heart with terrifying ease. The man's scream was cut short as his lifeless body collapsed at Oswald's feet.
The last kidnapper, drenched in terror, backed away, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared at the carnage around him. He stumbled, shaking uncontrollably, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"What are you?!" he choked, his voice trembling.
Oswald's dark brown eyes flickered a fiery red, burning with an otherworldly intensity as he advanced, unhurried and cold. The kidnapper was frozen in place, paralyzed by fear, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as Oswald closed in.
With a swift, fluid motion, Oswald reached out, his hand slicing cleanly across the man's throat. Blood sprayed out in a dark arc as the kidnapper gurgled his last breath, his wide eyes reflecting only terror. Oswald followed through, tearing out his heart with a final, decisive strike, watching as the man's life drained away in silence.
The alley fell quiet, save for the heavy breathing of the woman, who remained frozen, her wide eyes locked on Oswald.
The woman, paralyzed with fear, her heavy breathing almost resembling screams, stood frozen in the now dead silent alley.
"You'll not remember any of this," Oswald said, breaking the eerie silence.
"W-What?" she stammered, still horrified by the scene that had unfolded. Her eyes were wild, darting between Oswald and the blood-soaked ground.
Oswald turned to her, his gaze firm. "You won't remember anything that happened tonight," he repeated, his voice taking on a commanding tone.
The moment their eyes locked, the woman's pupils dilated as though a fog descended over her mind. Her body swayed, and she collapsed into unconsciousness, slumping against the cold alley wall.
Oswald sighed, his gaze drifting to the bloody mess he'd created. "What a mess," he muttered under his breath. His eyes narrowed as he knelt down to inspect the masks the attackers had worn. Among the blood and grime, a strange symbol caught his eye—a deer skull etched into the fabric. It was crude, but unmistakable. "What's this? Are they part of some clan that hunts deer... and attacks humans?" he mused aloud. His mind raced, but he knew he didn't have time to dwell on it.
"I better hurry."
With little time to spare, Oswald gently carried the unconscious woman back toward the bar, carefully placing her against the side of the building. He found an empty whisky bottle in a nearby dumpster and slipped it into her hand, arranging her body to look like she had drunkenly passed out. Satisfied with the illusion, he turned his attention back to the scene of carnage.
Satisfied, Oswald turned his attention to the four corpses strewn in the alley. Without a second thought, he retrieved a large, heavy-duty bag he had in his pocket. He dragged the lifeless bodies into it one by one, moving quickly and silently, despite the weight. The bag stretched and bulged unnaturally as he finished, zipping it closed.
With the dead securely packed away, he made his way back to his sleek black car, stashing the bag in the trunk. The ride home was a blur, his mind focused only on cleanup.
Once home, Oswald entered through the back, avoiding any prying eyes, and made his way to the basement. Behind a row of wooden boards lay his secret—several industrial refrigerators, stacked and ready. Oswald grimaced, dragging the bag inside. "Back to the old routine," He opened one and began the grim task of storing the bodies.
With a grunt, he began the meticulous process of storing the bodies, one by one. The symbol of the deer skull still nagged at him as he worked, but that mystery would have to wait.
With the bodies taken care of, Oswald climbed to the rooftop of his house, seeking the solace the night sky offered. He lay down on the cool surface, staring up at the stars, their distant glimmer cutting through the dark. The crisp night air helped clear his mind, the tension from the evening slowly easing from his muscles.
For hours, he remained there, watching the sky in silence, his thoughts wandering over the night's chaotic events. The masked attackers, the strange deer-skull symbol, the unconscious woman—all of it felt like a distant blur now. His usual routine had been disrupted, and he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.
Just as he began to drift into a more tranquil state, the sharp sound of distant sirens pulled him from his reverie. Sitting up, Oswald watched as police cars sped through the quiet streets of Inkdale, their lights flashing urgently, the wail of their sirens piercing the still night.
Quickly, he descended from the rooftop and made his way to his car. The engine purred to life as he followed the path of the sirens.
When he finally arrived, he found himself on the outskirts of a crime scene, the area cordoned off with yellow tape. Police officers moved swiftly, some speaking in hushed tones, others directing onlookers away. The scene was bathed in the harsh red-and-blue glow of the flashing lights, casting eerie shadows across the ground.
Oswald stayed at a distance, watching silently, his curiosity piqued. The officers' grim expressions suggested something serious, something far more disturbing than the usual minor crimes that happened in the small town.
"I didn't know this town could be quite so entertaining," Oswald muttered to himself, a small smirk playing on his lips.