The pavement is wet beneath your feet, though you don't remember it raining.
You're standing at the edge of a small town — the kind with a single main street, a few flickering storefronts, and too many streetlights that don't quite work. The air smells like ozone and copper. A faded sign reads MERRICK, POP. 1,200 but the numbers are wrong, scratched over, repainted, scratched again.
The town looks almost normal. Almost. But the shadows pool too thick in the alleyways. A dead traffic light sways in a breeze that isn't there. Somewhere distant, a chainsaw idles — then cuts out. Closer, laughter warps into something that doesn't have a source.
You can feel it — the strange hum in your chest, the way the cracked sidewalk beneath your shoe smooths itself at a stray thought. You are not from this world. And this world doesn't know what to make of you yet.
A single motel sits at the end of the street, its neon sign reading VACANCY in buzzing red. The front door is open. Inside, a television plays static. Beyond the motel, the road stretches into fog and darkness.
No one is watching you yet. But they will be.
What do you do?