It was a dark, wet night. A gentle rain fell from the sky, and distant thunder rumbled now and then like a warning. The street was narrow and nearly empty, dimly lit by flickering street lamps. Under one such lamp, an old Chevy Caprice sat parked across the road—silent and still.
From the driver's side, the car door creaked open. A man stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a long coat and a shadowed cap pulled low over his face. He moved slowly, deliberately. His gloved hand slipped into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a cigarette pack. With practiced ease, he lit a cigarette using a metal lighter. For a brief second, the flame revealed part of his face—cold, unreadable. Then darkness swallowed it again.
The smoke curled upward, mixing with the misty rain. And then... he looked directly at me.
I froze.
I had been watching him from behind the rain-speckled window of the only open diner on the street, a small place simply named A Diner. It barely seated thirty people, and tonight, it was nearly empty—just a few scattered night owls, truckers, and second-shift souls like me. I had just finished my late shift and stopped by for a quiet bite.
But something about this man unsettled me. His stare seemed to pierce straight through the glass, straight through me.
I looked down quickly, pretending to focus on my half-eaten burger. My hands suddenly felt colder. A shiver ran down my spine, though the heater inside the diner was humming steadily.
I could feel him moving—approaching.
The door to the diner creaked open, and a small bell above it gave a sharp ring.
He had arrived.