Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rowan’s tires hummed steadily against the winding road, the path narrowing as it twisted deeper into the forest’s grasp. The air carried the scent of pine, crisp and earthy, but beneath it lingered something faintly metallic, unsettling in its subtlety. This wasn’t the comforting aroma of a forest; it felt wrong, out of place. Towering trees lined the road, their gnarled trunks twisting into grotesque shapes, their skeletal branches clawing toward him as though eager to seize anything that dared pass.

The sunlight struggled to pierce through the thick canopy, its feeble rays casting long, jagged shadows that stretched across the road like dark, grasping tendrils. The dim light played tricks on his eyes, and Rowan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He felt hemmed in, the forest pressing closer with every turn.

This wasn’t like the show. He’d seen these scenes unfold on screen countless times, watched the characters cruise along roads just like this one. But seeing it on TV didn’t prepare him for how wrong it felt in person. His senses screamed at him, a low, buzzing tension crawling under his skin. It was still daylight, technically safe, but the unease was palpable. Every instinct told him that something was watching him from just beyond the trees.

A gust of wind surged through the forest, bending the trees and making their creaks and groans sound almost human. Rowan’s heart thudded faster. The show made it look eerie, sure, but standing here in the flesh—driving through it—was suffocating. Oppressive. It was as if the forest were alive, waiting for something, anticipating him. How did the characters manage to stay so calm in this place? How did they not notice how the trees seemed less like scenery and more like predators, lurking and ravenous?

“Okay, okay,” Rowan muttered under his breath, his voice wavering. “I’m not freaking out. I’m just... casually speeding toward my impending doom. Totally fine. No biggie.” He tried to shake off the creeping panic and discomfort.

But the tires crunching over the gravel? Yeah, super comforting. Every crackle felt like a horror soundtrack on loop, and Rowan’s nerves were officially doing the Dougie—badly. His grip on the wheel? White-knuckled, like it was holding his sanity together by a thread.

The system’s voice popped in, sounding way too cheerful, like a hype man who showed up to the wrong gig.

<Main-character energy? You’re joking, right?> Rowan shot a glare at the dashboard, where a holographic screen floated obnoxiously, giving Pornhub ad vibes—minus the “X” to close it.

Rowan muttered under his breath, <If I’m supposed to ‘chillax,’ why does it feel like the forest is actively side-eyeing me right now?>

The system chirped, like it wasn’t casually dropping nightmare fuel. 

<Wait, my mental state?> Rowan’s eyes darted toward the holographic screen that flickered to life in front of him, illuminating the dashboard in soft blue light. It was an interactive interface, floating above his steering wheel, presenting an array of stats.

The system chimed in again, its tone oddly laid-back but with a hint of seriousness.

Rowan groaned, rubbing his temples. <Fantastic. Just what I needed—more pressure. Thanks for the prep talk.>

A digital map flickered to life on the screen of his car’s dashboard displaying a simple layout of the town and the surrounding area. It looked like a standard map until Rowan noticed blacked-out sections scattered across it.

<Locked areas.> Rowan guessed, leaning forward to get a better look. <What’s behind the curtain, huh?>

Rowan ignored the sarcasm, focusing on the map. Colored icons marked various spots across the town:

• Red spots clustered underground in one massive, ominous blob.
• Yellow dots scattered throughout the town, including Colony House.
• Blue dots evenly spaced across the area, some close to each other and near him

His gut twisted as his eyes lingered on the red cluster. He had a good guess but needed confirmation.  <And what’s with the red spots?> He tapped the map, his finger hovering over a dense cluster of red patches deep beneath the ground. <Looks like a red sea down there.>

Rowan grimaced. <Got it. Noted. What about yellow?>

<And blue?> Rowan prompted, his attention shifting to the few blue dots he was coming closer to. 

The system’s tone shifted to an excitable coach prepping a player. 

Rowan took a steadying breath, his gaze locked on the glowing blue dot on the map. It hovered over what looked like a playground. Meagan, he presumed.

<Guess Meagan’s one of those key players now, huh> Rowan said, half to himself.

Leaning back in his seat, Rowan stared at the map, his nerves prickling. <No pressure, huh?>

The system quipped breezily. 

<And by game face, you mean?> Rowan asked, already dreading the answer. 

The system declared as though announcing the solution to world hunger.

Rowan shot the dashboard a deadpan look. <Let me get this straight. You want me to roll in and…what? Flash my dimples and hope for the best?>

Rowan didn’t dignify that with a response. He pressed on the gas, the car rolling into the outskirts of the town. The first thing he noticed were the houses: worn, weathered, yet sturdy enough to defy the encroaching wilderness. Peeling paint and sagging porches whispered silent tales of abandonment and resilience; a juxtaposition that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. His attention shifted to a cluster of people near a central building—the diner. A tall Black man stood at the center, radiating quiet authority. It took Rowan a second to place him: Boyd Stevens. The name clicked in his mind like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Beside Boyd, a younger man shifted uneasily—handsome, with tension etched into every line of his face. Kenny Liu.

The moment their gazes turned to him, Rowan felt the weight of their scrutiny. Their expressions hardened, tinged with a melancholy familiarity. Another arrival. Another lost soul. He pulled the car in, parking a safe distance from the gathered group, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he muttered, “Here goes nothing.”

He inhaled deeply, adjusting his face into a mask of mild confusion before stepping out.

Boyd’s sharp gaze locked onto him immediately, sizing him up. His stance spoke of someone accustomed to control, a reluctant leader shepherding those trapped in an unwinnable situation. A father forced into wrangling unruly kids. Rowan watched as his stern features softened just a fraction. No doubt taking in the messy hair, disheveled hoodie and overall: the general aura of “lost college kid.” 

“You lost, son?” Boyd’s voice was rough, commanding but not unkind.

Rowan managed a sheepish smile, nervously raking a hand through his perpetually messy curls. “Yeah, I think I missed the exit to the highway. GPS isn’t working, and I’ve been driving for hours.” 

Boyd’s gaze narrowed, the question deliberate. “You driving alone?”

“Yup.” Rowan shrugged, infusing his response with just the right amount of awkward charm. “Needed a break from college. Figured a solo road trip would be, you know, soul-cleansing or whatever. Find the meaning of life, stare at some sunsets, and all that jazz.” 

Boyd’s shoulders dropped slightly; weariness etched into his frame like a carving. He exchanged a knowing look with Kenny, whose eyes shifted uncomfortably away. The resignation in Boyd’s expression was almost painful to see—another young lamb to the slaughter, indeed.

“Well,” Boyd said finally, “the highway tricky. It’s… uh… back the way you came. I’ll give you some directions.”

Sure, it is, Rowan thought, biting back a laugh. Instead, he maxed his charm, dimples flashing as he said, “Thanks, I’d really appreciate that.”

As Boyd rattled off a series of clearly bogus directions, Rowan’s attention drifted toward the Pratt house. He spotted a young girl perched on a swing set, her small frame swaying gently. Meagan Pratt. Her eyes, large and unblinking, were fixed on him. The intensity of her gaze made him hesitate. After a beat, he gave her a small wave. She tilted her head, almost curious.

“Got all that?” Boyd’s voice broke through Rowan’s thoughts.

“Yeah, got it.” Rowan nodded; his grin easy. “Thanks a ton. Nice meeting you all.”

He turned on his heel and climbed back into the car, shutting the door with a heavy thud. The moment he was alone, his mask slipped. His hand clenched the steering wheel as his mind raced.

Driving away from the diner, his voice dropped to a low whisper, almost like a mantra. “You got this.”

But instead of relief, dread crept into his chest. His eyes flicked to the map on the glowing dashboard screen, showing that same looping, impossible road ahead. He whined, letting his head fall against the headrest.

<Great. Time for another spin through the world’s creepiest cul-de-sac. Fucking wonderful.>

The system’s laughter echoed, his only companion during the ride.

As the road looped him back toward the town—because of course it did, Rowan went into Broadway star mode.

Rowan slammed on the brakes, his car screeching to a halt just outside the main stretch of the town. He leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel like it had personally betrayed him.

“No highway,” he muttered under his breath. “There’s no freaking highway.”

Rowan shot the system an exasperated look, the system’s cheerful voice still ringing in his ears. Before he could respond back, something caught his eye. 

A flash of movement, slow and deliberate. He turned his head, spotting Boyd and Kenny approaching, flanked by another man with a clerical collar—Father Khatri. The trio moved with caution, eyes wary but understanding, as if they already knew the drill. The small-town routine of newcomers driving in, only to realize they couldn't leave. The dance of hope, denial, then acceptance. Boyd’s hand rested lightly on the handle of his sidearm, though he didn’t draw it. Kenny kept a careful distance, his posture stiff—alert, but not confrontational. Father Khatri’s face was unreadable, his gaze steady but solemn, as if he’d seen this scenario play out too many times before.

Rowan could feel the tension in the air, thick and pressing. It wasn’t just a cautious approach. It was something more—something deeper. The trio, or at the very least the older men, hadn’t lived through the nightmare only to watch someone else fall apart and lose control. They knew what this town did to people. The fear of becoming a threat to themselves, or worse, to others.

Rowan rolled down his window, trying to look equal parts nervous and confused. “Uh, hey! Sorry to bother you… uh again, but... I think I heard the directions wrong? I’ve been driving in circles, and uh... I keep ending up back here. I swear I’ve passed this place like five times. Where’s the highway?” 

The three men exchanged a look. Kenny stepped closer, his eyes flicking between Rowan and the car. Rowan, sensing an opportunity, dialed his clueless twink act up a notch. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash—Kenny’s face turned crimson, his neck flushing as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

“Uh… why don’t you come to the diner?” Kenny offered; voice soft but stumbling. “We can figure it out there.”

Rowan raised a mental eyebrow in mock surprise, catching the young officer’s fluster. Oh, this was good. Blinking rapidly, he leaned in, green eyes wide with faux alarm. “Wait… are you guys… a cult?” He gripped the steering wheel like it was a lifeline. “Please tell me you’re not sacrificing my virgin ass to some corn god.”

The System cracked up, wheezing with laughter. 

Father Khatri raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Boyd’s mouth twitched, fighting back a laugh. But Kenny? Kenny turned the color of a ripe tomato, the poor guy’s composure obliterated.

Clearly, he wasn’t prepared for this. Rowan’s casual joke had knocked him off balance. His throat tightened, and his body instinctively shifted back, trying to regain some composure, but his brain was short-circuiting. “N-no cults,” he stammered, voice cracking. “No corn gods. And definitely no—uh—virgin sacrifices!”

Rowan bit his lip to keep from laughing, but Kenny’s flustered state was too precious. “Oh? Well, if anyone starts chanting or pulls out a goat, I’m out of here.” 

Father Khatri cleared his throat, a bemused smirk breaking through. “There will be no goats.”

And just as if summoned by fate itself, Rowan’s eyes caught a flash of movement ahead—a young man running after something. A goat. Of all things. The man was yelling, scrambling to catch it, and Rowan’s mind instantly registered who it was: Nathan Meyers, and the goat? Alma—Ethan Matthews’ favorite farm animal.

Nathan let out a triumphant shout as he snagged the goat, pulling it back into his arms with a grin plastered on his face. It was too perfect.

Rowan's lips curved upward ever so slightly as he locked eyes with Father Khatri, his expression deadpanned. "Well, would you look at that? A goat. Just like I said."

Father Khatri blinked, momentarily speechless before breaking into a bemused sigh, the corners of his mouth betraying the smallest smirk. "I... did not see that coming."

Turning back to Kenny, Rowan let a mischievous grin surface. “This really isn’t doing you any favors, officer. Level with me now—if this is a cult, I'd rather skip the whole 'drink the Kool-Aid' bit."

Boyd coughed to mask another laugh, while Kenny stood frozen, radiating mortification-a look Rowan thought suited him entirely too well.

The diner had a lived-in charm, its cozy interior overshadowed by an unnatural stillness. The faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence as Boyd gestured for Rowan to take a seat at one of the weathered booths. Kenny, moving behind the counter, retrieved a pot of coffee with practiced ease. Across from Rowan, Father Khatri settled in, folding his hands calmly on the table.

Rowan eased into the booth, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm on the table as his wide eyes darted around the room. “So let me get this straight,” he began, his voice teetering between disbelief and frustration. “I’m stuck here. Permanently. Not in a ‘Oops, my GPS led me astray’ way, but in a full-on, ‘Hey, Rowan, kiss all your future dreams goodbye.’ That kind of stuck?”

Boyd exhaled heavily, the sound of a man mustering endless patience. “Yes. That kind of stuck.”

“Cool, cool,” Rowan said, nodding furiously. “Totally fine. No big deal. Just casually being kidnapped by geography.” He shot a glance at Kenny. “You’re sure this isn’t, like, an elaborate prank? Cameras hidden somewhere? Some kind of bizarre social experiment?”

Kenny’s expression softened as he placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Rowan. “I wish it was,” he said, his tone laced with quiet sincerity.

Rowan eyed the coffee warily, as if it were plotting against him. “So, you’ve got literal monsters,” he muttered, “but no oat milk? Wow. That’s wild.” He took a sip anyway, grimacing. “Ugh, bitter. Kind of like my prospects right now.”

The System, excitable as ever, whispered in his ear. 

Rowan almost laughed but was distracted by an elderly woman approaching with a steaming mug of fragrant tea. Tian-Chen, petite but brimming with authority, placed it gently before him, sparing the coffee a look of mild disdain. She sent a sharp glance at Kenny, muttering in mandarin. Most likely talking about caffeine not being suitable for anxious people.

“Good for nerves,” she explained in broken but kind English, her accent rich with a comforting cadence. 

“Oh, thanks, uh—what’s your name?” Rowan asked, his voice softening slightly.

“Tian-Chen Liu,” Kenny supplied, clearly trying not to smile at Rowan’s sudden politeness.

Rowan wrapped his hands around the tea like it was a lifeline. “Thanks, Mrs. Liu. Or is it Madame? Either way, you’re officially my favorite person in this town. No offense, everyone else.”

Tian-Chen chuckled softly, patting his arm before retreating with the discarded coffee.

Boyd cleared his throat, steering the conversation back to more pressing matters. “Night’s coming soon. And that’s when things get... dangerous.” 

“Dangerous?” Rowan echoed, his pitch climbing. “You mean more dangerous than ‘forever trapped in Creepsville’? Awesome. Love that journey for me.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “So, these monsters... are they on a schedule? Like, do they clock in and out? Or is there a union involved?”

Kenny coughed into his hand, failing to smother a laugh. Boyd shot him a sharp look, silencing the momentary levity.

“This isn’t a joke,” Boyd said firmly. “This is survival. And right now, we need to figure out where you’re staying tonight.” He went silent for a moment. “After tonight, you will understand the dangers.”

Rowan blinked, thrown off by the seriousness. In his head, the system beeped— How do I get into Pratt's house? He let the question swirl in his mind. “Wait, where am I staying? You mean I have to pick a monster-free zone? Is there a Yelp for that?”

“We’ve got options,” Boyd said, ignoring the sarcasm. “You could stay at the Meyer's house—” 

“Sheriff Stevens?” The voice of Lauren Pratt interrupted from behind him. Rowan turned to see her—a woman with soft, maternal features. Her daughter Meagan stood shyly beside her; her large eyes filled with curiosity. Rowan glanced at his map—Ah, that’s why the system was buzzing.

Lauren took a step forward, smiling gently. “No offense to the Meyers, but I don’t think that’s the best idea.” She met Boyd’s gaze, her eyes flicking to Rowan for a moment before she continued, “He’s new here. And young. He needs guidance.” 

Rowan felt a rush of relief. Yes, please. Don’t make me stay with Miss Stabby Murder. 

Boyd considered for a moment, clearly understanding Lauren’s reasoning. “He could stay with me, then.”

Rowan froze internally. NO! But before he could protest, Lauren shook her head.

“Our place has room,” she said. “It’s just me, Frank, and Meagan. He can have his own room. We’ll keep an eye on him and help him get settled.” She locked eyes with Boyd, the unspoken message clear: Let me help him understand.

In Rowan’s mind, the system chose that moment to make itself known, chiming in with an exaggerated cha-ching! sound effect. He could practically feel its glee.

Boyd studied Lauren carefully, his jaw tightening. He caught the soft insistence in her gaze and understood why she wanted to take Rowan in. Looking at Rowan, he saw the hesitance in his youthful demeanor and sighed, giving a reluctant nod. “Alright,” he said, his voice firm. “But he follows the rules. No windows, no doors after dark.”

Lauren smiled gently, nodding in agreement before turning back to Rowan. “Let’s get you settled. Come with me.”

Rowan pretended to think it over, scratching his chin. “If you’re sure I’m not a burden... Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

As they went to leave the diner, Boyd stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he addressed Rowan directly. “Listen carefully: when you’re in that house, you stay put. Don’t step outside after dark, and don’t even think about opening a door or window, no matter what you hear. Got it? ” He grabbed his shoulder. "It's not just your life on the line. Don't do anything stupid." The warning hung heavy in the air.

Rowan raised his hands in mock surrender. “Got it. No wandering, no door-opening. I’ll be a model guest.” 

Inside, he fumed. Seriously? He’s giving me this talk? When it should be Meagan getting the “no windows, no doors” safety briefing?!

The Pratt house creaked with the weight of time, its faded wallpaper peeling at the edges and the wooden floorboards groaning beneath each step. Rowan stepped inside, surveying the cracked walls and mismatched furniture. The place felt like it was barely hanging on, much like the town itself—forgotten, worn, and on its last stance. 

“Just in time,” Lauren’s voice broke through, her soft smile barely masking the tension in her eyes as she closed the door behind him. “We’ve got an hour or two before it gets dark.”

Her gaze flickered toward the window before she called down the hallway. “Frank, honey, we’ve got company.” When there was no answer, she stiffened slightly, a flash of frustration crossing her face before she turned back to Rowan, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s probably still out with Tom. You’ll meet him later—he knows better than to cut it this close, but…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes darted to the door, almost willing him to walk through it.

Rowan raised an eyebrow, playing along with a casual nod. “Right, Frank. Can’t wait to meet him,” he said, his voice light but his mind elsewhere. Frank was probably face down in a bottle by now. One less thing to worry about—though, honestly, why did all the husbands in this town have to be such... idiots?

“It’s not much,” Lauren continued, her voice steady as it could be, “but it’s safe. It’s the best anyone can ask for around here.” She motioned toward the living room. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’ll get you some water. Meagan, sweetheart, show him where to put his bag.”

Meagan nodded quietly, leading him toward a corner of the room. Rowan gave Lauren a quick, reassuring smile, hoping it would settle her nerves.

“Thanks for letting me crash here,” he said lightly. “I really appreciate it.”

The hours dragged on, stretching Rowan’s patience thin. The Pratt house, with its creaky floors and groaning walls, felt like it was holding its breath for whatever chaos the night would bring. Even though the attack will hit early at night, the wait was brutal—an endless loop of silence and unease for him.

Rowan lay sprawled on the bed Lauren had set up for him. It wasn’t the worst mattress ever, which was about the only positive thing he could say about his current situation. Staring at the ceiling, he let his mind wander until a voice broke the quiet.

The system’s voice broke the silence in his mind.

Rowan groaned internally. <I’m working on it, alright?> he shot back, keeping his thoughts private. Talking out loud to his snarky, ever-present mental co-pilot wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to do with these paper-thin walls. The last thing he needed was Lauren or Meagan overhearing him and slapping a “certified crazy” label on his forehead.

<No kidding> Rowan thought, dragging a hand down his face. <The goal is trust, but if I don’t keep my supernatural stuff subtle for now? I’ll end up on neighborhood watch. Or worse. Local witch trials: starring me.>

Rowan pulled out his dagger, turning it over in his hands. The blade caught the dim light, its sharp edge gleaming ominously. <Plan B is keeping my powers on the DL for now. I’ll use them sparingly—only if it’s life or death. Otherwise> He hesitated, glancing out the window at the deepening twilight. The long shadows stretching across the room felt like a bad omen. <Otherwise, I’m thinking maybe I lean into the Sara Meyers approach. You know, minus the murder-y bits.>

Rowan snorted quietly, shaking his head. <Well, I’m already hearing voices, so I’ve got a head start.>

The system chuckled.

He leaned back on the bed, fingers absently brushing the worn handle of his dagger. Outside, the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the room cloaked in a heavy darkness. Rowan inhaled deeply, the weight of what was coming settling over him. Tonight, would be rough but with any luck, it wouldn’t turn into a full-blown disaster.

It wasn’t even an hour later when the system buzzed in Rowan’s ear.

<Fantastic> Rowan muttered, heart pounding. He bolted out of his room, barely registering the creak of the old floorboards beneath his feet. The house was dim, but he didn’t exactly need light to know where he was going.

As he neared Meagan’s room, he could hear the faintest murmuring. “I’m not supposed to open the window,” she said, her voice uncertain.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He shoved the door open just as the crone cooing voice carried to him.

“It’s okay. I won’t tell. It’ll be our little secret.”

His eyes locked on her, standing by the window. The curtain was partially drawn back, revealing the pale, shadowed face of the “old lady” outside. Her features were eerily perfect—too symmetrical, too smooth—like an uncanny mask of humanity stretched across something wrong.

“Meagan, stop!” Rowan’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

Meagan froze, her fingers just inches from the latch. She turned, confused. “But it’s Grandma. She promised.”

Just fucking listen to me gremlin! 

Rowan swallowed the rising panic and forced his voice steady. “She’s lying, Meagan. That’s not your grandma.” He took a cautious step closer. “Just trust me, okay? Step away from the window.”

The old lady’s gaze shifted to him, her too-perfect smile widening unnaturally. “Oh, dear,” she cooed, her tone sugary sweet but dripping with malice. “You’re scaring the child. Meagan, don’t let him frighten you. I would never break a promise.”

Meagan’s hand wavered on the latch, torn between trust and temptation. “She… she said she missed me…”

Rowan’s voice rose. “No, she didn’t. That thing outside? It’s not what you think it is. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Meagan, don’t!” Lauren’s voice rang out as she appeared in the doorway, her expression stricken with fear. “She’s not your grandma. Baby, please—listen to me.”

But Meagan’s hand was already moving before they could stop her. She had already undone the latch, her tiny fingers grasping the window’s edge and pulling it open. Rowan thought to himself, This is exactly why I’m never having kids.

The old lady’s hand shot forward, gnarled fingers curling toward Meagan’s wrist—but Rowan was faster. With a sharp gesture, he focused his energy, his telekinesis subtly slowing the creature’s movements. Her clawed hand seemed to drag as if through molasses.

Without hesitation, Rowan drew his dagger and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the blade flying. It buried itself into the creature’s arm, pinning it to the window ledge with a sickening crack.

The crone screamed—a high, wailing cry that sent a chill through Rowan’s bones. He ignored the sound, rushing forward to slam his hands into the window frame. With a violent shove, he forced the glass down, trapping her arm beneath it with a grotesque crunch. The force severed her arm completely, leaving it twitching unnaturally on the sill, still stuck in place by the blade. It went still. 

Rowan locked the window, panting. 

The silence in the room was suffocating, as though the world had stopped breathing. But then, he heard it. A thud, followed by another, heavier thump, as the creature hit the ground below. 

He instinctively glanced outside, his breath catching in his throat.

The creature lurched back to her feet, her humanoid form still splintering. Her skin was taut and leathery, her fingers now elongated into razor-sharp claws, twitching as if testing the air. Her 'nose' had dissolved into smooth flesh, and her mouth had transformed into a gaping maw of sharp, glinting teeth. Rowan watched, captivated, as her form flickered briefly before stabilizing into the human-like appearance it preferred.

Her gaze dropped to the severed stump of her arm. A twisted grimace overtook her face, accompanied by a low, frustrated growl. Rowan felt a flicker of satisfaction. While the blade hadn’t killed her, it had caught her off guard and inflicted pain, just as advertised.

SNAPPED! 

Rowan’s attention jerked toward the sudden snap of a tree branch. His face drained of color as he saw who was emerging from the shadows.

The most notorious creature from the show—Smiley.

He moved slowly, his ginger hair faintly glowing under the moonlight. His steps were casual, without any urgency, clearly in no rush to get anywhere. He stopped beside his one-armed companion, towering over her.

Tall and lean, his body both loose and taut, he was the perfect image of a predator. His face would have been unassuming if not for the ever-present grin that stretched unnaturally wide, as though his very skin struggled to contain his sinister amusement. However, it was his eyes that froze Rowan in place. They sparkled with something far darker than amusement. It wasn’t anger, as Rowan have previously witnessed in his fellow nastie. No, it was much worse. 

It was delight. 

Smiley’s gaze locked with his, and Rowan’s pulse quickened. His mouth went dry, his palms damp with sweat. His heart pounded so loudly it nearly drowned out his thoughts. He desperately wanted to look away but—he made it impossible. That smile. That unblinking gaze.They seemed to root Rowan to the ground as if the man’s will alone was enough to paralyze him.

And then, as if it wasn’t enough, he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if silently saying, I see you. 

Rowan backed away, yanking the blinds down over the window. He managed a shaky smirk despite the cold sweat trickling down his neck. “So that’s the night shift, huh?” he quipped weakly. “I’m gonna have to pass on the customer service.”

Behind him, Meagan clung to her mother, her small hands clutching desperately at Lauren's dress as though letting go would mean being swept away. Her cries were the ragged, hiccuping sobs of a terrified child, each gasp laced with raw panic. Tears and snot streaked her face, but she was too frightened to care. Lauren held her tightly, rocking her back and forth as her own voice quivered between scolding and soothing tones.

“Baby, I told you not to listen to them,” Lauren said, her words a fragile mixture of anger and relief. She ran a hand through Meagan's hair, smoothing it down as though trying to brush away the fear. “You scared me so much—don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“I’m sorry,” Meagan whispered over and over, her voice breaking between gasps. “I’m so sorry. I thought it was Grandma, but her face—it changed—”

Rowan didn’t need to hear more. The memory of the creature peeling back its human disguise played vividly in his mind, an image he couldn’t shake. The too-human eyes, the curling grin that stretched too far, and then—that thing underneath. It had burned itself into his thoughts, an unwelcome stain. He exhaled shakily, forcing his attention back to the window. The severed arm was still pinned to the ledge, its twisted, leathery skin glistening unnaturally in the dim light. With a grunt, he yanked his blade free, the tension in his arm echoing the tension in his chest. The dismembered limb fell with a sickening thud, hitting the floor like a wet sack of meat.

He stared at the grotesque appendage for a moment, the bile rising in his throat. Then, without warning, it twitched.

Rowan froze, his breath hitching. The fingers spasmed, then jerked, as though clawing at some invisible enemy. The impossibility of it was worse than the sight itself.

“Absolutely not!” Rowan yelped, stumbling back and gripping his dagger tighter. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope!” His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline spiking. He turned toward Lauren, his panic now fully audible. “Basement. Now. No windows, no creeper smiles—just us and concrete walls. Let’s go.”

Lauren didn’t hesitate. Without a word, she tightened her hold on Meagan, who buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, and rushed toward the basement door. Her steps were quick and determined, but her shoulders hunched, betraying her own fear. Rowan followed, glancing back only once to ensure the twitching arm hadn’t sprouted legs or something equally horrifying.

The stairs creaked beneath their hurried steps as they descended into the basement, barricading themselves inside. The sound of the door creaking ominously as it shut was actually a small relief.

Rowan slumped against the cold concrete wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor. His legs felt like jelly, and his breaths came in uneven bursts. He dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to ground himself, desperately hope that the mission was done. That they were safe. He didn't have to wait long to get his confirmation.  

The system’s voice chimed in Rowan’s head, obnoxiously chipper, as though he hadn’t just risked life and limb. Its upbeat tone clashing with the dread still crawling up his spine.

Rowan clutched at his chest, glaring at the empty air like it could feel his frustration. Sweet Mary and Joseph, he thought, his mental voice tinged with sarcasm. <Give me a warning next time, why don't you?>

Predictably, the system ignored him, too busy vibing to care about his near heart attack, and just kept going. 

A holographic screen lit up, glowing a soft blue, as it revealed his gruesome prize alongside a brief description. 

Rowan stared at the notification, then glanced back at the twitching mess on the screen, fighting the urge to hurl.

<The creature arm?> Rowan questioned, his voice higher than usual. <What the heck do I need this for?>

Rowan suppressed a sighed. <Are you for real? You’re just gonna... keep this arm? It’s not like Lauren's gonna forget about it. She’s probably already thinking of handing it to Boyd or whatever.>

The system paused, then responded with a calm, almost nonchalant tone.

Rowan glanced back at the arm again, a fresh wave of disgust rolling in his gut. <I guess... but this is literally the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. Is it gonna keep crawling around in my inventory?>

Rowan nodded slowly. With a long exhale, he let his body sink back onto the cold, hard basement floor. The arm—the strange, unsettling image of it—was already slipping away from his thoughts, like smoke dissipating into the air. His mind, frayed and overworked, welcomed the escape, even if only temporary. Lauren's soft humming drifted through the space like a lullaby, its melody wrapping around him in a fragile cocoon of calm. It worked like magic for him—unlike Meagan—calming the restless storm within and gently drawing him into the embrace of sleep.