I was alone. My nights were spent nursing drinks, drowning out the noise in my head with cheap whiskey and the low hum of conversations that blurred together in the background. The bar smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke—a familiar, comforting scent that clung to my clothes like a second skin. The wooden stools were worn smooth by years of similar drunks seeking refuge from their demons.

After the bartender called last round, I decided to head home. The fog outside was thick, swirling around like a living thing as I stepped onto the sidewalk. The streetlights cast an eerie orange glow through the mist, turning familiar surroundings into something alien and unsettling. I pulled my coat tighter around myself, the fabric scratchy against my neck, and felt the weight of my service weapon pressing against my hip—always there, even when off duty.

Two blocks from my apartment, I heard it. A sound, faint but unmistakable—someone was choking. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I followed the noise down a narrow alley where the fog seemed even denser. Garbage cans lined the walls, their lids clattering occasionally in the light breeze, while the distant wail of a siren echoed between the brick buildings.

The fog made it hard to see, but as I got closer, the scene came into focus: a body on the ground, and a tall figure standing over it. My hand went to my gun, drawing it instinctively. "Turn back and let me see your hands," I growled, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through me.

The figure didn't move. It just stood there, looming over the body like some twisted statue carved from shadow. Its outline seemed to shift slightly in the fog, as if it weren't quite solid.