Chapter 1: The Road to Duskwatch


    The mountain road twisted like a serpent in the dark. Faint patches of mist slithered across the cracked asphalt, glowing under the pale gaze of the moon. Far below, the restless ocean roared against jagged rocks, its voice swallowed by the midnight wind.


    From the distance, **Duskwatch** flickered to life. Towering skyscrapers pierced the sky, their lights glowing dimly like embers refusing to die. A crown of smog clung to the city’s edge, tainted orange by the restless hum of industry. Billboards flashed images of synthetic beauty, neon smiles hiding cracks beneath the surface. It was a city built on shadows—and for those who lived there, the darkness was simply home.


    A distant growl echoed through the night.


    Blackthorn roared across the mountain pass, spitting embers as it devoured the road. Its matte black frame gleamed under the moonlight, the remnants of crimson paint clawing through rust. The engine’s guttural snarl left a lingering echo, like the growl of something ancient and hungry.


    The rider was a shadow of his machine. A leather jacket clung to his frame, weathered and torn. Dark hair lashed against his face, untouched by the helmet dangling carelessly from the bike’s side. He didn’t care. Fear had no place here.


    His hands gripped the handlebars, steady despite the biting cold. The mountain wind clawed at him, but the rush of the ride drowned it out. Blackthorn responded like a loyal beast, thrumming beneath him. Each curve of the road demanded surrender, but he never slowed. The world blurred—an endless stream of shadows and headlights.


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    But something felt off.


    The headlights of an approaching truck flared, illuminating the cracks on the asphalt. Its horn howled, a low mechanical scream. The biker tensed. He shifted, preparing to swerve.


    Then another truck.


    From the opposite side, blinding white lights emerged. Two metal behemoths bearing down, the space between them collapsing.


    No way out.


    The biker''s chest tightened. Every instinct screamed—brake, turn, anything—but the trucks thundered forward. Time slowed. The world twisted. He saw the reflection of his own wide eyes in the chrome grill.


    And then—nothing.


    The roar of the trucks vanished. The hum of Blackthorn fell silent. Even the ocean’s cries ceased. The biker blinked. The road remained, but the world around it had unraveled. A stagnant, unearthly darkness clung to the sky. The trucks were gone.


    Yet… the biker still felt the weight of the moment. The trembling echo of imminent death.


    A shadow moved.


    The air thickened. Black smoke curled from the cracks in the pavement, tendrils twisting like serpents. The temperature plummeted. And then, from the haze, a figure emerged. Towering, cloaked in shifting dark mist. Its form barely human, more like a suggestion of limbs and dread.


    The biker couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t scream.


    A massive, clawed hand reached out. Not rushed. Not violent. It moved with the certainty of something inevitable. As its fingers grazed the biker’s shoulder, the darkness pulsed. The world shattered.


    And he was back.


    Blackthorn’s engine roared once more. The trucks were gone. The road lay empty beneath the night sky, as if nothing had changed.


    But the biker’s trembling hands told a different story.


    "What the hell was that?" he whispered, the words lost beneath the hum of the engine.


    He didn’t wait for an answer.


    With a rev, the bike tore down the mountain road, leaving the darkness behind.


    What the devil gives, he always takes back


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