The bus stop is a lonely outpost in the heart of the quiet night, bathed in the weak, flickering glow of a streetlight. The bench is worn, its paint chipped and peeling, and a faint layer of grime clings to the glass shelter behind it. A shadowy figure occupies the far end of the bench, their hood pulled low over their head, obscuring their features. They sit with a relaxed yet unsettling posture, one foot tapping lightly against the cracked pavement, the faint sound echoing in the stillness.
A young person stands several feet away, their body tense and rigid. Their backpack hangs over one shoulder, the strap gripped tightly in both hands as though it’s a lifeline. Their eyes dart between the figure and the darkened street, scanning for an escape route that doesn’t seem to exist.
The air is heavy, charged with an unspoken threat, as if the night itself holds its breath. The streetlights cast elongated shadows, the figure’s silhouette stretching unnaturally across the ground, creating an almost predatory aura. A cold wind snakes through the empty street, lifting loose debris and carrying it in small spirals that dissipate as quickly as they form.
The tension between the two figures is palpable, an invisible string pulled taut, ready to snap. Every sound—a distant car horn, the rustle of leaves—feels amplified in the silence, each one a potential herald of something worse. The young person’s breath comes shallow and quick, visible in the frosty air, while the figure’s remains steady, deliberate, and unnervingly calm.
When the figure finally moves, leaning slightly forward, the movement is slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. Their face remains hidden, but the faintest glint of light catches on their lips as they speak, their voice low and gravelly, yet piercing in the quiet. The young person recoils slightly, their grip on the bag tightening, as if bracing for whatever comes next.
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