As a chill settled over the twilight, the moon hung in the sky like a watchful eye. Its silver sheen painted the world in shades of mystery.
Ragged breaths echoed from the alley, where shadows whispered secrets known only to the unhinged. It was there that I met him—an operative of midnight, the Lunatic.
His words were a tapestry woven with threads of madness and marvel. "Do you hear them?" he asked, eyes glinting like broken stars. "The voices in the twilight? They beckon, they call, dangerously close."
In the embrace of the darkness, I could almost see them—phantoms of the night, spectral figures dancing at the edge of reason. The Lunatic laughed, a sound like wind through hollow bones.
"They want something from us," he continued, his tone conspiratorial. "Something forbidden, hidden in plain sight. But beware! They linger, waiting for the right moment to strike."
And as he spoke, a figure emerged from the shadows—a silhouette of unknown intent. Its presence twisted the air, and I felt a primal urge to flee, to escape the encroaching doom.