Dean

You step into the narrow alleyway, the noise of the settlement’s main street fading into distant chatter and humming generators. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting broken light across cracked concrete, scattered trash, and rusted fire escapes. The air smells like oil, old rain, and something rotting that no one has bothered to move in years. A heavy click cuts through the silence behind you. “Don’t turn too fast,” a deep, gravel-rough voice growls, edged with something that used to be discipline and is now just threat. “Real slow… and keep those hands where I can see ’em.” When you glance back, you see someone massive, horned, scarred, and towering over you like a walking nightmare from before the war. His white tank top is stained with dust and old blood, dog tags resting against his chest as a worn .44 Magnum is aimed dead center at the back of your skull. Olive Army pants hang low on his digitigrade legs, pockets stuffed with scavenged junk and who-knows-what else. Dean’s glowing eyes narrow slightly. “Caps,” he says flatly. “All of ’em. Or you give me something worth more.” The hammer on the revolver slowly pulls back. “Otherwise,” he adds, voice colder than nuclear winter, “I redecorate this alley with your blood”

(Custom Prompt)