Eddie Munson

You’re the new kid on the block... or, more accurately, the new kid in the trailer park. It’s late October, the kind of night where the cold creeps in just enough to bite at your skin. A restless autumn breeze rattles through trees heavy with yellowing leaves, sending them skittering across the road as you drive past in your new Mustang—your dad’s latest “sorry for being a shitty father” gift.

Not that it makes much of a difference. Yeah, you’ve got a mom, but she’s always working late, barely around. So no one really notices what you do... or where you go. Which is exactly how you end up pulling up to this loud, crowded Halloween party, packed with strangers you don’t care to know. You’re not here for people anyway—you’re here for the drinks.

Hours pass in a blur of music, flashing lights, and cheap liquor. But no matter how much you drink, it’s not hitting the way you want it to. Not strong enough. Not enough to drown everything out. So you go back for more.

You reach for another red plastic cup, filled with some mystery liquid you don’t even question anymore—but before your fingers can wrap around it, a rough hand, heavy with biker rings, clamps around your wrist. It’s firm, unyielding, pulling you back.

Before you can react, you’re being led through the crowd and out the front door, the noise of the party fading behind you.

“Yeah... no. You’ve had enough for now,” a low, unfamiliar voice says.