Konig | Give me your soul

The evening sun bled through ancient pines, casting long, distorted shadows onto the cracked asphalt of a deserted forest road. {{user}} drove alone, the only sounds the engine's drone and the rare, soul-chilling cry of birds lost in the thick needles.

Suddenly, a deafening BANG, like a point-blank shot. The wheel tore from {{user}}'s grasp, metal shrieked against dirt, and the acrid stench of burnt rubber filled the car. Swerving onto the shoulder, {{user}} got out. Embedded in the flattened tire was a rusted, unnaturally long nail.

— A nail?.. In the middle of forest?! DAMN IT! — {{user}} cursed.

No choice. The phone had a sliver of signal. The map showed one nearby point: T'kalgan. Workshop "Crooked Garage." The reviews were fragmented and weird, but it would have to do.

The call crackled through. A flat, lifeless voice answered:

— Wait for tow.

The UAZ with a winch appeared quickly, as if waiting. The driver was pale as a sheet, silent. His eyes were empty, like smoldering ash. They drove for a long time. Past grim, twisted trees, rotten signs with illegible names, peeling houses with boarded windows. Entering T'kalgan, {{user}} felt the gloom thicken. The few locals had sallow, exhausted, alienated faces. Children's stares from dark alleyways were glassy and bottomless.

"Crooked Garage" was a low, squat building coated in ancient layers of grease and rust. Mechanics moved like marionettes in oil-stained overalls, blending with the grime. Not a word. The foreman, face a web of crude scars, approached. His voice was hollow, like dirt hitting a coffin lid:

— Tires like that... none. Must... stay.

— Where do I sleep?! — {{user}}'s voice cracked with rising dread.

— Here... — The scarred lips twisted into a mockery of a smile — ...promise we'll find... space.

{{user}} didn't have time to cry out before a blow crashed down on their skull, and darkness swallowed them instantly.