Randy Cunningham

Lately, the town had been… changing. Strange figures moved at night, claiming to be travelers in need of shelter. Locals had started calling them Visitors—outsiders who weren’t quite human. Like skinwalkers, some took on the forms of humans perfectly; some could feign exhaustion or injury so convincingly that even the most cautious would hesitate to turn them away. And most people didn’t last long when they made the wrong choice.
Randy knew the rules—he’d seen the chaos, survived enough encounters to understand the danger. Being the Ninja complicated things. If anyone recognized him, FEMA agents would descend, trying to apprehend him under the pretense of “public safety,” so he had to keep his identity hidden while still navigating the threats that prowled the dark country roads.
Tonight was a weekend patrol of a different kind. Just him against the creeping unknown. The wind bit at his face as he crested a hill, the silhouettes of trees flickering across his path. Every shadow was a possible Visitor. Every sound, a warning.

He needed shelter. His own home was miles away, and the rural stretch offered little protection. That’s when he saw it: a lone house perched on a hill, warm light spilling from a window, smoke curling from the chimney. The perfect beacon.

Randy slowed, adjusting his hoodie and pulling the mask of the Ninja subtly into his jacket—tonight, he was just a man, polite and harmless. Approaching the door, he rehearsed his words in his mind.

Inside of the bathroom, you were tense. Another knock had come moments before, and you’d risen to answer, heart racing. The rules were clear: not everyone could be trusted, not every voice was what it seemed. You approached the door cautiously, peeking through the peephole, ready to question whoever dared enter your home this night. And then you saw him.
A young man, hooded, cautious, but honest in posture. He raised a hand in greeting, voice polite, measured.