Summer nights in Georgia are often unpleasant. Without air conditioning, you have to cope with the heat and humidity from earlier in the day. Those who don’t stay inside are quickly overwhelmed by mosquitoes, forcing anyone outside to find shelter.

  Inside a quaint karaoke bar just outside Atlanta, reeking of stale beer, a group of regulars find themselves enjoying the only entertainment available for miles in the middle of nowhere. One woman, clearly drunk and ignored by the bartender, grabs the microphone on the karaoke machine and decides to sing ‘Friends In Low Places’ by Garth Brooks to her heart's content.

  The woman’s voice cracked on every note as she swayed dangerously from side to side, threatening to fall out of her seat. The backing track played on mercilessly while she forgot half the words, filling in with drunken humming that made several patrons wince.

  “‘Cause I’ve got friends in low places”. The drunken singer glanced at the bartender, who returned the look with a disdainful sneer as if saying nothing was free in this little hole. “Where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases my blues away!”

  As the ear-wrenching spectacle continued, creating a truly horrible scene for the other patrons, they could only sigh and order more drinks in the hope of drowning their headache with alcohol. At the edge of the bar, a particular man nursed a whiskey on the rocks, smacking his lips as he watched the amber liquid catch the neon lights, impressed by its complex taste.

  Around him, the karaoke bar’s usual crowd had gathered—the rough farmhand drowning his third divorce, the biker who had stopped pretending he wasn't an alcoholic, and the old-timer who had been sitting in that same corner booth since the place opened in '92. All of them seemed to huddle toward the center of the bar as they shared a drink they called loneliness, but they all thought it was better than being alone.

  It wasn't, but at least the booze was cheaper here.

  “Yeehaw! I’m not big on social graces! Think I’ll slip on down to the oasis! ” The horrible voice continued to sing. “Oh, I’ve got friends! In looooow places!”

  The lone figure in the corner looked up from beneath his wide-brimmed cowboy hat with a particularly spiteful glare and sighed. He wasn’t quite familiar with the music selection here, but he also knew that whatever song was being sung was being absolutely butchered by this banshee.

  He hoped to get at least a modicum of peace and quiet during his travels. However, he had to admit that no one was bothering him or sticking their nose in his business in this shitty town. Small mercies.

  That was until someone right next to him spoke up.

  "Heeeeey, stranger."

  The voice was thick with alcohol and a worn country accent. A young, dainty woman—maybe in her low to mid-twenties—plopped down on the barstool beside him like a particularly awkward cat. Her blonde hair was a mess, lipstick smeared, and she was giving him what she probably thought was a sly, mischievous smile, but she looked more like she was having a stroke. Regardless, the woman still managed to look attractive, but it was clear she was well beyond a few drinks.

  "A bit far east to be wearin’ a cowboy hat ain’t ya?" She attempted a wink that turned into more of a facial spasm. “You from outta town, hun?”

  The man didn't even look at her, just took another sip. "I'm not going to buy you a drink."

  The girl's face fell into an exaggerated pout as she dramatically lay her head on the bar, using her arm as a pillow. "Aww, don’t be a spoiled sport! Have some fun!"

  He huffed in indignation, hoping she'd take the hint. She didn't.

  Instead, the young lady sat back up, swaying slightly. "Come onnnnn. Do a duet with me! Then maaaybe you’d be a tinsy bit convinced to buy me a drink." She dragged out the word like it would somehow make the proposition more appealing.

  A trucker wearing a worn flannel and sporting a beer gut laughed loudly as he walked by. "Be careful 'round ol' Ally Cat here. She'll try to mooch anythin' off ya."

  The young lady shot up so fast she nearly fell off her stool. "It's ALYSSA to a jerk off like you, Tommy! Mind ya business!"

  Alyssa turned back to her target, her indignation already forgotten. "So whaddya say? One song? I promise I'm really good at..." she paused, squinting at the karaoke playlist on the wall, "...'Don't Stop Believin'."

  The lone stranger finally turned to look at her properly. His eyes had an unusual amber hue. There was something off about them that didn't quite sit right, though Alyssa was too drunk to notice.

  "No," he said simply, his voice carrying an accent that wasn't quite placeable. Not American, not British, something else entirely.

  Alyssa placed her hand on her chest and feigned offense, her Georgian accent thickening with indignation. "Hun! At least take a minute to think about it!" she shot back before dissolving into giggles and nearly slipping off the barstool again.

  But instead of doing what any normal person would do, like taking the hint and walking away quickly, Alyssa stayed exactly where she was. The troublesome woman simply sat there, observing this strange man with renewed interest. It wasn't every day that people shot her down outright. Usually, Alyssa would have any man wrapped around her finger with a smile and wink, regardless of how drunk and disorderly she was.

  Cocking her head to the side and resting it on her arm, Alyssa stared at this outsider with the intense focus only the truly drunk could manage. "You ain't from around here, are you?" she hummed, now keenly interested. "Rollin' stone type?"

  The sharp glare Alyssa received should have set off every alarm bell. But, alcohol had a way of transforming warning bells into signals of intrigue, and turning danger into mystery. Then again, Alyssa was a walking red flag herself.

  "Where ya from, hun?" She leaned closer, close enough that he could smell the tequila mixed with cheap perfume.

  The stranger's jaw tightened. He took another deliberate sip of whiskey before answering. "Not here." He replied curtly.

  "Texas? No, you don't seem like the Texan type. Montana?"

  "Oh! Are you one of those mysterious international types? One of them Europeans, maybe? Your accent's all..." she waved her hand vaguely, "...mysterious and everythang."

  The man's fingers tightened around his glass before shooting a glance around the room to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Luckily, no one seemed to care much except for a few chuckles about how the troublemaker had a new victim to harrass.

  "At least gimme your name, hun." She poked his shoulder. "Can't keep callin' you 'mysterious cowboy stranger' in my head."

  He continued to ignore her.

  "Come onnnnn." Another poke. "Just a name. First name. Hell, make one up if ya want. I'll call ya whatever."

  Poke.

  "Steve? You look like a Steve. Or maybe a Brad?"

  Poke.

  "Ooh, or something exotic. Like Antonio. Or Jacques."

  Poke. Poke.

  "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?" His voice came out as a controlled growl, the kind that would have sent a sober person running.

  But yet again, Alyssa seemed completely undeterred as she shook her head with that mischievous grin plastered across her face. "Nope! You're just too darn interestin’ now. All mysterious and grumpy like. As if yer a some kinda puzzle I gotta solve."

  The man let out a long, resigned sigh that seemed to come from his very soul. He turned to face her fully, those amber eyes studying her like she was some particularly annoying insect.

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  "Matthi—" He caught himself, the syllables dying on his tongue. His expression flickered for just a moment—annoyance at his own slip. "It's Matt."

  "Matt!" Alyssa exclaimed triumphantly, like she'd won some great victory. "See? Was that so hard? Matt the mysterious cowboy." She giggled again. "I'm Alyssa, but you probably figured that out when Tommy was bein' an ass."

  'Matt' turned back to his drink, hoping that giving her a name would satisfy her curiosity.

  It didn't.

  "So, Matt," she drawled, making his fake name sound like the beginning of a longer interrogation. "What brings a mysterious out-of-towner to our little slice of nowhere Georgia?"

  It took everything within Matt not to simply just… swat this annoying woman out of existence. Another frustrated and primal sigh left the man’s mouth as he lowered his head. As much as he wanted to act on your advice, Matt knew he couldn't afford to, not in a place like this. Dahlonega, Georgia, or whatever this godforsaken place was called, was nothing like his old home. Information traveled fast everywhere, but here, even in this rural shitsty, it moved like lightning. One incident, one wrong move, and suddenly everyone knew everyone else's business across the land.

  Matt found the pressure to stay obscure incredible. Once he could get away with nearly anything, especially with his own specialties, but now Matt felt like even stealing a penny was nearly impossible. Hell, he thought that even grabbing an apple off the counter would give him away as he looked toward that rectangular device pointed vaguely in his direction.

  Even so... Matt’s fingers itched to silence this woman permanently, but he had to stay his hand. "Out of town," he finally replied, each word measured and controlled.

  "Boooo!" Alyssa spun around on the barstool, leaning back against the bar to look out at the rest of the establishment. “Yer such a stick in the mud!” Her pout deepened as she sat there, finally quieting down for a moment. Though the pest wasn’t planning on being quiet for long. Alyssa was wracking her alcohol-soaked brain for a way to get him to open up.

  Usually, when a guy gave her this much trouble, she'd just dump a drink in his lap, call him impotent, and move on to easier prey. But for some reason, Alyssa felt herself drawn to this strange outsider. Everything about him screamed danger. That primal part of her brain that evolution had given her for survival was practically shrieking that if she kept trying, she wouldn't see the next morning.

  But Alyssa's mind was broken in more ways than one, and that lizard part of her brain just excited her even more.

  Matt sat there, marginally happier now that the banshee had stopped pestering him. In celebration, he took another sip of his whiskey, savoring its rather exotic notes. Liquor like this needed to be appreciated. He'd been through too many peasant-filled hellholes where the only thing to drink was barely any better than piss. Even the nicer towns rarely had anything worth tasting.

  Here, it seemed that the finer things of life cluttered every town, every street, hell, every corner. However, the small amount of peace and joy Matt found was soon broken when he finally paid attention to something other than that annoying creature off to his side.+

  "—One a person of note would be an extremely dangerous individual going by the name of Matthias Korren.”

  The TV mounted above the bar, which had been playing muted reruns of a game show, switched to a breaking news bulletin. An FBI representative appeared on screen in a professional and measured tone and continued, "The Federal Bureau of Investigation is seeking information regarding several persons of interest in connection with recent incidents, but our greatest efforts are concentrated on this Matthias and another, more sinister individual named Verra."

  Matt's blood froze as his hand stilled on the glass.

  "These individuals are considered extremely dangerous and should never be approached." The agent continued in that detached, professional tone. "While this may be difficult to believe, we have credible evidence they possess… very unusual capabilities."

  Intelligence indicates that the person named Matthias can change his appearance to imitate his victims. Now, we understand how unbelievable this sounds," the agent continued, clearly reading from a prepared statement. "However, we ask that anyone who notices suspicious behavior—friends or family members acting unusually, unexplained disappearances followed by strange reappearances—please contact your local law enforcement or the FBI immediately.

  A few patrons chuckled and quickly stopped paying attention. Some started making jokes about how the feds were drinking too much, washing down his own words with a shot of tequila.

  Matt… or one should say, Matthias, remained perfectly still, as his eyes scanned from right to left, gauging people's reactions, absolutely paranoid that he was about to be outed as Matthias—especially after the slip-up a few moments ago. Luckily, no one seemed to be paying any attention. While his heart pounded in his chest, the glass in Matthias’ hand didn't tremble, nor did his breathing change. Years of practice had taught him that the secret to hiding wasn’t to hide at all—it was to be exactly what people expected to see. Just another traveler having a drink.

  "If you believe a loved one has been replaced or is acting drastically out of character," the agent continued, "do not confront them. Contact authorities immediately. This individual has been linked to multiple casualties and is considered armed and extremely dangerous."

  Matthias, knitting his brown sweater, couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could have even thought to look for him. But as soon as the FBI agent started describing details that were specific about his body, Matthias began sweating bullets.

  "The suspect may have slight imperfections in their assumed form—minor asymmetries in the ears, specifically a darkened tip. There are subtle scarrings that become more noticeable when viewed on their forearms and neck." The agent paused as Matthias felt his skin crawl. "But the most distinctive feature seems to be the eyes. Witnesses report an unusual bright amber color with a splash of blood-red off to the side in each iris, as if they were bleeding, and this remains consistent regardless of the form taken."

  His blood ran cold. No one from this world could possibly know these peculiarities about him. The number of people who knew that specific detail about Matthias was so small, he could count them on one hand. How could people from this world already know so much?

  Panic began to creep behind his carefully neutral, manicured expression. He sat there, nervously bouncing his leg and twirling his glass in small circles on the bar. The condensation left wet rings on the wood as his mind raced through exit strategies, safe houses, and alternate identities he could use, but he wasn’t home anymore. This was a whole new world that followed rules he didn’t quite understand yet.

  All he knew was that he was being hunted.

  Paranoia started to take over Matthias as he looked around at the sloppy, drunken crowd of people who weren’t even paying attention to what was on TV. Still, that didn’t stop Matthias from nearly losing it. All it took was one person to glance up at that strange box, give the FBI agent a few moments, and just look in his direction.

  But just as that thought crossed his mind, the TV's pathetic volume was suddenly drowned out by music from the karaoke machine. Almost as if a guardian angel had descended from heaven, that pestering woman's voice filled the bar, drowning out whatever was being said on that infernal black box.

  “I was five, and he was six. We rode on horses made of sticks," Alyssa sauntered back to her spot beside Matthias as she sang an old classic. However, she added her own twist, making it more sultry and bringing the mic to her lips again. "Come on, baby, give me a chance, buy me that drink, and then we'll dance..."

  She laid her head down on the bar again, looking at him with that mischievous smirk, and kept singing, altering the lyrics to something about buying drinks and dancing. Her voice wasn't... bad, actually. There was a clear, simple melody that suited her tone perfectly.

  She pointed her finger at him like a gun, singing about being shot down, jerking her finger gently with each "bang." The gesture was playful, flirtatious, completely unaware of the irony—that she was play-shooting at someone who'd left actual bodies in his wake just hours ago.

  Matthias's eye twitched as he watched her performance. Behind her, the FBI agent was still talking on the drowned-out TV, his mouth moving silently as text scrolled across the bottom of the screen with the FBI’s tip hotline phone number. However, his eyes remained glued to Alyssa as his mind started to work at warp speed.

  The only consolation Matthias had was that he wasn't quite made yet. Or at least no one had made it known they'd connected the dots. But in the brief time he'd been in this godforsaken realm, he'd received an unimaginable number of comments about his eyes. "

  Never seen eyes like that before," or "You wearing contacts?" from some random clerk or something. Either way, each comment drove him deeper into himself, more insular than he already was.

  It was painfully obvious that the eye color patterns of people in these lands were significantly less diverse than what he was used to back home. Brown, blue, green, hazel—that was about it. His amber-and-crimson combination stood out like a beacon, and it was only a matter of time before these damned hounds picked up his scent, tracked him, and put him down like they had several other fugitives hiding after that farce of an invasion.

  A brief flash of anger crossed Matthias’s face as he remembered how pathetic the Imperial’s intelligence gathering had been. Their due diligence in figuring out what the hell they were really up against was so pitiful, it might as well not have existed at all. They had basically walked into this world deaf, dumb, blind, and arrogant, and now they're all paying the price.

  But Matthias was willing to let bygones be bygones. Survival came first. At least for now.

  His mind drifted back to Alyssa as she continued to serenade him with her finger-gun pantomime. It was obvious not many people said no to her. The woman was pretty enough by this land's standards—blonde hair, bright smile, curves in all the right places. The type who always got what she wanted from the men in lower-class places like this. Having someone as standoffish as Matthias must have been a novelty, and she must have taken it as a challenge.

  And with the current turn of events—knowing he was being hunted exclusively—Matthias saw opportunity where he once saw annoyance. A lone stranger with strange eyes traveling through small towns was suspicious. A couple, even a mismatched one, was just another story of bad decisions and worse timing. People saw what they expected to see, and a man with a drunk local girl was infinitely less interesting than a mysterious loner.

  After what felt like an eternity to Matthias, the music finally stopped as Alyssa lowered the microphone. She leaned in close enough that he could count the freckles across her nose and gave him that troublesome smirk she liked to wear.

  "Come on, hun," she drawled, her accent thick as molasses. "How 'bout that drink? I'm gettin' awfully thirsty over here."

  Matthias stared at her for a few long moments, weighing his options. That bulletin was still scrolling on the TV and a few elders in the corner kept glancing his way. Time was running out.

  He let out another deep sigh, this one carrying the weight of a decision he'd rather not make.

  "Fine."