In the quaint town of Meadowgrove, rain pattered against cobblestones. The local tavern, The Tipsy Griffin, was filled with warm light and the aroma of fresh bread. The clock struck midnight, but the pub remained bustling. A sudden gust extinguished a candle, casting a shadow on the wall. A man in a black cloak entered, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. He ordered a drink, his voice barely audible. The landlord, Old Tom, nodded, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously. The man in black sat alone, nursing his drink. Suddenly, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, gleaming blade. Old Tom's eyes widened as he watched the man's reflection in the mirror. The blade disappeared, and the man raised his drink, taking a sip. The pub fell silent, but not for long. A scream pierced the night, and the man in black rushed out, leaving behind an empty glass and a trail of blood.