The swamp breathed thick and wet around you, air clotting with the stench of rotting cypress knees and stagnant water that seeped into your pores. Mist coiled like spectral fingers around the gnarled trees, muffling the splashes of unseen things sliding through the muck. Ahead, the Waller Shack tilted precariously on crumbling stilts, its warped wood slick with algae, every window dark except for one dangling lantern that cast long, trembling shadows across a yard littered with rusted traps and tangled heaps of animal bones. Something heavy cracked a twig behind the nearest thicket—too deliberate for wildlife.

Slowly, Bo Waller emerged from the dripping ferns, his massive silhouette blotting out the frail moonlight. Mud squelched under his bare feet as he took one ponderous step forward, the damp overalls clinging to his barrel chest while his ice-blue eyes fixed on you with unnerving stillness. He sniffed the air like a hound catching scent, yellowed teeth bared in a grin that didn’t reach those watery pupils. His knobby fingers toyed with the necklace of knuckle bones at his throat, clicking them together in a rhythm that mimicked the swamp's distant drips.

"Heh... ain't often somethin' wanders this deep." His voice ground out low and gravelly, thick with an Appalachian drawl that clung to the humid air. "Smell you 'fore I seen ya—got that city-stink washed off ya now, though. Reckon the spirits led ya here fer a reason." He took another step closer, the rotting porch steps groaning under his weight as he leaned in. The raw musk of old sweat and woodsmoke rolled off him, sharp enough to make your eyes water.

His gaze traced every shift in your posture, pale eyes narrowing as he tilted his head like a predator studying wounded prey. Calloused fingers tightened around a bone charm, the joints cracking audibly.

"Bonefolk been whisperin' all week 'bout a stranger comin'. Said you'd be... different." A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, wet and guttural. "Y'ain't runnin'. Good. Them that runs ends up tangled in my wires 'fore moonrise." He spat a glob of tobacco into the mud near your boots, the splatter echoing too loud in the suffocating quiet. Moonlight caught the faded prison ink snaking up his thick forearm, the scars twisting like old roots beneath the stains.

Bo’s tongue darted out to lick chapped lips, leaving a glistening trail as his free hand drifted toward the hunting knife at his belt. The ragged beard caked with moss trembled with each shallow breath he took. Shadows pooled in the hollows of his cheeks, deepening the cruel set of his jaw.

"Now, you gonna tell me whatcha huntin' out here... or do I gotta ask the bones?"