Midnight had gutted Ashwick. Shuttered shops crouched under flickering streetlamps. Neon signs sputtered over cracked sidewalks slick with rain. The wind scraped between alleyways, carrying whispers only the dark seemed to understand.
Zara kept her hood low and her steps brisk. Three more blocks to her apartment. Three more blocks to Miso's empty food bowl and the thin mattress she'd been dreaming about since the dinner rush ended.
She'd worked the late shift at Dino's Diner, her sneakers still sticky from soda spills, her palms raw from scrubbing fry baskets. This stretch of road was usually empty at this hour. Tonight, though, her gut prickled—the kind of instinct you don't get from too many horror movies, but from living in a city that chews people up.
A scrape echoed behind her. Not a leaf. Not the wind. Footsteps.
She didn't look back. Don't run unless you have to. Another step. Closer. Then a voice—deep, unhurried, and too sure of itself—said, "No one's close enough to hear you."
Zara's pulse spiked. She quickened her pace.
A shadow spilled across the wet pavement ahead—another man stepping out from the alley. His grin was crooked. Not friendly. "Don't bruise her," he muttered to the one behind. "Not yet."
Her mind flashed with every safety drill she'd read online, but they all dissolved under the pounding in her ears. She veered left toward the narrow lane between a laundromat and a boarded-up liquor store.
The first man lunged. She twisted, his hand grazing her sleeve. Rainwater splashed as her sneakers slapped the asphalt. They followed—heavy, confident, hunting.
She turned another corner—and skidded to a halt.
A third figure blocked the alley's end. Taller than the others, dressed in black from boots to collar. He didn't move toward her. Didn't even speak. Just stood there, head tilted slightly, as if deciding what she was worth.
The two men slowed behind her, catching their breath. "She's cornered," one said, almost gleeful.
The tall stranger finally stepped forward. The others froze. The air seemed to thicken around them. "Walk away," he said. Low, calm, and laced with something that made her stomach knot.
The men exchanged a look. Then the bigger one barked a laugh. "We found her first."
The stranger's next step was a blur. A sharp crack split the air—one man's head slammed into brick. The other barely had time to curse before he was on the ground, gasping.
Zara staggered back, her hands shaking. "I… thank you," she managed.
He turned to her. Under the alley's sickly light, his eyes caught the glow like polished steel. "You shouldn't be here," he said.
She swallowed. "No kidding."
He moved closer, and for a heartbeat she thought he'd just walk past. But then his hand brushed her jaw, tilting her head ever so slightly. Her breath caught—not from fear, but from something she didn't understand.
And then—pain. White-hot, slicing into her neck.
Her knees buckled, the world tilting in on itself. She felt the press of his body, the grip on her shoulder, and the strange pull deep in her veins. "Forgive me," he whispered, voice strained, as though the words cost him more than the bite itself.
The heat in her veins surged, stealing her breath. "Sleep," he murmured against her skin.
The last thing she heard before the darkness closed in was the sound of the other two men scrambling away—not from her, but from him.