Shirley
The night air was cool as I cut down the side street toward my house. The town was unusually quiet for once—no roaring bikes, no drunken shouts bleeding out of the bar behind me. Just the hum of the neon light and the distant rustle of trees.
It should have felt safe.
But my skin prickled, the hair on my arms standing straight.
I slowed, listening.
A crunch of gravel. Another. From the shadows.
My heart stuttered.
“Who’s there?” My voice didn’t tremble, though my hand twitched toward the small blade hidden inside my jacket.
The answer came in the form of glowing yellow eyes emerging from the alley. Then another pair. And another.
Rogues.
Three of them at first, then five, stepping out of the dark with their twisted grins and ragged forms.
“Well, well,” one of them growle
