Chapter 3
1101 Words
The next morning, Scarlett woke before her alarm.
It was still dark out. Her apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional groan of the pipes. But something had pulled her out of sleep—sharp, sudden, like someone had whispered her name too close to her ear.
She sat up, heart thumping. Her room was unchanged. Clothes in the hamper, water bottle on the nightstand. The only light came from the streetlamp outside her window, casting shadows across her bookshelf and dresser.
She got up and walked to the mirror. Her hair was a tousled mess from sleep, but her eyes were alert—more awake than they should’ve been. And when she turned to check her back, she found the scratch again.
Only now, it wasn’t faint.
It was redder. Angrier. And… it had spread slightly. Just a centimeter or two longer, almost invisible unless you were really looking. But she was looking.
She reached out and traced it with her finger. It didn’t hurt. Didn’t burn. It just buzzed faintly, like static under her skin.
“What the hell…”
A buzz from her phone pulled her away. Lizzie, as always, too energetic for 6:03 a.m.
> LIZZIE: “I brought those protein muffins you like. You will love me today. 😘”
Scarlett smirked and typed back:
> SCARLETT: “Only if they’re chocolate chip. Otherwise I’m deleting your playlist.”
She pulled her hoodie on, trying to ignore the weirdness. Scratches didn’t grow. Maybe it was irritation from her sports bra, or maybe she scratched it in her sleep. That had to be it.
She told herself she wouldn’t think about it again.
She was wrong.
---
The gym was already half alive when she arrived—treadmills humming, music thumping softly from the speakers. Lizzie stood behind the front desk, blonde ponytail bouncing as she danced to a beat only she could hear.
“Muffins,” she said proudly, holding up a container.
“You’re a menace,” Scarlett replied, snagging one and taking a bite. “Okay, fine. You live another day.”
“I told you,” Lizzie grinned. “Also, your guy’s already here.”
Scarlett paused mid-chew. “My guy?”
“Tall, brooding, could probably bench-press a small truck? Damon Wolfe. He’s in the back stretching.”
“He’s early?”
“Like, early early,” Lizzie said, eyes dancing. “Maybe someone made an impression.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes but her cheeks warmed anyway. “He’s a client.”
“Mmhmm.”
She walked away before Lizzie could say anything else. Her boots echoed softly on the rubber floor as she approached the turf section.
Damon stood near the weight rack, stretching slowly. His hoodie was off, revealing a fitted black t-shirt, and a tattoo just visible along the edge of his right bicep—black ink lines that looked like runes or something ancient. He turned before she could call his name, like he sensed her coming.
“You’re early,” she said, stopping beside him.
“You’re late,” he replied without smiling.
She glanced at the clock. “It’s 6:55. You’re insane.”
“Not insane,” he said quietly. “Prepared.”
Something in his voice made her stomach twist, but not in a bad way. In a way that felt like a warning. Or a promise.
They started training, and once again, Damon followed every cue without complaint. But Scarlett noticed something different. His movements were sharper today. Tighter. Like he was trying to contain something inside himself. Like he was holding back.
Mid-set, she stepped beside him. “You good?”
He paused, sweat glistening lightly on his forehead. “I’m fine.”
“Are you—”
“Do you feel it?”
Scarlett blinked. “Feel what?”
He turned to her, gaze intense. “The shift.”
She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The energy. In the air. In your blood.” His voice lowered. “At night. Do you feel it?”
Scarlett swallowed hard. “You’re being weird again.”
Damon stared at her for a beat too long, then looked away. “Forget it.”
But she couldn’t. Not after what she’d felt last night. Not after the scratch. Not after the way her instincts had started reacting to shadows that weren’t there.
After their session, she handed him a towel, watching him closely. “Hey… can I ask you something?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You can try.”
Scarlett hesitated. “Are you—do you ever feel like you’re being watched? Even when you know there is no one else around? Like… you can feel the energy?”
Damon didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “Sometimes.”
“How do you explain it?”
“I don’t.”
She looked at him, trying to read between the lines. “I’ve been getting this weird feeling lately. Like someone’s following me.”
His body went completely still.
Scarlett continued, fidgeting with her towel. “Not following like creepy-dude-in-a-van, just… I don’t know. Like I’m not alone. Even when I should be. I keep hearing things. Seeing movement. The other night, I found claw marks on a tree outside.”
Damon stepped closer, his voice suddenly low and urgent. “Don’t talk about that to anyone else.”
She froze. “Why not?”
“Because people will think you’re paranoid.”
“And you don’t?”
“No,” he said simply. “I believe you.”
Scarlett’s breath caught in her throat. “Why?”
His expression shifted—still, but not cold. More like regret.
“Because sometimes… the things we’re afraid of are real. And they notice you before you notice them.”
Something passed between them—silent, invisible, but powerful. A thread that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe had always been.
And just like that, Damon turned and walked away, leaving her staring at his retreating form with far too many questions and not nearly enough answers.
---
That night, Scarlett didn’t sleep.
She sat by her window with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching the streetlight flicker. Her mind replayed every word Damon had said. Every strange thing she'd felt. Every impossible instinct she couldn’t ignore anymore.
At exactly 2:12 a.m., a shadow moved across the rooftop across the street.
She watched, heart thundering.
The shape was massive. Silent. Not a man. Not quite.
And then amber eyes blinked open in the dark.
- Writer
