A year had passed since Travis died. A year since the world had collapsed into quiet streets, sharp memories, and the ache of absence that settled into every muscle and thought.
New York was unforgiving, loud, chaotic—the perfect place to hide if you were careful. I had tried, in my own way, to slip into human routines, to taste fragments of normal life, though I never fooled anyone—or maybe I never fooled myself.
My small apartment was on the third floor of a rundown building in a part of the city that smelled like grease and forgotten dreams. The floorboards creaked with every step, the peeling wallpaper told stories of people who had long since left, and the single bedroom was barely larger than a closet. Yet it was mine. Mine and Travis's memory, because beside the bed, framed in cheap plastic, was the one picture I had managed to save—me and him, smiling in the rare way we did when danger wasn't gnawing at our heels.
I traced my fingers over the frame every morning, almost ritualistic. It was the only thing that anchored me in the chaos, the only thing that reminded me what I was fighting for, even if it was just survival.
The humans I worked with didn't know me. They didn't know the sharp fangs hidden behind polite smiles, the reflexes honed to life-or-death precision, or the nights spent evading creatures that could kill me faster than I could blink. They just saw Silver—a waitress with dark hair that always fell into her eyes, a slightly sardonic smile, and the ability to carry trays of greasy food without spilling them.
"Silver, another coffee for table three!" a voice snapped me back to reality.
I grinned faintly. "Coming!" I adjusted my apron, tucked my dark hair behind one ear, and maneuvered between booths with practiced ease. Humans moved predictably, too predictable sometimes. I laughed quietly to myself as I refilled a water glass, imagining Travis's blonde hair flopping over his forehead, that stupid grin of his, the way he could make you laugh even when the world was collapsing.
But New York wasn't safe. Never truly safe. And the shadows here were alive. I felt them before I saw them—the way the wind shifted, the subtle disturbance in the air, the faintest sound that didn't belong.
I brushed it off as paranoia. Maybe it was. But a shadow had been following me for weeks. At first, I thought I was imagining things. A trick of the city lights. A corner I passed too often. But tonight, it felt… closer.
I finished my shift, the clink of plates and the hum of conversation fading behind me as I stepped into the cold night. Rain slicked streets glimmered under the flickering neon lights, the kind that made puddles look like molten silver. I pulled my coat tighter around me, scanning, alert, every sense sharp.
A movement in an alley caught my eye—a subtle shift, just beyond the reach of the streetlights. Something waited. Observed. Patient.
I didn't turn. Not yet. Not until it made the first move.
The shadows didn't. They remained still, but I could feel it: awareness, intelligence, power. It wasn't human. I didn't need to see it to know it wasn't human. And it wasn't time to fight… yet.
I let it follow me at a distance as I made my way to my apartment, silent as the night, careful not to draw attention. Every step was deliberate, every breath measured.
Inside, the apartment smelled of stale coffee and cheap detergent. I set down my bag, hung up my coat, and moved to the small kitchenette, filling the sink with water. I stared at the framed photo of Travis while washing the dishes, fingers lingering over the glass. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep and hollow. "I'm still here, you know," I whispered, as if he could answer. "Still breathing, still surviving… still hunting my own demons."
Dinner was a simple affair: cold cereal, stale bread, and a bottle of water. I ate slowly, chewing on memories as much as food. Being human—at least pretending—was exhausting. The city never stopped moving, and neither could I.
I moved to the small desk in the corner of the room, pulling the notebook Travis had given me from my coat pocket. I had copied some pages into my own journal over the months—notes on survival, strategies, instincts, sketches of the city, reminders of what hunters could do and how to evade them. It was both a lifeline and a tether, connecting me to a past I couldn't let go of, but also preparing me for the dangers ahead.
Then, I felt it again: the shadow. Nearer this time, shifting with purpose. I didn't turn immediately, didn't draw attention to myself. The room's single light cast long shadows that twisted unnaturally, but my instincts told me this was different. Calculated. Waiting.
It lingered at the edge of perception, and I recognized it—not fully, not yet—but I knew it was powerful, otherworldly. A guardian or predator, I couldn't tell. And I wouldn't until it chose to act.
I set the notebook aside and moved to the window, looking out over the city. Rain glistened on rooftops, neon lights refracted in puddles, and somewhere down the street, footsteps echoed that weren't mine. I knew they weren't human. I hadn't seen them in full form yet, only glimpses: a flicker of movement, a shape against the fog.
And then a subtle shift: awareness. I could feel it in the air, a presence that was patient, waiting for the right moment. When I finally saw it, a blur of fur and shadow in the distance, instinct told me it wasn't here to kill me tonight. Not yet. It was watching. Learning. Judging.
I allowed myself a small, bitter smile. A shadow in the night, unseen by the rest of the world, waiting to appear when the time was right.
I returned to my bed, tracing my fingers over Travis's photo one last time before setting it down. The city was alive, dark, and full of danger—but I had survived worse.
Tomorrow, I would wake, work the late shift, blend in with humans, and prepare for whatever was lurking in the shadows. The world hadn't stopped turning, and neither had I.
And somewhere in that darkness, a presence waited for the moment I would need it.