The city never really sleeps. It dozes in fits, tossing between sirens and laughter, between muffled arguments through thin apartment walls and the low hum of taxis prowling for fares. But for me, the real pulse of the city beats in the shadows, in the alleys where neon can't quite reach.
It was one of those nights when hunger hummed low in my chest like a second heartbeat. Pretending to be human took more than an apron and polite smiles—it took fuel, and the cheap diner coffee I poured for drunks wasn't cutting it. If I was going to make it through another shift, I needed blood.
The hunt began as it always did: casual, quiet, calculated. I slipped out of the building just past midnight, hood drawn low, boots scuffing against slick pavement. The rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed wet, reflecting fractured light in every direction.
I found my prey outside a bar two blocks over—a man leaning against a graffiti-tagged wall, fumbling with his lighter, his breath clouding the air in uneven puffs. He smelled of whiskey, stale cigarettes, and loneliness.
Perfect.
I stepped closer, my movements careful, deliberate. His head lifted, bleary eyes catching mine. For a moment, the silence between us was charged, as though instinct whispered that I wasn't safe. He ignored it, smiling crookedly.
"You lost, sweetheart?" His voice rasped, full of false bravado.
"No," I said softly, letting my lips curl into something that could almost pass for shy. "I think I found what I was looking for."
His smile widened, sloppy, unaware. Humans never expect the predator until it's too late.
I closed the distance, brushing his arm as though testing the waters. His pulse jumped beneath his skin. When my lips brushed his neck, his laughter faltered. The scent of his blood flooded my senses, hot and pulsing just beneath the surface.
I sank my fangs in before he could register the danger. His gasp was muffled against my shoulder, body going rigid, then slack. The taste of him was sharp, metallic, tinged with alcohol—a poor substitute for the richness I craved, but enough to quiet the hunger.
I drank until his heartbeat stuttered, then pulled back, letting him slump to the ground. He'd wake with a headache, convinced it was the whiskey. He'd never know what had really happened.
I wiped the blood from my lips with the back of my hand, breathing deep. The hunger settled, coiled low and satisfied—for now.
And that's when I felt it.
Eyes. Watching.
The hairs on my neck prickled, every instinct on alert. I turned sharply, scanning the mouth of the alley. At first, nothing—just the dripping of water from a broken gutter, the buzz of a dying streetlamp. Then, movement.
A shape lingered at the edge of shadow. Low to the ground, fluid, silent.
A wolf.
Not a mangy stray dog, not a hallucination. A wolf. In the middle of New York City. Its fur glistened under the faint light, dark and mottled with rain. The animal's eyes caught mine—strange, luminous, intelligent in a way that made my stomach twist.
It didn't lunge. It didn't growl. It just stood there, watching.
"Really?" I muttered, my voice tight. "A wolf. Here. Because that makes sense."
The creature tilted its head, as though amused. My pulse quickened, though not with fear exactly—more… unease. This wasn't natural. Wolves didn't belong here. Not in this city, not in this alley, not staring at me like they could peel me open with a look.
I took a step toward it, knife slipping easily into my hand from my jacket pocket. The wolf's ears twitched, but it didn't move. Just waited.
"Not hungry, huh?" I said under my breath. My eyes narrowed. "Good. Because you're not on the menu."
The wolf's gaze flickered briefly to the man slumped against the wall, then back to me. My grip on the knife tightened. Was it judging me? Or mocking me?
Seconds stretched into something longer, heavier. The air between us felt electric, thick with some current I couldn't name. My instincts screamed danger, but not the kind I could stab my way out of.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the wolf turned. Its body melted back into the shadows, movements too smooth, too deliberate for a wild animal. Within moments, it was gone.
I stood frozen, knife still in hand, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. My thoughts spiraled.
Wolves don't belong here.
But this wasn't just a wolf.
I slid the knife back into its sheath, cursing under my breath. Whatever it was, it had seen me feed. It had chosen not to interfere. For now.
Back at my apartment, I scrubbed the blood from my hands, staring at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. My eyes still glowed faintly from the hunt, fangs catching the dim light. I splashed cold water on my face, forcing the mask back into place. The waitress. The human act.
But my mind was stuck in the alley, on eyes that gleamed with too much knowing.
The city was dangerous enough with hunters. Now… wolves?
I sat on the edge of my bed, fingers brushing over the photo of Travis beside me. His grin, frozen in time, mocked my unease.
"You'd have made a joke about this," I whispered. "'A wolf in New York—must've taken a wrong turn at Central Park.' Something stupid like that."
The silence that answered was heavy. The shadows stretched longer in the corners of the room.
And though I was alone, I couldn't shake the feeling that the wolf was still out there—waiting, watching, deciding what role I would play in whatever game it had brought to the city.