I sat slumped in the corner of the shop, my hands sticky with blood that wasn't mine. The crimson stains clung to my skin, refusing to fade no matter how hard I rubbed them against my jeans.
The young girl lay stretched across the counter, her hoodie sleeves soaked, her breath shallow. Her father hovered over her, scarred hands steady as he worked, his single eye sharp with focus. Tools clinked against the wood, the smell of antiseptic cutting through the iron tang of blood.
Every sound echoed in my skull—the rasp of his cloth, the hiss of alcohol on open wounds, and the faint groan as he pressed down.
I couldn't look away. My knife sat heavy at my side, the blade that had drawn their attention, the blade they wanted.
Her father muttered under his breath, words I couldn't catch, curses maybe, or prayers. His jaw was clenched, his movements precise, as if he'd done this before.
The girl stirred, whispering something I couldn't hear. He leaned closer, his voice softening for her alone.
And me—I just sat there, blood on my hands, silence pressing in, knowing I had stepped into something far bigger than a street fight.
His single eye snapped toward me, sharp as steel. "You showed it to them."
The words hit harder than any punch. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
"Enough." His voice was iron, final. He turned from me, his focus on his daughter. "Get out."
I froze, blood still on my hands, the knife burning against my ribs. She stirred faintly, whispering, "Daddy…" before her eyes fluttered shut again.
Her father's gaze softened for her, but when it returned to me, it was cold. "Leave. Now."
The shop smelled of oil and steel, heavy with silence. I stood, my legs weak, and picked up my backpack.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped out into the night.
The night air was damp, heavy with the stench of garbage and rust. My ribs ached, every breath jagged, but the weight pressing hardest was the crimson knife against my side.
I started walking. No destination—just away. Away from the shop, away from the girls' father, away from the bodies cooling in the alley.
Streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across cracked pavement. My shoes scuffed against the concrete, leaving faint streaks of blood behind.
I passed shuttered storefronts, neon signs buzzing faintly, the city asleep but watching. Every corner felt like it hid eyes, waiting, hunting.
The silence of the night pressed in, broken only by my ragged breathing. I was alone now, cast out, carrying something I didn't understand.
By the time I reached my street, my legs felt like lead. Hunger gnawed at me, my stomach twisting, but worse was the dizziness—the world tilting with every step.
I pushed open the door to the house, the silence inside pressing heavy. My hands were still sticky with blood, the crimson knife burning against my ribs.
I dropped my backpack by the couch and collapsed into it, chest heaving. My vision blurred, the room spinning.
That's when I saw them—red eyes glowing faintly in the corner, the shadow curling out of the dark like smoke.
Its voice slithered into my skull, mocking, cruel. "How was your day, my little warrior?"
I pressed my palms against my face, groaning. "I don't have time for you today."
The shadow's laughter echoed, sharp and hollow. "You'll make time. You always do."
But I didn't answer. My body gave out, exhaustion swallowing me whole.
I fell asleep immediately, blood still on my hands, the knife at my side, and the red eyes watching from the dark.
The sunlight crept through the windows, pale and unwelcome. My eyes snapped open, my body heavy, the sweat of restless dreams clinging to my skin.
I dragged myself out of the couch, ribs aching, head pounding.
The shadow's voice curled through the air, soft and mocking. "Good morning, little warrior. Did you dream of me?"
I froze, staring at the empty room. No red eyes, no figure—just the sound slithering into my skull.
"I'm not in the mood," I muttered, forcing myself forward.
"Ohh, are you hurt?"
I pushed into the bathroom, the air sharp with steam. The shower hissed to life, hot water pounding against my skin, washing away the blood and grime of last night. I scrubbed harder, desperate to feel clean.
When I stepped out, the mirror was fogged; my reflection blurred. I walked to my room and pulled on fresh clothes—new jeans, a clean shirt, and a jacket zipped tight. The knife slipped into my bag, its weight familiar, necessary.
I stepped out into the morning. I started the usual walk to school.
The school loomed ahead, brick walls catching the morning sun. Students streamed through the gates, voices sharp with chatter, backpacks bouncing.
I spotted Xander near the steps, surrounded by a pack of boys. He was laughing too loud, the kind of laugh that drew attention.
Willow approached, her books clutched to her chest, her smile tentative. "Hey, Xander—"
Before she could finish, one of the boys shoved her shoulder. Xander didn't stop them. He smirked, playing along, letting her stumble back.
"Careful, Willow," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Don't trip over your own books." The boys laughed, the sound sharp and cruel.
Something in me snapped; she reminded me of the young girl.
I stepped forward, my ribs aching. "Enough."
The laughter faltered. Xander's smirk froze as his eyes met mine.
Willow straightened, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide.
"Pick on someone else," I said, my voice low and steady. 'Or you'll eat lunch with no teeth.'
The silence pressed heavy. Xander's smirk wavered, his eyes flicking between me and Willow.
For a moment, I thought he'd push back. But then he shrugged, forcing a laugh. "Relax, Damien. We're just joking."
The boys muttered, their laughter fading as they drifted away.
Willow hugged her books tighter, her voice low but urgent. "He's not the same, Damien. Ever since we got back from the zoo… it's like something crawled inside him."
"Different how?"
She glanced toward the hallway where Xander had vanished, her eyes clouded. "He used to joke, sure, but not like this. Not cruel. He's quicker to snap, quicker to fight. And his eyes…" She hesitated, biting her lip.
I clenched my jaw, ignoring it. "Maybe the zoo wasn't just cages and animals."
Willow's voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. "Buffy thinks he's hiding something. She said he came back from the hyena exhibit… different. Stronger. Meaner. Like he's carrying something he doesn't want us to know."
Her eyes searched mine, wide and uncertain. "And now he's turning it on me. On everyone."
I tightened my grip on my backpack strap, the knife's weight pressing harder.
Willow walked beside me, clutching her books tight, her voice low but urgent. "Damien… come with me to the library. Buffy and Giles are trying to figure out what's wrong with Xander. We need help."
Her eyes searched mine, wide and pleading. "Please. Buffy and Giles are digging through old texts. You could help."
I shook my head, jaw tight. "No. Not today."
Her face fell, confusion flickering into hurt. "Why not?"
I adjusted my backpack strap, forcing my voice to be steady. "Because I've got my own mess to deal with. I can't get tangled in this."
The bell rang, sharp and final. Students streamed past us, the hallway buzzing with voices.
Willow's lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but I was already moving. I slipped into class, ribs aching, the knife heavy at my side.
Behind me, her footsteps slowed, fading into silence.
I dropped into my seat, ribs aching. I clenched my jaw, staring at the desk, trying to drown it out.
Then Cordelia slid into the chair beside me, tossing her hair like she owned the room. She glanced at me, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You look like you wrestled a dumpster and lost."
I blinked, caught off guard. "You have no idea."
She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Don't take it personally. I mean, you're still better dressed than half the guys here. But seriously—what happened? You look like roadkill."
"Guess I had a rough night."
Cordelia arched a brow. "Well, at least you're alive. Unlike most people in this town."
I chuckled a bit. "I guess that's a good thing."
The teacher droned on at the front, but I barely heard.
Cordelia nudged me with her elbow, whispering, "See? I made your day better. You're welcome."
And she wasn't wrong. For a moment, the blood, the knife, the shadow—all of it—felt far away.
The bell rang, and the classroom emptied in a rush. Cordelia walked beside me, her hair bouncing with every step, still smirking from whatever joke she'd cracked earlier. For once, my ribs didn't ache as much—I almost felt normal.
Then it happened.
A scream tore through the hallway, sharp and raw, echoing from the direction of the principal's office. Students froze, heads snapping toward the sound.
Cordelia's smirk vanished. "What the hell was that?"
We hurried, pushing through the crowd gathering near the office door. The air smelled wrong—like copper and rot.
Principal Flutie lay sprawled across the floor, his body torn apart, shredded like something an animal had ripped into. Papers were scattered, blood smeared across the desk and walls.
Cordelia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Students behind us screamed again, stumbling back.
My stomach twisted, dizziness clawing at me. Whatever had killed him wasn't human. And it was close.
I turned my gaze to the left, my heart pounding, my eyes searching for help.
And there they were.
Xander stood at the far end of the hallway, his pack clustered around him like predators. His eyes gleamed with something feral, something wrong.
He leaned against the lockers, casual, almost smug. picking at his teeth with his fingernail, like he'd just finished a meal.
The sight froze me in place.
Cordelia whispered, trembling, "Damien… what kind of animal could have done this?"
"It wasn't an animal."
I realized whatever had happened at the zoo hadn't stayed there. It had followed Xander back. And now it was feeding.