Wolves At The Door

The city hums in the dead of night, a low, mechanical heartbeat that never stops. The streets are cracked, washed in neon and rain, and somewhere in the mess of it all is Elysia-slipping between the cracks, watching the world through the streaked glass of a bus window.

She exists, nothing more. Drifting through the days, numb to the bruises that never quite fade, to the weight pressing in around her. The past is a locked door, buried under dust and silence. But doors don't stay shut forever.

Something is shifting. The air feels heavier. Shadows stretch longer. And lately, she isn't as alone as she used to be.

There's the man who lingers in the dark, his presence still and measured, like he's watching, waiting. Then there's the woman-who moves like the night itself, slipping in and out of her periphery, leaving behind a whisper of something just out of reach.

They aren't normal. She knows that much.

Sometimes she catches glimpses-eyes that reflect light like an animal's, movement too fluid, too unnatural. Sometimes she hears them when no one should be there at all.

Two figures. Two ghosts. One walking too close, the other never close enough.

And the wolves at the door aren't just knocking. They're waiting for her to open it.