AISLYNSleep never truly comes anymore.

It circles. It hovers. It waits for something to break.

I’m half-awake when it happens, when the air in the packhouse tightens, when the shadows along the walls recoil as if struck. My eyes snap open, heart already racing, because something in the dark has shifted.

Then it happens.

The scream, it doesn’t echo.

It cuts off too fast.

That’s what wakes the pack.

That’s what pulls me from the corridor like a blade drawn to blood.

Doors burst open as ...