I always knew the woods could be dangerous at night. My grandmother used to whisper old stories of shadows that moved between the trees, of eyes that gleamed like molten gold just beyond the firelight. But I never believed them—until now.

There's something out there.

The air is too still, the night too quiet. Even the crickets have fallen silent, as if they know what lurks beyond the edge of my vision. I should turn back, run home, bolt my doors. But something in me—something I can't explain—won't let me.

It's like a pull, deep in my chest, a thread winding through my ribs, yanking me forward. My heart pounds, my breath hitches, and just as I step deeper into the trees, a voice—not my own—whispers in my head.

"Mine."

I freeze.

The night is no longer silent. The darkness is breathing. And I am no longer alone.