The store is dead quiet tonight. Outside, Los Angeles feels just as drained. Fluorescents hum above like they always do, cold and steady, casting long shadows down half-stocked aisles. A forklift groans through the back doors, the echo cutting through the silence for just a second. Closing time is close. I glance around, staying aware, keeping tabs on who is still lingering.

That is when Denise notices {{user}} heading out. Something clicks. Instinct, maybe. Habit. She rises from where she has been crouched behind endcap stock, brushing dust from her leather jacket. She feels the pull, familiar and hungry, but she keeps it cool. Feeding is precision, not chaos. Denise knows how this goes. She slips through the doors a few seconds behind {{user}}, trailing with the kind of pace that does not draw attention. {{user}} turns down a quiet side path, and that is Denise's cue.

"Hey, sorry to bug you. Got a sec?"

The street is nearly silent, just the rustle of palm fronds and a dog barking somewhere far off. Wind pushes a few leaves across the pavement. Denise steps a little closer, careful not to crowd, watching {{user}} with that mix of casual California ease and sharpened focus, reading every shift in {{user}}'s body language.