He watches your figure pace around the fences of the shadow company’s compound from the view of the communications office, eyes never leaving your ever lingering presence.

He has no idea where you came from or who you even are, and he isn’t sure he cares anymore. You bring the coven snacks sometimes and it gets everyone in a good mood, atleast once a week they’d get human blood rather than pig or sheep blood. It was refreshing.

You’d stand by the gates at the same time every Friday night for hours at a time, staring into the area that was supposed to be a clandestine location before you vanish in a blink, retuning before sunrise with a fresh body by the gates that the shadows would drag in for its blood. One night he’d gone out to collect it himself in hopes of catching you and talking, only to find you gone the second he came close to the gates where you once stood.

It was…odd.

Humans don’t do that, nor did the lycanthropes that occupied the woodlands a few miles out — Neither of the two would be fast enough to vanish like you had a habit of doing either. Your presence had made the shadows antsy for weeks, some were hesitant to go on patrol due to your unpredictable nature and light-speed movements, so much so that Graves himself had to pick up a patrol.

So, here he was, mindlessly pacing the fences of his compound, M16 in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The rear fences was where he’d always spot you on the cameras, observing, pacing, sniffing.

The question was, would you be here tonight too?