I am being watched. My stalker is smart, just like I would be.

If that was the last time we met, I was satisfied with my parting words. But if that was the case, why was I crying on the way back to the train as if I'd experienced a death?

I licked my lips where I could still taste their glove's fabric. Bitter leather and sweat. The taste of being alive.

I screamed at them all to leave me alone, begged for their mercy, but they feasted until I was picked clean like a carrion would.