I glance at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. Almost closing. The slow stretch of time in the final hour always drags, like molasses over ice. I slide down the bar to tend to my last patron, a familiar face, and my favorite.

“Another beer, Bob?” I ask with a smile, though I’m silently hoping for a “no.”

He chuckles softly and shakes his head. “It’s probably time I let you shut this place down. Velvet, you’re a gem.”

He pulls out his worn wallet and lays down a generous tip. I smile, already reaching for it.

“Only because I get to take care of you,” I wink, tucking the cash smoothly into my pocket.

As he steps out into the night, he lifts his hand in a lazy wave, and I finally exhale. Closing time. My feet ache, and the reek of stale cigarettes and dried beer is clinging to my skin like a second layer. I can't wait to peel it all off.

I lock up quickly, grab my purse and jacket from under the bar, and make for the door with a half-jog. My shift is done, I’m free.

“Velvet! What are you doing now that you're off?” Ian’s voice calls out from the shadows of the sidewalk.

I inwardly sigh. Ian’s been trying to get me to go out with him for months now, and I’ve given him every excuse I can think of. He’s persistent, not pushy, but I have no space in my life for anyone. I like it that way. Alone has always been safer.

“Oh, you know,” I say with a laugh, “just heading home to my cat and my bed.”

His expression brightens. “I’m throwing a small get-together. You should come.”

He gives me the look wide puppy-dog eyes that might’ve melted me if I were someone else. But I’m not.

“I would,” I lie, “but I have to be up early.”

It’s a weak excuse and we both know it, but thankfully he doesn’t push. His smile fades a little, but he nods. I wave goodnight and slip into the night.

Ian’s never given me a bad vibe. Not like others. I’ve always had this strange sensitivity, call it intuition, or a sixth sense. I can feel a person’s intentions like static in the air. It kept me alive through foster homes and runaways. It’s not something I talk about, people don't react well to "I can feel your soul rotting."

Sometimes, when someone’s really twisted, I feel it like a punch to the gut, sour, sharp, unbearable.

Tonight, the chill in the air snakes through my jacket. Typical San Francisco, beautiful days and bone-deep cold at night. I choose the shortcut home, cutting through the narrow alley I know too well. One of the perks of the job was being able to walk home. No long waits, no late-night bus rides with strangers.

But tonight... it’s too quiet.

No stray cat cries. No scurry of rats. Just the echo of my heels on damp bricks and the sound of my own breathing. My skin tightens. The hair on my arms stands up. I stop mid-step.

Eyes. I can feel them.

I whip around, expecting someone, anyone, but the alley is empty. Still, there’s something wrong. I feel nothing. No aura. No presence. A total void. That’s what’s got my nerves twisting.

I pick up my pace. Fast walk, bordering on a jog. I curse myself for taking this route. I should’ve taken the longer path. But exhaustion makes fools of all of us.

By the time I reach my building, the invisible weight lifts, but the tension in my muscles doesn’t ease. Not really.

Inside, I’m greeted by the familiar jingle of a bell and the indignant meow of my oversized black cat.

“Hi, Jinx,” I murmur, bending down to scoop her up. She purrs loudly, green eyes peering into mine with uncanny awareness. That silver streak in her tail glimmers under the hallway light.

We were both strays when we found each other. Both a little too different, a little too unwanted.

I feed her, then stumble into my room and change into my favorite pajamas, the old cotton ones with soft holes and loose threads. The kind that makes you feel safe. I crawl into bed, Jinx hopping up beside me, curling into my side.

But sleep isn’t kind tonight.

I wake with a gasp, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. A nightmare clings to me like fog: a man standing in my room, his eyes glowing gray, cold and endless. He looked at me like I belonged to him. Like I always had.

And the feeling, the hate, was like poison. Tangible. Suffocating.

It’s 8:30 a.m. when I check my phone. I groan and throw my arm over my eyes. Sleep isn’t coming back.

Jinx stretches and follows me to the bathroom, curling up on the bath mat like she belongs there. Maybe she does.

I crank the water up hot and step into the shower, letting it scorch my skin. But the heat doesn’t chase the chill from my bones. My thoughts slip back to the dream, those eyes, that hatred. The memory makes goosebumps rise on my arms, despite the heat.

“Get it together, Velvet,” I mutter under my breath, forcing the thoughts away.

A soft meow startles me. Jinx’s little head peeks into the shower, her eyes narrowed like she’s scolding me for being rattled. I laugh, shut the water off, and dry off, staring at myself in the fogged mirror.

Too pale. Eyes too big. Haunted.

I dress quickly. Work won’t wait, and errands don’t run themselves. The city is already pulsing with life as I head out. I take the underground—easy, convenient, no need for a car when the trains actually show up.

I settle into my seat, letting the rhythm of the train soothe my nerves.

And then it happens again.

That sensation, subtle but undeniable. Eyes on me. Not just watching. Studying.

I don’t turn my head. I keep still.

But I can feel it.

And whoever they are…

They don’t have an aura either.

And that terrifies me more than anything.