All Chapters of MARKED BY THE FANG: Chapter 1 - Chapter 4

By the time I got home, my body felt like it was made of wet cement. My shoes hit the floor with a dull thud the second I stepped into my apartment, and my backpack followed, sliding down my shoulder and collapsing in a sad heap by the door. My fridge hummed lazily when I opened it. I got half a carton of orange juice that I left maybe probably last night, a sad-looking apple, and the remains of last night’s pasta which stared back at me. Yup gourmet dining at its finest. I tossed the pasta into the microwave, listening to the dull buzz as I took off my jacket and let it hang from the back of a chair. When the microwave dinged, I hurriedly plopped down on the couch and dug in, barely tasting a thing. It was fuel nothing more, nothing less not you whole favorite kind of pasta trust me. It was survival on autopilot kind of pasta you just take it to fill your stomach. When the plate was empty, I stared at it for a long second before setting it aside. My eyelids were already heavy, a

I don’t know what it is about the walk home after work maybe it’s the quietness of the road or maybe it’s the fact that the whole city feels like it’s holding its breath but there’s always a moment when my brain decides to be dramatic. And tonight, that moment came the second I turned down the alley. It was colder than usual today not sweater-weather cold just bone-prickling, skin-goosebumping cold. The kind that crawls under your jacket and settles there like it plans on staying forever and that didn’t make sense. We hadn’t had so much as a breeze all week, and suddenly the air felt like November decided to pay an early visit. “Okay,” I muttered to myself, hugging my arms a little tighter. “That’s weird. But not horror-movie weird, Just… weather weird.” I kept walking,my sneakers echoed on the cracked pavement. The alley was narrow and long, framed by rusting fire escapes and graffiti-covered walls. Trash cans lined the sides, their lids rattling softly whenever the wind pi