The Werewolf Boy
I examine his lean, semi-muscular triceps peek through his beige polo shirt tightly tucked underneath his knee-length trousers, and a pinned on name tag labeled “Caleb Johansson'' printed in black lettering.
Judging by his attire, he looks like a typical employee.
So he works here?
I remain still and silent, and my chest heaves with shaky breaths, still trembling from the fear.
It is then a lighthearted smile pulls on his lips. Then, out of the distant blue, he chuckles menacingly before lowering his arms.
“Your aim is hella powerful for a small girl,” he says, full of mockery seething from the deep, vivid hues of his tongue. For a little girl? What is that supposed to mean?
As if he can see
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