I was finally heading back home after dealing with Clara's messy little situation. The burn in the air from her body turning to ash still remained faintly in my nostrils like a sweet reminder of how easily I could dispose of things that no longer served me.
Not that I felt particularly proud about it—after all, the real work wasn't about killing. The real work was in the planning, the anticipation, the control.
Yet, as I approached the small, pathetic house in the backyard of the packhouse, something felt… off. The wretched house seemed to cower under the weight of the world, and that's when I felt it.
The air changed and thickened, making it seem like the very atmosphere was aware of something far more dangerous than me. A sudden chill crawled up my spine; the kind that makes you freeze in place, even as your mind tells you to run.
The aura was too gripping, powerful, and completely… dark.
