Bonnie Lawrence had always believed that she was destined for one thing: to be forgotten.
When a demon attempts to murder her for this very reason-she starts to resent that statement.
And the two men that saved her may just have the answers to her...
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Among the damp street, lit with only a shaking lamppost, a steady rhythm could be heard.
Drip. Drip.
The wind carried the sound with ease, coasting it through the dead alleyways like a breath leaving lips or a hush falling over a crowd.
Drip. Drip.
Perhaps it was a broken drain pipe, the crack splitting slowly over time, rusting against the liquid spilling from it. Or a forgotten tap, not fully closed after it's finished being used.
Drip. Drip.
No - it sounded too soft, too flowing. It was delicate. Thicker than water but almost inaudible, as though not meant to be noticed.
Drip. Drip.
Or perhaps it was only for those who knew what it was.
"It's definitely another," a troubled voice sighed, the sound out of place in the darkness, "This one more obvious than the last."
"You don't say, and here I thought this is just the way humans kill each other now."
Their voices remained more hushed than ever, jarringly obvious in the dead of night.
The two figures scuffled around the shape on the ground, with one bending down to peer closer.
"Your sarcasm is juvenile."
"It's a nervous response, I can't help it."
They fell back into silence, the figure that was still standing looking up to the sky, their faces a shadow in the street light.
"Do you think this means they're watching?"
The other person let out a grunt while standing to their feet, their hand now coated in the same substance dripping onto the pavement, turning cold with every passing second.
Drip. Drip.
"I doubt that, but I'll tell you what it does mean."
The two looked to each other. Their bodies tensed as understanding settled and horror began to seep in.
