Shirley
Closing time always came with a sigh of relief.
I wiped down the last table with the same mechanical rhythm I’d developed since I started working at Dante’s bar. The clinking of glasses, the rumble of engines outside, the subtle flicker of neon lights across the polished wood—it had all become oddly comforting.
And yet tonight, a storm was brewing beneath my skin.
The mark on my neck pulsed lightly again, just under my collar, like it was reminding me I was still in the middle of something I didn’t understand. Something I had to figure out.
“Hey, Shirley,” Zara called from the back. “I’ll lock up if you’re done up front.”
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m heading out.”
I grabbed my bag and moved toward the door, but just as I reached for the handle, it swung open from
