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    Chapter 2


    San Francisco, California. October, 2023. A partial lunar eclipse unfolded on the 28</sup>.


    As it stands the world and all its people are more connected at this moment than any time in history by the advent of technology and the Internets use of social media and online communities. That divides us the most. D


    In sleek waves her straight black hair reaches to her shoulder blades catching the light with each purposeful step. The bathroom becomes a sanctuary of quiet reflection when she closes the door and the music recedes. Groggily,held the mysteries of a life fully lived or that somewhere in her there was a fiery spirit that defies apology. Still she is sorry and a mourning continues to reside.


    Inside, Frances stands over the sink, splashing her face with cool water. She peers into her own reflection, tracing the delicate map of the wrinkles. Looking past her vital, and clean skin treating all the things that disappoint herself, like they are the only things present. To her they look like canyons, destined to deepen with time. She scrutinizes the white brightness of her eyes with the lack there of. She rationalizes hidden tales of tiny battles won from day to day, defining her endurance and change. “Life goes on. This is aging. This is what it looks like,” she muses, feeling the delicate tension between resentment and acceptance. In the quiet storm of introspection, she grapples with a deep-seated dread, Is this mundane routine all that life has in store? Surrounded by endless possibilities to pursue... some kind of story and still I stay here. Holding onto this. Security. Safety net... Safety. She recalls the wasted vibrancy of her twenties when she was confined to a desk. 4000 days of that blend together like a collage of the uneventful. She mourns the solitary journey of a metropolis where 800,000 souls pass through everyday without a word. She left her cold life in San Diego behind, only to be invisible here. She moved here because this city was supposed to be full of connection. It probably is. Just not for her. “You are still a person, Frances,” she whispers, a silent promise of resilience.


    Pausing at the law firm’s entrance, Frances feels, for a hopeful moment, an expectant presence in the air. Her eyes dart about, as if anticipating a rendezvous. But when no one materializes, a wistful melancholy tugs at her heart. With a heavy sigh, she retreats inside.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Traversing the half-wall corridors she soon steps into the break room. She finds two colleagues deep in whispered conversation. One, a short brunette who shares a similar olive skin tone with Frances; the other, a statuesque ash blonde who a majority of the time is expressionless to maintain a heavily glamorous makeup look. Frances begins to bubble with a playful enthusiasm shooting a warm smile and wave at the two women. Their murmurs turn towards the grisly murder of Jolean, a colleague who was found lifeless by a local woman who was on her morning jog. The subject catches Frances off guard and her smile falls away. They speak about Jolean’s neck marred by two piercing puncture wounds eerily reminiscent of a vampire’s bite.


    “Vampires? Really?” the blonde questions with uncertainty.


    Its more than likely a psycho who lived near her. Stalked her and one day grew the nerve to kill her.”


    While reaching into the employee fridge Frances opens her lunch bag that has two water bottles and a plastic container. In this moment a bemused thought crosses her mind. “What an odd dance between fear and fascination,” she muses silently and then out loud Frances lets slip, “Vampires aren’t real.”


    Frances stumbles over her explanation, “I—I just meant… they aren’t real.”


    The brunette arches a knowing smile, “Right, vampires aren’t real. We all know that. Was that all?”


    A brief, banal interruption occurs as the blonde, in a burst of quirky generosity, reveals a poster she printed of a creature resembling a t-rex.


    “


    In narrow eyed confusion the brunette responds, “ That is not a t-rex. It looks more like an A.I. generated crocodile,” the brunette chides.


    Frances interjects with a spark of erudition, “In fact, it’s a Kaprosuchus. An extinct crocodyliform from the Late Cretaceous period. They were creatures that most likely were semiaquatic. Reaching lengths of about 12 feet and may have stood 6 feet tall. Though,” She laughs to herself, “C


    The blonde lights up with curiosity, “Why do you know so much about this?”


    “When I was younger, it was my special interest.” Frances confides, her voice firm against the casual banter.


    A momentary glance of sympathy is exchanged between the two women.tirring unsaid understandings.  Frances, unruffled, nods,


    Their brief exchange leaves an uncomfortable hush trailing behind as the trio disperses without speaking another word. Alone once more, Frances feels the oppressive flicker of harsh fluorescent lights and a growing pressure beneath of a subtle, almost spectral itch, beneath her skin. In the silence of the nearly empty room, as she nibbles on her lunch, a poignant ache of isolation and longing tightens around her heart. She ponders whether her unique nature is the reason these fleeting connections remain so elusive. Could there be souls out there who would embrace her truth. ‘Or is this fragile act of being human a curse bestowed upon those who yearn to connect?’


    She continues to eat in the absence of sound with her water bottle sitting in front of her and the second water bottle placed across from her as she sits in solitude at the table.


    At day’s end, Frances emerges from the law firm. Pausing on the threshold, she closes her eyes, inhaling deeply with a forlorn resignation. Her eyes open, glassy, searching for a presence. Taking a moment to wait for someone who isn’t coming, for the last time. With heavy steps, she moves on.


    Hours later, across the city in a dimly lit taekwondo dojo, Frances transforms. Her lithe form moves with the precision and elegance of years spent mastering martial arts. In a graceful dance of power and technique, she outmaneuvers her seasoned instructor. He is a living monument of battle-scarred tenacity. He throws his spiky knuckles at her only to have Frances counter them again and again. The jagged joints of his wrists and ankles spinning through the air looking for a new creative way to break through her defense only to be met with failure. Each strike, each parry is a testament to her inner fire, culminating in a decisive blow that earns not scorn, but admiration. Elegantly, he submits to loss and ends today’s lesson by congratulating her on her well earned skill.


    Night descends, and Frances returns home to prepare for an evening out.


    Tonight, Earth stands precisely between the Sun and Jupiter in a rare cosmic alignment, the Waning Gibbous moon cascades its silver luminescence over a lone, spectral figure. It is the same man from the morning. Now accompanied by two equally ominous companions whom are cloaked in darkness and intent. They observe Frances from the shadows as her car reverses onto the street and disappears into the night.


    He keeps his eye on her, examining every inch, looking for weapons and anything that connects to the internet until she exits onto the street. In her absence, he