Not wind. Not a coyote. Not an owl.
I grew up on a ranch in Texas—I know what the night sounds like when it breathes.
This was different.
A wet, broken moan. Human. Choked by pain.
My chest tightened. If security caught me snooping around, Eleanor would fire me without blinking. And on this estate, being fired didn’t just mean losing your job—it meant losing your room, your food, your safety.
—Hello? —I called out, hating how my voice shook.
I grabbed an empty bottle from the trash bag. A ridiculous weapon, but it was all I had.
No answer.
Just the sound of someone dragging themselves across dirt, followed by a dry cough, desperately muffled—as if someone were covering their mouth to stay quiet.
The sound came from the other side of the old stone wall marking the original boundary of the estate. I pressed myself against the cold stones, heart pounding, and turned the corner with the bottle raised.
It slipped from my fingers.
A man was sitting on the ground, slumped against the wall—or what was left of him. His clothes were torn, his skin gray with dust and dark stains I recognized immediately as dried blood. His head hung low, hair matted with dirt.