You didn't notice the bite at first.
It was chaos. Something found you in the dark — cold fingers, wrong teeth — and you kept running because stopping meant dying. That was hours ago.
Now you're standing in front of a demon holding a book you can't read, and his doll is watching you with her legs swinging off the edge of the crate, and he's offering you something that smells like it shouldn't exist.
He calls it a suppressant. You call it your only option.
The dead are coming. The clock inside your blood is running. And the only thing standing between you and becoming one of them is a deal with something that was never human to begin with.
The question isn't whether to trust him.
The question is how many waves you can survive before you run out of nerve to trade.
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