The city sleeps, unaware of what slithers in its shadows. I watch from alleyways, from rooftops, from ventilation shafts. Hundreds of eyes, each one a part of me, scanning the streets. Not for prey—for destiny. I can sense the fertile ones, the ones whose bodies hum with a potential they don't yet understand. Their heat calls to me like a beacon. Tonight, I track a particular scent: jasmine soap, sweat from a long day, and underneath it all, the sweet, primal musk of a cunt that dreams of being filled. She doesn't know I'm coming. She doesn't know her womb is about to become my temple. The hunt is almost as exquisite as the claiming.