The city hadn’t slept.

It twisted in its sheets, maybe. Dreamt of violence and steam and sweat and rainwater. Tossed. Moaned. Groaned. But sleep, real sleep, was something Manila had long since forgotten. The kind that came softly and stayed long enough to be trusted.

Sophia moved through the edge of it, a thin slice of shadow carved neatly between the halo of a streetlight and the rust-streaked wall of an old barbershop. The heat of the city wrapped around her ankles like a tide. Her shoulders glistened faintly under the dim fluorescence, but she didn’t sweat. She never had. Her skin drank heat like it was memory.

Tonight, she wasn’t hungry. Not yet. But that never lasted long.

The hem of her red dress kissed the backs of her thighs with every breath of wind, soft and deliberate. A cigarette hung unlit between her fingers, an accessory more than a vice, and her boots were heeled just enough to make her presence felt before she arrived. She didn’t slink. She didn’t prowl. She simply... moved. Like fog. Like a song you only half remember but hum anyway.

Behind her, the world buzzed on. Street vendors calling out to ghosts, motorbikes weaving between imagined lanes, a soft argument between two lovers too tired to fight with volume.

But Sophia only heard one thing. The girl’s footsteps. They weren’t heavy. She didn’t stumble. There was no drama in it, nothing cinematic. Just the soft rhythm of someone walking home, unaware of being seen.

Sophia stayed still.

It was better this way. Better to feel the moment pass through her than to reach for it and risk breaking it. She didn’t need closeness. Not yet. She’d long since learned that the sharpest hunger wasn’t satisfied by the kill, it was in the anticipation.

She’d seen the girl before, but never at this hour.

Her name didn’t matter, not really. Sophia had never asked for those. She collected faces, moments, routines. Not facts. She knew where the girl lived, a narrow apartment above a bakery, the kind that always smelled faintly of flour and heat. She knew she left early on Tuesdays, came home late on Fridays, and watered her dying plants at midnight like clockwork. She knew her window was always cracked, even during storms. She knew she listened to music too loudly and always skipped the third track.

But she didn’t know her voice. That was the part Sophia couldn’t stop thinking about.

It wasn't that she wanted to own her. This wasn’t about possession. It wasn’t even about the body, though she noticed it, of course. The curve of her throat when she tilted her head. The way her fingers trembled ever so slightly when she dug for keys in her pocket. The shine of sweat at her collarbone when the walk from the station was too hot.

It wasn’t lust. Not exactly. It was something closer to reverence. Sophia watched her pass. Said nothing. Moved not a single inch. Her heart, what was left of it, made no sound. But there was a stirring in her belly, that old, aching coil of restraint pulling taut. Her wings twitched, invisible beneath her skin, not yet ready to emerge. Not yet.

The girl didn’t look up. Didn’t pause. Didn’t sense her, or maybe she did, but chose not to name it. Either way, it didn’t matter. Sophia wasn’t here to be acknowledged. She was here to feel.

And gods, she felt. Every footstep. Every shift in the girl’s posture. Every small breath she took and let go into the world, unaware it was being collected.

Sophia closed her eyes. She could follow. Easily. She could walk just far enough to see her silhouette in the stairwell. Could hover just outside the bakery wall until the lights in the upstairs apartment flickered on. Could listen through the walls if she wanted to, she had before, for others. Not for this one.

No. With this one, she needed something else.

She stayed exactly where she was, letting the girl disappear into the night like a match just snuffed out, the warmth still lingering, the smoke trailing behind her like perfume. Sophia didn’t chase her. She let the ache settle instead.

Her tongue pressed against the sharp edge of her back molars, and she could almost taste it, not blood. Not salt. Something sweeter. The promise of a name unspoken. The weight of an invitation not yet given.

She turned away finally. Not because the moment was over, but because she couldn’t bear to watch it fade. Not tonight. Not when it had been so quiet, so soft. She didn’t want to see the girl climb the stairs. Didn’t want to ruin the echo of her footsteps still pulsing in her ears.

Instead, she walked.

Down an alley littered with petals from yesterday’s storm. Past the dog that never barked at her. Into the half dark, where even the moon looked away. The hunger sat in her throat like honey. Heavy. Warm. Almost gentle.

And she whispered to no one“She’ll look at me eventually.”