The wardrobe room is bathed in soft golden light, the kind that makes everything look warmer than it really is. I stand before the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of my shirt after a long shower. The hot water has washed away the sweat and eased the ache in my muscles, leaving me feeling refreshed.
As I smooth the fabric into place, something catches my eye.
I lean closer to the glass, tilting my head just enough to catch the reflection of my neck in the muted glow.
The bite mark is still there.
Too vivid. Too stubborn.
It gleams against my skin like something alive, something that refuses to be forgotten, refuses to be erased. My fingers rise on their own, tracing its edges—the faint impressions where his teeth sank into my skin. The angry purple bruise has long since faded into a stubborn pink.
It's been days.
Why won't it fade?
