Black, inky clouds dispersed in invisible waves around her. It was taking over; taking control. Monica could feel it with every fibre of her being. Oozing like slime down a drainpipe, the darkness slid down her throat, barely silencing every unspoken desire she had to turn and run.

It was wrong. It was all terribly wrong.

She tried to level her breathing and sunk as far into the few shadows that the building offered as physically and mentally as possible, all the while knowing that her hiding place was under surveillance.

She was being watched by the very thing that she was supposed to be hunting and yet she couldn't make herself move. Blood pumping through her like it never had before; ice blocking her veins, she waited for it.

She waited for the inevitable rush of adrenaline to hit her full force as it lunged at her. She waited for the sharp pain of a thousand claws tearing her to shreds. She waited for the cold lifelessness that came with being dead and the trickle of her own blood as it met dirt.

Hidden in plain sight, she waited.

It didn't come.

Instead she felt the warmth of a hand find its way to her shoulder and heard, almost as if the words were spoken inside her head, a faint whispering.

"John?" She turned to see his concerned blue eyes staring back at her.

"It'll be all right, Monica," he comforted her, pulling her into his arms. "I've got you."