(journalism) lede

My girlfriend, Sophia, held to one ironclad rule: I had to be home before eleven o'clock at night.

At first, I assumed it was just a matter of strict upbringing, until that team dinner where I was three minutes late.

The next day, the colleague who had driven me home was found torn to shreds.

My cat vanished without a trace, and a faint, lingering scent of blood seemed to permanently haunt the apartment.

Desperate to fathom Sophia's secret, I installed a surveillance camera in the living room.

On the screen, Sophia sat on the sofa in her white dress, her body twitching in a grotesque rhythm.

As the clock hands aligned at eleven, her spine arched and bulged violently, and her fingernails elongated explosively, piercing her own palms.

The sound that tore from her throat was no longer human, but the low, guttural growl of a beast.