Demon Slayer

I never fit into my own life.

On the surface, everything was perfect-maybe even enviable. A multi-

million-dollar mansion in Brighton Hills, the private school with ivy-

covered walls, the designer clothes, and the sleek black Audi that my

father gave me on my sixteenth birthday. I had everything a girl could

ask for. But if someone peeled back the layers, they'd find the truth: my

life was like glass-polished on the outside, empty on the inside, and one

hard hit away from shattering.

My father, Dr. James Morgan, was one of the most brilliant neurosur-

geons in the world. That wasn't an exaggeration. People flew in from

every continent to be treated by him. He had saved thousands of lives-

but I sometimes wondered if he even saw mine. Most nights, his side of

the house was dark except for the dim glow of his office lamp. The only

signs of life were the low hum of classical music and the occasional creak

of his chair when he shifted between research papers.

I used to sit outside his door when I was little, cross-legged on the marble

floor, waiting for him to come out. Sometimes he did. Most of the time,

I just fell asleep there, the cold seeping through my pajamas, until the

housekeeper woke me up and sent me to bed.