The candle flickered weakly between them. Mark forced a tight smile, swirling his wine. Across from him, Claire hadn’t spoken in three full minutes—just stared blankly past his shoulder.

“So, uh…” He cleared his throat. “What do you do for work?”

Claire tilted her head. Her neck cracked loudly.

Mark winced. “Y-you okay?”

Her mouth opened. A deep, low groan escaped.

Mark froze.

The smell hit him—rotting flesh, damp earth. His stomach lurched.

“Claire?”

She lunged forward, knocking over the wine. Gray fingers clawed for his arm.

Mark stumbled back, chair scraping loudly. The waiter screamed.

“Dude!” His buddy had warned him about blind dates. “She’s not your type.”

Yeah. No kidding.