Page 6 of Bitten Shifter

I never thought I’d willingly drive toward the shifters.

Part of me—the broken, miserable part—wants to pull over, crawl under the nearest bridge, and wrap myself in a blanket of cardboard boxes. To give up. To just… stop.

But another part of me, the enraged, determined part, burns hotter. It wants to succeed. To thrive, if only to shove it in their faces. To scream,“I don’t need you, so eff off!”

Bitter pain, I realise, is one heck of a motivator.

I drive for hours, the road blurring into a monotonous ribbon beneath my tyres. I force my mind to stay blank, refusing to pick apart my life with Paul. There’s too much to untangle, too much pain clawing at the edges of my thoughts. Sobbing uncontrollably while behind the wheel isn’t exactly safe.

So I focus on the engine’s hum and the blur of signs flashing by. For now, that’s all I can manage. The miles roll by as I stop only for fuel and cheap essentials: a few changes of clothes and toiletries—just enough to last until I’m settled somewhere.

And then I see it.

The Sector Border.

It looms in the distance, crawling up the horizon like a jagged scar cutting the sky. An impenetrable wall of magic, concrete, and electrified fencing spans the width of the land, dividing the shifters from the rest of the country—and the other human derivatives.

Derivative is the term people use.

Our DNA is still human—just with a twist. A splash of extra junk DNA that works differently, making some of us stronger.

Different.

Fangs, claws, and magic.

Vampires, shifters, magic users, and the rare, prized pure humans—we all fall somewhere along a spectrum of strength, with some unlucky individuals carrying a mix of DNA that cancels itself out, leaving them next to useless.

Some say derivatives are a natural evolution. Others spin tales of alien intervention. Supposedly, elf-like beings tweaked our genome—probably the same theorists who think aliens built our ancient ruins.

Science has not pinned down the origins of derivatives, and most theories are quietly dismissed. Maybe the governments know more, but if they do, they are not talking.

Considering we don’t even know all the species lurking in the deep ocean, it’s not a stretch to imagine there’s more about our genome that science has yet to figure out.

Forty years ago, everything came to a head. Xenophobia reached its peak, and society ripped itself apart.

We were killing each other. Pure humans, delicate in comparison, teetered on the edge of extinction. Death rates spiked. Birth rates plummeted.

For the derivatives—especially the blood drinkers—this wasn’t sustainable. They needed pure humans to survive.

The government had no choice. They passed laws that changed everything: the derivatives would govern themselves.

Sectors were drawn up, dividing the country into pieces. Each species ruled its own.

And the fragile peace began.

Geographically, the shifters reign in the north, where the environment is harsh, wild, and staggeringly beautiful.

I glance again at the horizon-stealing barrier. It’s a monstrosity, and the sight of it sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine. The shifters are territorial, and their borders reflect that.

They don’t just guard their borders—they fortify them.

They maintain two borders: the internal one that leads into the heart of their empire, where only those with the correct DNA can enter, and the external one, the one looming through my car window.

This barrier separates the Human Sector from no-man’s-land, a five-mile-wide, ninety-three-mile-long strip of neutral ground known as the Enterprise Zone. The area hosts national businesses where shifters coexist with other derivatives. Despiteits collaborative nature, the security here is nothing short of airtight.

Entry into their territory isn’t casual—it demands either a valid work visa or the explicit backing of a shifter sponsor.

Before I can even consider crossing into their sector, I will need to secure a qualifying job first.

---