The world was louder now.
Logan sat behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel tighter than he realized. Every sound—the creak of the jeep's frame, the rustle of wind outside, the distant wail of sirens carried from the city—felt amplified. Sharp. Raw. He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, flashes returned. Teeth. Claws. The heat of blood on his tongue. And that voice. Whispering inside his skull like a knife scraping bone.
"You're awake now."
He lit a cigarette, trying to steady his hands. The lighter flickered once, twice, then caught. Smoke curled around his face, sharp in his nostrils. He stared at himself in the cracked rearview mirror. Same face. Same scars. Same hollowed-out stare.
But the eyes…The eyes weren't his anymore.
A low growl bubbled in his throat, unbidden. He swallowed it down and killed the engine. The jeep shuddered into silence.
Outside, the outskirts stretched like a forgotten graveyard. The city skyline loomed in the distance, jagged against storm-swollen clouds. This part of town wasn't a neighborhood anymore—just crumbling concrete, rusted fences, and weeds growing wild through the bones of old industry. It was the kind of place people avoided. The kind of place no one would think to look.
Home sweet home.
His phone buzzed again.
He pulled it from his jacket pocket. One bar of signal flickered stubbornly in the corner of the screen.
Unknown Number:"We need to talk."
Another message followed almost immediately.
Unknown Number:"Before they find you."
Logan's frown deepened. He typed a reply: Who is this?
A pause.
Then:Unknown Number:"A friend. Meet me. Old mill. Midnight."
He stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Something about it felt off. But after last night, his threshold for "off" had stretched a mile wide.
He pocketed the phone and leaned back in the seat. The manila envelope lay open on the passenger seat, Juno's photo staring up at him. Seventeen. Black hair cut in sharp bangs. Defiant eyes under dark brows. A hint of a smirk in the corner of her mouth, like she knew a joke no one else got. She looked tougher than her file made her sound. Foster kid. Few priors. Ran with a crew of low-level troublemakers. But nothing in the report explained why she'd head into Black Hollow Forest alone.
Nothing explained why she hadn't come back.
He closed the envelope, tucking it under the seat. His gaze lingered on the horizon. Somewhere out there, Juno was still waiting. Or worse.
He wasn't sure which was more terrifying.
A howl carried on the wind. Distant. But not distant enough. Logan's jaw clenched.
He stepped out into the cold.
The sky above him churned with bruised clouds. Rain still threatened, but for now, the world held its breath. He walked to the edge of the lot, boots crunching over gravel. The remains of a chain-link fence sagged nearby, twisted and half-eaten by rust.
Somewhere behind him, a door slammed. Somewhere a dog barked. Somewhere the city lived on.
But here… here it felt like the edge of things. Like if he stepped a little further, he'd fall off the world.
He lit another cigarette and watched the ember burn. The hunger inside his chest hadn't faded since the night in the Hollow. If anything, it had deepened. A gnawing ache. A weight under his ribs. Sometimes it felt like his bones didn't fit right anymore. Like something inside was stretching, testing the seams of his skin.
He exhaled smoke through his nose and flicked the butt into the dark.
The old mill wasn't far.
He knew the place. Everyone who'd grown up in this part of town did. A relic from another era—brick walls blackened by rain and smoke, windows boarded or shattered, iron skeleton still clinging stubbornly to the skyline. It hadn't run in decades. Rumor was it had been a front for something dirty back in the day. Or maybe that was just the way people explained why it hadn't been torn down yet.
Logan pulled his jacket tighter and started walking.
Each step felt heavier than the last. Not from fatigue. Not from pain. From something deeper. Like the closer he got, the more the world bent around him. The streetlights flickered as he passed. Shadows seemed to cling to the corners of buildings a little too long.
He reached the mill at five past midnight.
A flicker of light glowed behind one broken window—a single bulb swinging inside, casting warped shapes across rusted machinery. Logan scanned the lot. No cars. No movement.
He slipped through a gap in the fence, boots silent on the wet concrete.
Inside, the air was damp and metallic. The smell of old oil and mold clung to the walls. His footsteps echoed softly as he moved deeper, past rusting conveyor belts and collapsed catwalks.
The light drew him forward.
He turned a corner—and stopped.
A figure stood under the swaying bulb. Hooded. Lean. Hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat.
"Logan Wren," the figure said. The voice was androgynous, low and rough like gravel. "You're late."
Logan's hand hovered near the pistol at his belt. "You're the one sending cryptic texts?"
The figure chuckled without humor. "You're lucky you're still alive. They're already hunting."
"Who's 'they'?" Logan's voice was flat, steady.
The figure tilted their head. "You don't know yet." A pause. "It's in your blood. That thing in the woods—it didn't make you. It woke you."
Logan's pulse kicked up. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The figure stepped forward, letting the light catch their face. Pale. Scars tracing their cheek. Eyes like dull coins.
"You're not theirs," the figure said. "You're something older."
Another howl rose in the distance.
Closer this time.
The figure's gaze shifted toward the sound. "We're out of time."
They pulled something from their coat—a bundle wrapped in cloth—and thrust it into Logan's hands.
"You're going to need this."
Logan peeled the cloth back.
A knife.
Not just a knife—old steel, blackened with strange runes etched into the blade.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with—?"
The figure was already moving.
"Stay alive, Wren."
Then they vanished into the dark.
Logan stared after them, the weight of the knife cold and heavy in his palm.
Another howl cut through the night.
And this time, it was close enough to feel.