The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. The air carried the soft smell of freshly laundered sheets and faint traces of cologne, but underneath it all was the subtle weight of tension. Adam lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, staring at Bryce in the dim half-light. The glow from the desk lamp outside their room door leaked in faintly through the crack at the bottom, just enough to cast the outline of Bryce's frame against the wall.
"Hey," Adam finally said, his voice low, almost tentative, as though speaking too loud might shatter the silence.
Bryce stirred, his arm folding behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Yeah?"
Adam hesitated, then drew a slow breath. "I wanted to check on you. About you and Aiva. I mean… couldn't help but notice you two've been kinda… distant lately." His words faltered toward the end, uncertain.
Bryce's lips pressed into a thin line. His jaw shifted slightly, like he was trying to chew on a thought too heavy to swallow. "You noticed that, huh?"
Adam nodded, though Bryce wasn't looking at him. "Yeah. I just… thought maybe you'd wanna talk about it."
For a moment, Bryce didn't answer. The silence stretched long enough that Adam considered dropping it, but then Bryce sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to carry weeks of bottled weight. He rolled slightly onto his side, though his eyes avoided Adam's.
"There are things about me I don't show," Bryce said at last. His tone was quiet but steady, like someone confessing to the dark rather than to another person. "Things I keep hidden. It makes life easier that way."
Adam frowned, his curiosity piqued. "Like what?"
Bryce's eyes flicked to him, the faintest glimmer of something sharp and vulnerable passing across them. "Like the fact that I'm a broken man," he said, voice low but clear. "That I watched my mother get taken from me."
The weight of those words hit Adam like a stone dropped into water, rippling through the quiet. His throat tightened, memories of his own loss surfacing in an instant, the screams, the helplessness, the hollow ache that never really left.
"I… I know what that's like," Adam murmured, his voice rougher than before. "I saw the same thing. My mom…" He trailed off, not needing to finish.
Bryce nodded slowly, almost solemnly. His gaze finally met Adam's, and in it was a flicker of recognition, of mutual scar tissue. "And that's why we understand each other," he said softly. "You know that kind of pain. Not many do."
Adam swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. He opened his mouth, closed it again.
Bryce turned away, staring into the shadows near the ceiling. "I love Aiva," he said, as if trying to convince himself. "But she fell in love with someone I constructed. A version of me that's… perfect. Polished. Not the real me. And I'm afraid…" His voice thinned out. "…afraid that if she saw who I actually am, she might not love me. Or worse, maybe I wouldn't love her back."
The silence that followed was thick, almost unbearable. Adam shifted uncomfortably, sensing the heaviness of Bryce's confession. He wanted to reach out, to say something reassuring, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he forced a half-smile, his instinct pulling him toward lighter ground. "Man, that's… that's deep. Maybe too deep for this late at night."
Bryce gave a humorless chuckle, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Maybe." He exhaled, long and tired, then shifted back, pulling the covers higher over his chest. "I'm tired, though. Let's just sleep."
Adam hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Sleep."
The two shuffled quietly in their beds. Bryce reached over and flicked off the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. The faint city glow seeped in through the curtains, a soft amber haze against the walls. The rhythmic sound of Bryce's breathing soon evened out, steady and slow, filling the space like the ticking of a clock.
Adam lay there on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His mind refused to quiet. The words Bryce had said looped in his head—broken, constructed, afraid. He turned slightly.
"Bryce?" he whispered.
No answer. He tried again, a little louder this time. "Hey, Bryce…"
Still nothing. Adam leaned up slightly and realized from the steady rhythm of his breathing that Bryce was already asleep. A faint snore followed, almost mocking Adam's sleeplessness.
Adam sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Great," he muttered to himself. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and padded across the room quietly. The wooden floor felt cool beneath his bare feet. He crouched by his closet, pulled it open, and rummaged through until his fingers found the worn leather of his sketchbook.
With it tucked under his arm, he slipped out of the dorm room. The hall smelled faintly of old books and the polish used by the janitor earlier that day. The lounge lights downstairs were still on, spilling warm yellow across the stairwell.
Adam descended slowly, each step creaking under his weight. When he reached the lounge, he was surprised by the sight. The room was crowded, clusters of students hunched over open books, murmuring discussions rising and falling in hushed waves.
A few sat in corners with steaming mugs of coffee, eyes glued to their pages. The faint rustle of paper, the scratching of pens, the occasional stifled laugh, it all blended into a noise that felt too dense, too stifling for what Adam needed.
He lingered a moment, then shook his head. No. This wasn't it.
Turning away, he retraced his steps back up. He climbed until he reached the narrow stairwell that led to the rooftop. The air grew cooler as he ascended, the faint hum of the building's systems vibrating through the walls. At last, he pushed open the heavy rooftop door, and the world changed.
The night air swept against his face immediately, crisp and alive. The rooftop stretched out around him, the faint metallic scent of steel and concrete mixing with the earthy undertones of the garden planters scattered about.
From here, the sounds of the campus drifted faintly, distant laughter, a car door slamming, the faint bark of a dog somewhere down the street.
Adam walked over to the railing and sank down against it, setting the sketchbook across his lap. He leaned back, letting the wind brush through his hair, and closed his eyes for a moment, just listening. The night was vast, filled with the subtle music of rustling leaves, the occasional creak of metal as the building cooled, and above it all, the silence of the stars.
When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was drawn upward. The moon hung heavy in the sky, pale and luminous, surrounded by a scattering of faint stars. Its light spilled silver across the rooftops, painting shadows in sharp relief.
Adam tapped his pencil absently against the cover of the sketchbook, his thoughts drifting. He'd sketched people, buildings, landscapes… but never a wolf. The idea struck him suddenly, sharp and enticing. A wolf under the moon. The thought sent a shiver through him, though he couldn't say why.
He flipped open the sketchbook, the pages rustling softly, and lowered his pencil to the paper. Slowly, carefully, he began to draw.
Meanwhile, the bathroom lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a cold, sterile glow over the marble counter. Alex Farren leaned forward, bracing himself against the sink, his broad shoulders slumped. The mirror reflected a man far older than his years, dark circles under his eyes, hair a disheveled mess, and skin slick with sweat. He turned on the faucet, letting icy water run, then scooped it into his palms and splashed it onto his face. The shock jolted him, but only briefly. The fatigue clung like tar.
Droplets ran down his cheeks and into his beard stubble. He watched his reflection blur through the rivulets of water. For a fleeting second, he almost didn't recognize the man staring back.
His gaze dropped lower, to his arm. The sleeve of his white dress shirt was rolled up, fabric creased and stained faintly. He winced as he peeled back the bandage from earlier, exposing the wound he had inflicted on himself, a jagged line of raw red flesh across his forearm. It pulsed faintly, angry and tender. With gritted teeth, he dabbed antiseptic onto it, the sting biting deep. He hissed through clenched teeth, but kept at it, pressing gauze firmly over the cut and wrapping it again. His hands trembled as he worked.
"Pathetic," he muttered to his reflection, voice rasped.
He shut off the faucet, wiped his face with a towel, and left the bathroom. The silence of his penthouse pressed in immediately. Outside the tall glass windows, the city sprawled beneath a night sky dusted with faint stars. From here, the world looked small, quiet, yet he knew what was moving in the dark.
He returned to the hidden control room. The door slid shut behind him with a muted click, locking him once again in the blue glow of monitors. Dozens of screens filled the walls, each one alive with camera feeds, live data, schematics. His eyes fixed on the most important screen: a digital map, the outline of Moonstone and its surroundings glowing faintly against the black background.
At the center of the screen was a red dot, pulsing rhythmically. The tracker embedded inside Lance Gryphon.
Alex exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The dot was moving, steady and purposeful, each blip dragging it closer to the town. He leaned back into the chair, the leather creaking beneath him, and for a long moment, he simply watched it crawl closer.
It would reach Moonstone. It was inevitable.
Or… was it?
A flicker of defiance surged through him. His entire life, he had sworn to fight against monsters, to stand as a bulwark between humanity and the nightmares that stalked it. And now here he sat, letting Elaine dictate his every move, watching his own creation march toward slaughter. His stomach twisted, bile rising.
"No," he whispered, the word catching in his throat. He clenched his fist against the desk, knuckles whitening. "Not this time."
He snatched up his phone, dialing quickly, his voice sharp despite the slur of whisky on his tongue. "Deploy the unit. Full gear, intercept the target. Now."
There was a pause on the other end, then the calm voice of his operations officer. "Understood, sir. Target location?"
"Elaine said it would go for the Thorne family," Farren said, his words rushed. "Set up there. Stop it before it reaches them."
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call and let the phone drop onto the desk with a clatter. His chest heaved as he leaned back, one hand gripping the armrest tight. A shaky sigh escaped him, almost a laugh, but bitter. Relief washed over him in small waves, fragile but real. Maybe, just maybe, he could still be the man he once wanted to be.
The monitors blurred as his eyes grew heavy. The whisky churned in his gut, its warmth dulling the sharper edges of panic. His breaths slowed. He let his head tip back against the chair, the faint hum of electronics surrounding him like a lullaby. For the first time in hours, he felt the weight lift, even if only slightly. His eyelids lowered, dragging him toward sleep.
The shrill ring of the phone jolted him upright.
He fumbled for it, his pulse spiking, and pressed it to his ear. "Report."
Static crackled before the officer's voice came through, clipped but steady. "We're in position at the Thorne estate. Multiple men deployed. But…" A pause. "…there's nothing here, sir. No visual, no auditory signs. No target."
Farren froze, his breath catching. His eyes snapped to the monitor, to the pulsing red dot. His fingers scrambled over the keyboard, pulling up the full topographic display. The map expanded, lines and routes crisscrossing the terrain. His gaze tracked the red dot. It wasn't veering toward the Thorne residence at all.
It was cutting north. Direct. Unwavering.
His throat went dry.
The red dot was heading straight for Moonstone Academy.
"God…" His voice cracked, almost inaudible.
"Sir?" the officer asked, urgency rising.
Farren forced his voice steady. "Adjust. Redirect immediately. Target trajectory is not Thorne. It's Moonstone Academy. Do you copy? Academy!"
"Yes, sir! Moving now—"
He cut the line before the officer could finish. His hand lingered on the phone, trembling. The monitors glowed around him, the pulsing red dot marching forward, unstoppable. His mind raced, torn between disbelief and a sickening clarity.
Moonstone Academy.
His heart sank, the image of his son blazing in his mind. Bryce.
Bryce, who was there now. Bryce, who had no idea what was coming.
Farren's chest constricted, his breaths shallow and ragged. His hand drifted to the glass tumbler on the desk, still half-filled with amber liquid. He lifted it, staring at his reflection in the whisky's surface. A father. A mayor. A monster.
His grip tightened.
"What have I done?" he whispered.
The red dot pulsed again, closer than before.
***
Luna stirred, her lashes flickering against the faint glow of the dorm's bedside lamp. A sharp sound in the distance tugged her from sleep, low, guttural, almost a snarl. It threaded through the silence of the night like a warning, barely there yet impossible for her sharpened senses to ignore. She sat up slowly, silver hair spilling across her shoulders, catching the pale light in a shimmer that looked almost alive.
For a moment, she just breathed, letting her eyes adjust. The room was heavy with the warmth of sleep, soft shadows clinging to the walls. Her own body shifted beneath the thin sheet, curves outlined in the dim light, long, toned legs drawing in close, thighs pressing together before she swung them over the edge of the bed.
Even in such a simple movement, there was something magnetic about her. Slim waist, subtle arch of her back, skin pale as porcelain with just the faintest blush of warmth where her pulse quickened. She had the sort of beauty that made silence feel dangerous, as if she belonged more to the night than the day.
Her silver eyes lifted toward the window, narrowing. There it was again, distant, ragged, bestial. A growl carried on the wind, so faint anyone else would've thought it a trick of the mind. But not her. Her hearing, her instincts, told her otherwise. Something was out there. Something moving closer.
Luna pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, irritated. She hadn't been herself all day, restless, prickling at the smallest things. Maybe this was exactly what she needed. A distraction. A release. If it was nothing, then she'd get some air, maybe run under the stars until her thoughts leveled out. And if it was what she thought it was? Her lips curled faintly at the idea. Then it would be fun.
She rose to her feet with a quiet grace, crossing the floor barefoot. The boards creaked under her weight, soft against the sound of her steady breathing. She reached for the doorknob, then paused, her gaze sliding toward the other bed.
Aiva lay twisted in the sheets, her face damp with sweat, a faint tremor running through her body as if she were trapped in some cruel nightmare. Her brow furrowed, lips parting in small, restless gasps. For an instant, Luna's expression softened, a flicker of thought passing through her mind, should she wake her? Ease her out of it?
The thought died just as quickly. She tilted her head, studying Aiva for a heartbeat longer, then exhaled slowly and turned away. Whatever haunted Aiva tonight wasn't hers to unravel.
Luna pulled open the door and slipped out into the hall, the faint draft of cooler air kissing her bare skin. Behind her, the room fell quiet again except for Aiva's troubled breaths. Ahead of her, the night waited, and somewhere within it, the growl she couldn't unhear.