The sliding doors hissed open, and Seoul swallowed me whole.
Bright white ceilings. Smooth marble floors. Fluorescent lights that buzzed too loudly. The air was crisp, artificial, filtered through a hundred vents. It smelled nothing like home. No cedar. No sea breeze. Just metal and motion.
I tightened my grip on my carry-on and stepped into Incheon International like I belonged there. Like I wasn't seventeen hours from everything familiar. Like I wasn't about to fall to pieces.
My hoodie clung to one shoulder, bag strap digging into the other. My boots ached from the flight, and the silk scarf I'd wrapped my braids in had come half undone somewhere over the Pacific. I tugged it off and stuffed it in my pocket, hoping I looked less terrified than I felt.
Around me, travelers moved like schools of fish—streamlined, fast, purposeful. Families. Businessmen. Girls in matching fan shirts whispering behind face masks. I could've been anyone.
But I wasn't just anyone.
And my wolf knew it.
"Something's here," Dawn my wolf, murmured inside me.
"The air knows. The ground knows."
"Knows what?" I asked.
"That something's close."
Her voice wasn't panicked. Just... alert. Focused. A predator catching the first scent of something that might matter. She'd been mostly quiet these last few month—since the forest, since the rejection, since I left the Duskthorn border and stepped into the world of microphones and glass buildings. But now?
Now she was wide awake.
I barely had time to process that before someone shrieked across the terminal:
"DWYYYN!"
I turned just in time to be tackled by a blur of red curls, Docs, and too much eyeliner.
"Rhea!" I gasped, nearly dropping my suitcase as we collided.
"Bloody hell, I thought they'd lose you in customs!"
She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes blazing under glittery shadow. Her Scottish accent was thicker than ever, her hair a riot of auburn ringlets piled into a half bun.
"You look like you wrestled a baggage handler," she said, grinning.
"You look like you beat one," I shot back.
She snorted. "Fair enough."
We fell into step together like no time had passed at all.
I hadn't seen Rhea in person since the cover went viral. The one we filmed in the studio. The one with the too-bright fairy lights and the cracked second verse that somehow made two million people stop and listen.
The one that got us here.
"I beat you by an hour," she said as we headed toward the arrivals exit. "They've already herded the other girls onto the shuttle. It's like a bloody boarding school in there. There's a Spanish girl named Lulu who can do backflips in wedges. I don't trust it."
"Seven of us, right?" I asked.
"Aye. Seven." Rhea slowed slightly, glancing sideways at me. "You ready for this, D?"
I hesitated.
Was I?
I'd crossed an ocean. Left my family standing on a curb, hugging me like they weren't sure they'd ever get the chance again. I hadn't told them what Dawn had started whispering. I didn't even understand it yet. I just knew something was shifting under my skin, and it wasn't the jet lag.
I was more than nervous. I was cracked open.
But I was also ready to become something.
"I don't think anyone's ever ready," I said finally. "But yeah. I want this."
Rhea nodded like she'd known the answer before I said it. "Good. Because this whole city's about to know your name."
As we stepped outside into the Seoul morning, the sunlight hit me like a song I hadn't heard in years. Warm. Blinding. Electric.
I paused on the curb.
And felt it.
A thread.
Thin.
Tugging.
Pulling something inside me toward something I couldn't see.
I turned slowly, eyes drifting across the airport glass, down the line of black vans, past drivers waiting with placards. No one looked out of place.
But Dawn's voice was no longer quiet.
"He's here."
"Who?" I whispered.
"I don't know," she said. "But my heart remembers him."
My stomach dipped.
My fingers curled around my suitcase handle.
"D?"
Rhea's voice snapped me back. I turned to her, blinking the sun from my eyes.
"Yeah. Sorry. I just—thought I saw someone."
"You'll get used to that," she said, gently tugging me toward the waiting van. "This city's full of ghosts."
But I didn't feel haunted.
I felt hunted.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
And somewhere across Seoul, I knew it—
--------------------------------------------------
The shuttle bus waiting outside Incheon Airport looked sleek enough to launch into orbit.
Midnight black. All tinted windows and polished chrome trim, like it belonged to a secret government project or the kind of celebrity so famous they didn't need to explain anything to anyone. No markings. No logos. Just quiet, intimidating luxury that whispered you're not in the forest anymore.
The BIGHIT handler who met me at baggage claim hadn't said much. A clipboard. A nod. A gesture toward the exit. He didn't even check my ID.
I followed him on autopilot, my carry-on bumping softly against my ankle with every step like it was reminding me this was real. That I was really here. That this wasn't another dream where I woke up with Dawn's voice in my head and a plane ticket evaporating from my hands.
The handler stepped aside with military precision and motioned me toward the bus door.
I hesitated.
Not because I was afraid. Not exactly. But because in the split second before I boarded, everything caught up with me. The flight. The goodbye. The feeling that something ancient in me had just tilted and wasn't done shifting.
The cabin was darkened, air-conditioned to an expensive chill. Through the doorway I caught a glimpse of neat leather seats, a row of girls, dim overhead lighting casting soft halos over their heads like a stage right before the spotlight drops.
And then—
"Dwyn!"
Rhea's voice split the air like a sunrise over a frozen lake.
She popped her head out from the cabin, curls as wild as ever and already threatening to escape the bun she'd tried to tame them into. Her accent was thick as ever—Inverness through and through.
"What are you waiting for, an invitation? Get in here, you absolute lunatic!"
I exhaled, relief loosening something tight in my chest. She ducked back inside. I climbed in after her, and everything shifted. The moment I stepped into the bus, the air changed. Eyes turned. Curious. Appraising. Some wide, some narrowed in interest. Not malicious—just calculating. Like the way wolves circle newcomers at the edge of the den, instinctively sniffing for strength, for scent, for story.
There were six other girls inside.
Strangers. Almost.
But the energy between us buzzed like a string pulled taut.
Rhea scooted over and patted the seat beside her. "They don't bite," she added, stage-whispering. "Much."
I slid in beside her, trying to quiet the thump of my heartbeat.
A girl across the aisle turned first. Sleek black bob curling at her jawline. Eyes shaped like poetry and focus. Her school blazer was pressed like it had never known a wrinkle.
"Aya Matsuda," she said calmly. Her accent was soft but clipped. Tokyo through and through. "Vocalist. Composer. Classical training."
The girl next to her tilted her head like she was used to being watched. Camille Sora. Sunglasses indoors, silk scarf tied like a '60s film star. Pale blonde hair in a perfect coil.
"Paris," she said, as if that explained everything. "Camille. I write music and break hearts. The latter unintentionally." She smiled—slow, knowing. "Usually."
A girl in the back with galaxy buns and glitter-stained cheeks lifted a hand without lifting her head from her phone. Her nails were painted in chaotic neon, and her hoodie had rhinestones on the drawstrings.
"Lulu Imani. Palma, Spain. I'm the party," she grinned. "I also choreograph and can fake-cry on command, but mostly I just want snacks and scandals."
Then came the tall girl two rows ahead. Her brown skin glowed in the lighting like polished honey. Box braids flicked over her shoulder as she turned.
"Nevaeh Reed," she said. "New York City, baby. Rapper. Dancer. Certified tarot reader. If you're into drama or ghost stories, I'm your girl."
I liked her instantly.
The last girl near the front turned slowly. Her movements were exact—measured, practiced, almost military. Her voice was low and smooth, with a gentle Korean cadence overlaid with perfect Japanese.
"Yuna Ko. Busan born. Raised between Seoul and Osaka. Primary focus is dance and performance integration. But I've trained in every category. Including strategic design."
She gave a small bow, and I got the feeling she'd already memorized every one of our full names.
I blinked.
"Dwyn Duskthorn," I offered quietly. "North America. Nineteen. I sing. Mostly. Sometimes I write."
Camille's head tilted. "Wait. The viral girl?"
Rhea smirked. "The one with the silver eyes and voice that made half the internet cry."
Camille lifted her sunglasses. Her stare felt like being gently x-rayed. "Dwyn Duskthorn," she repeated slowly. "Sounds like someone carved it from old myth."
I ducked my head, cheeks warm. "It's just a name."
Lulu leaned over a seat. "Girl, that name sounds like a prophecy. Don't act humble."
Nevaeh nodded. "Okay, I'm not saying we're the next global phenomenon, but if we're all riding in a mystery van with names like that, the universe is clearly working some angles."
And just like that, the energy broke.
The tension melted.
The girls laughed—soft and sudden, like they'd needed the excuse.
Aya smiled behind her notebook. Yuna gave a small chuckle. Camille smirked and pulled a tiny perfume bottle from her purse, spritzing the air like she was claiming the space.
I felt Dawn stir in my chest.
Not fully. Not with urgency. But with… curiosity.
"They feel good," she whispered.
"Like they fit. Like puzzle pieces. Maybe we'll like it here."
I didn't say anything. Just tucked my carry-on under the seat and glanced out the window as the shuttle eased away from the curb.
A new city. A new sky. A new name worn like a second skin.
Rhea bumped my shoulder. "You okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
She tilted her head. "Really?"
I exhaled. "No. But I will be."
The other girls were already swapping playlists, arguing about snacks, deciding who would cry on camera first during bootcamp week. It was fast. Easy. Like lightning catching on dry kindling.
And I was part of it.
For the first time, it didn't feel like I was standing outside the glass.
I was in the room.
I was wanted.
Pack? Maybe not. Not yet.
But something was blooming.
And whatever came next?
We'd face it together.