NIKLAUS's POV.
The night always started the same way — with the pulse.
Low. Deep. A rhythm that thudded behind Niklaus's ribs like a second heartbeat.
He leaned against the hood of BJ's car, staring at the dark stretch of woods that bordered the soccer house. The moon hung low, veiled behind a haze that wasn't entirely natural.
"You're doing it again," BJ said, tossing him a beer. "That staring-into-the-void thing. Creeping people out, man."
Niklaus didn't move. "It's close tonight."
BJ hesitated. "The pulse?"
He nodded once.
They both knew what that meant.
The pulse was older than the college, older than the town. It came from the ruins buried beneath the field — the place the team called The Pit long before they knew what was really buried there.
"You think it's her?" BJ asked quietly.
Niklaus's jaw tightened. "It has to be. The signs line up — the shift, the storm, the… calling."
BJ swore under his breath. "After all this time? You're sure?"
Niklaus finally looked at him. "If it's not her, then we're out of time."
A gust of wind rattled the trees, carrying with it a whisper — faint, almost human.
Niklaus's eyes burned, gold flashing through his irises before he forced it back down.
He hated the way it felt — like something ancient was clawing to the surface.
Like the part of him that wasn't supposed to exist wanted out.
BJ glanced toward the house where music was already starting to rise. "So what's the plan? You just… wait for her to walk in?"
"She'll come," Niklaus said, voice distant. "She has to."
BJ frowned. "And when she does?"
Niklaus looked toward the forest again, the pulse growing louder until it echoed in his skull.
"Then everything starts over."