Mary had learned early that silence was safer than explaining yourself.
It didn't matter how many times she said it wasn't her fault.
Not the way people stared when she walked into a room—like they were watching something too pretty to be innocent.
Not the whispers that chased her down hallways like shadows.
Not the way teachers looked at her for one second too long before quickly looking away, as if admiring her could be mistaken for something dirty.
Mary didn't fight it anymore.
She just kept her head down, her shoulders straight, and her lips shut.
Because in Hawthorne District, people didn't forgive what they didn't understand.
And they definitely didn't forgive a girl who looked like her.
Mary was light-skinned, her complexion warm like honey under the sun. Her eyes—soft, wide doe eyes—were the kind that made people think she was fragile. But her irises were the strangest part: a blend of light brown and green, like moss floating in amber.
Her hair was long, straight, and thick enough to feel heavy against her back. It fell like black silk… except for the natural streaks of platinum blonde that threaded through it, bright as moonlight.
Most girls paid for highlights like that.
Mary had been born with them.
And for that reason alone, she'd been branded something she never asked to be.
Cursed.
A mark.
A warning.
The whispers were always the same:
The cursed one.
The marked girl.
Bad luck in a pretty package.
And then the cruelest one, said in giggles sharp enough to cut:
Whore.
Mary didn't dress like one. She didn't flirt like one. She didn't act like one.
She didn't even date.
But jealousy didn't need logic. It only needed a target.
Her body didn't help. It was the kind of body girls hated and boys stared at—curvy in all the wrong places, an hourglass shape she hadn't earned and didn't want attention for. At five-foot-three, Mary was compact and soft in the way people loved to misinterpret. A full chest. A round waist that dipped in, then flared to hips that held the kind of weight that made her feel like she was always being watched.
She could walk into school wearing jeans and a hoodie and still hear someone hiss,
"Look at her acting like she doesn't know what she's doing."
As if existing in her own skin was a crime.
Mary pulled her sleeves down past her wrists as she walked through the front doors of Hawthorne High, gripping the strap of her bag tightly enough for her knuckles to ache.
The hallway smelled like over-sweet perfume and cafeteria grease. The floor shined with cheap wax. Someone had taped up posters for spirit week that were already peeling at the corners.
Her heart thudded once.
Then twice.
Then fast enough that she had to swallow hard.
Just breathe.
She'd been doing that a lot lately—telling herself to breathe like she was drowning.
Maybe she was.
Because today wasn't a normal school day.
Today was the day the applications came.
The Golden Tickets.
That was what they called them—like it was a joke, like it was fun, like the world wasn't split into the chosen and the forgotten.
Every year, Obsidian Moon Academy selected students from different districts across the country.
Some districts had families with money, bloodlines with status, connections with power.
Hawthorne District had none of that.
They had factories. Rusted fences. small homes with cracked sidewalks. Families that worked too hard just to survive.
Humans like Mary.
And humans were rarely picked.
So whenever Obsidian Moon Academy even looked in their direction, the entire district lost its mind.
Mary made it to her locker without making eye contact with anyone. She spun the dial, opened it, shoved her books inside like she could hide herself in the metal shell too.
A loud, fake laugh echoed down the hallway.
Mary didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
Samantha Marvin's voice haunted her life like a curse all on its own.
Not the Samantha—the one who lived in her house.
This one was a girl in her grade who had the same sharpness in her eyes. Same hunger for cruelty. Same obsession with being the prettiest.
Mary shut her locker and turned.
Samantha Caldwell stood with her little pack of girls, arms folded, lips painted a glossy cherry red that made her teeth look too white. She wore her hair in loose curls, blonde and perfect, her uniform skirt hemmed just an inch shorter than allowed.
Her eyes flicked to Mary's hair.
The platinum streaks.
Then her smirk widened.
"Well," Samantha drawled. "If it isn't Hawthorne's walking bad omen."
The girls around her giggled like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.
Mary held her face blank. "Move."
Samantha took a slow step closer, inhaling like she could smell Mary's existence. "Don't be rude. People are gonna think you're a whore or something."
Mary's stomach tightened, but her voice stayed calm. "People already think that."
That made Samantha blink, like she hated Mary being honest.
"Ugh," one of the girls sneered. "She thinks she's hot because she has cursed hair."
Mary didn't answer. She stepped around them.
Samantha's voice followed her like spit.
"Don't get any ideas about the Golden Ticket, Mary. That academy doesn't want you. They want real students."
Mary didn't stop walking.
But inside, something twisted.
Because Mary didn't want the academy.
She didn't want the attention.
She didn't want the whispers, the eyes, the new kind of danger that came with a school full of creatures she wasn't even sure were real.
But wanting didn't matter when the world decided you belonged somewhere.
Mary knew that better than anyone.
She had never belonged anywhere.
Not really.
Not even at home.
⸻
Home smelled like chalk dust, old books, and burnt coffee.
Marvin's house sat at the edge of town, tucked behind a row of trees like it was trying to hide from the world. The paint on the porch was peeling. The screen door stuck when you pulled it open. The wind always whistled through the windows because Marvin refused to replace them.
"It builds character," he'd say, like everything painful had to mean something.
Marvin was the reason Mary had a roof at all.
He'd adopted her when she was little.
Not because he was soft-hearted.
Because he was stubborn.
Marvin was a teacher—history, mostly. The kind of older man who looked like he'd been born annoyed. His hair was a silver-gray mess that never stayed combed, his beard trimmed just enough to look intentional. His eyebrows were thick and expressive, and when he stared at you, it felt like he could see through your bones.
He always wore a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders or a belt, and he smelled like old paper.
He also had the sharpest mouth in Hawthorne.
"Stop slouching," he'd bark.
"Eat your food."
"Don't let fools turn you into one."
He didn't believe in gentle parenting.
He believed in surviving.
Marvin had given Mary a home, a last name, an education—and a thousand warnings.
But he'd never given her what she wanted most.
Answers.
Mary had asked him once—when she was nine—where she came from.
He'd stared at her for a long time before saying, "Nowhere you need to go back to."
She'd asked again at thirteen.
Marvin's jaw had clenched. "You were left. I found you. End of story."
She'd stopped asking after that.
Because when Marvin didn't want to talk about something, it wasn't just silence.
It was a locked door.
Mary learned to stop knocking.
And then there was Samantha.
Marvin's wife.
Mary didn't call her "Mom." She couldn't. Samantha never wanted that title anyway.
Samantha Marvin looked like the kind of woman who belonged in a nicer house. She had smooth skin, expensive perfume, and hair the color of warm chestnuts always styled in neat waves. She wore pearls even when she went grocery shopping, her makeup flawless, her lips always pinched like she was smelling something rotten.
Mary, usually.
Samantha's eyes were sharp and assessing. She didn't glance—she measured.
And she hated Mary for the same reason everyone else did.
Because Mary was beautiful.
Because Mary was young.
Because Mary existed in a way Samantha no longer could.
Samantha had never hit Mary.
She didn't need to.
She hurt in other ways.
A sigh when Mary walked into the room.
A comment at dinner about how Mary should really watch what she eats if she didn't want to get "that kind of reputation."
A casual remark about Mary's clothes being "inappropriate" even when they weren't.
And the worst part?
Samantha always said it sweetly.
Like she was doing Mary a favor.
⸻
Mary sat in her third-period class with her friends surrounding her like a shield.
It wasn't much of one—three humans in a school that treated them like dirt—but it was something.
Her friend group was small.
But it was hers.
Jada Lane sat to Mary's left, tapping her pencil like a heartbeat. Jada was tall and slender, her skin deep brown and glowing, her hair in thick waist-length braids pulled into a high ponytail. Her eyes were dark and sharp, lined with winged eyeliner even though the teachers hated it.
Jada had the kind of confidence that made people move out of her way.
She smiled like she knew secrets.
And she always smelled like vanilla lotion and rebellion.
To Mary's right was Avery Chen, short and cute with soft features and a round face that made her look innocent—until she opened her mouth. Avery's hair was chin-length and dyed a midnight blue, messy like she didn't care (she cared a lot), and she wore oversized sweaters that swallowed her whole body.
Avery was the friend who acted shy and then destroyed people with words.
Across from them was Miles Carter, the only boy in their group. He was lanky and tall, with warm caramel skin and sandy brown curls that always fell into his eyes. He wore glasses that were always sliding down his nose, and he carried books like they were weapons.
Miles didn't talk much.
But when he did, it mattered.
The three of them were the only people who didn't look at Mary like she was a curse.
They looked at her like she was a person.
That was rare.
So rare it almost hurt.
Avery leaned in, voice low. "So. Today's the day."
Mary sighed, dropping her head onto her folded arms. "Please don't."
Jada smirked. "Girl, don't 'please don't' me. This is Obsidian Moon Academy we're talking about."
Mary's stomach twisted. "That's the problem."
Miles pushed his glasses up. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance, Mary."
"It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance to die," Mary muttered.
Avery snorted. "Okay, dramatic."
"I'm serious." Mary lifted her head, looking at them. "Have you heard the stories? People don't just go there and come back normal."
Jada shrugged. "Maybe normal is overrated."
Mary's eyes flicked down to her hands.
She didn't feel normal.
She didn't even feel fully human sometimes.
There were days when her senses were too sharp—when she could hear things she shouldn't, like whispers from across the room, or the scratch of a pencil two rows behind her like it was right beside her ear.
There were nights when her dreams were too real—blood-red moons and forests she'd never been in, voices calling her name like they knew her.
And worst of all…
There were moments when she got angry, really angry, and something inside her shifted, like a door rattling in its frame.
Like something wanted out.
Mary never told anyone that part.
Because if people already called her cursed…
What would they call her if they knew she felt like a storm waiting to happen?
The classroom door opened.
And the air changed.
The teacher stepped in holding a stack of thick, black-and-gold envelopes.
The room went quiet.
Students sat up straight. Some actually held their breath.
Mary felt her pulse quicken before she could stop it.
The teacher's mouth curved into a smile that was too excited for a normal school day.
"All right, class," he said, voice booming like an announcement. "Today, as promised… we have something special."
He lifted the envelopes.
The gold seal on each one gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
"The applications for Obsidian Moon Academy."
A few girls squealed. A few boys let out low whistles. Someone behind Mary muttered, "No way…"
The teacher continued, "Now, you all know the rules. Each student may receive no more than two applications. This is the Golden Ticket. The academy doesn't send these out for fun. If you receive one, it means the Academy is watching you."
Mary's throat went dry.
Her ears rang faintly.
The teacher began walking down the aisle, handing them out one by one.
Mary watched as students practically grabbed at them, fingers shaking.
She watched as Samantha Caldwell received one and held it up like a trophy.
She watched as the popular quarterback got one and winked at the room.
Then she watched as Jada received an envelope.
Jada's eyes widened. "Oh my God."
Then Avery got one.
Avery gasped dramatically and pressed it to her chest. "I knew they'd want me. They can sense greatness."
Miles received one too, his face going pale. "I didn't even apply."
Mary blinked.
Her friends all had one.
She didn't.
Her chest tightened painfully, relief and disappointment clashing like two storms.
Good, she told herself. Good. I don't want it.
The teacher's footsteps slowed.
Mary kept her eyes down, already planning how she'd pretend she wasn't bothered.
Then the teacher stopped.
Right beside her desk.
Mary looked up.
The teacher stared at her for a long second like he wasn't sure.
Then he reached into his stack slowly.
And pulled out an envelope with a different seal.
Not gold.
Black.
A metallic black wax stamp shaped like a crescent moon.
The room went silent in a way that felt unnatural.
Even Samantha Caldwell stopped breathing.
The teacher's voice lowered, like he didn't want to say it too loudly.
"Mary Marvin…"
Mary's blood turned to ice.
The envelope hovered over her desk.
She didn't reach for it.
She couldn't.
Because suddenly, every pair of eyes in the classroom was on her like she'd been dragged under a spotlight.
Whispers rose like smoke.
"Her?"
"Why her?"
"She's cursed."
"She's not even—"
Mary's hand trembled as she finally took it.
The envelope was warm.
No—hot.
Like it had been sitting under a flame.
The second her fingers touched it—
Her heart stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
A pulse of heat shot through her chest like lightning.
Her breath caught.
Her vision blurred.
The platinum streaks in her hair seemed to tingle, like they were alive.
And somewhere deep in her body, beneath bone and blood and fear…
Something answered.
Not a voice.
A presence.
A sleeping thing waking up.
Mary pressed a hand against her chest, trying to steady her breathing.
Jada leaned in, whispering, "Mary… your eyes—"
Mary blinked, and the weird sensation faded.
But the envelope remained, burning against her palm.
She stared at the black seal again.
It looked like a crescent moon.
And for a second, she could've sworn it looked like it was staring back.
She swallowed, voice barely audible. "What is this?"
The teacher looked unsettled. "That… is an invitation."
Mary's stomach dropped.
"I didn't apply," she whispered.
He nodded slowly. "I know."
The entire room erupted in whispers.
Mary's ears buzzed.
She forced herself to look down at the envelope.
The lettering was written in elegant silver ink:
MARY MARVIN
Hawthorne District
OBSIDIAN MOON ACADEMY
And beneath that, a single line that made her throat close up.
WELCOME HOME.
Mary's fingers tightened around the envelope.
Her skin prickled.
Her friends were staring at her like she'd grown horns.
But Mary could barely hear them.
Because somewhere—far away, beyond Hawthorne High, beyond human borders, beyond the life she'd always known—
a screen lit up.
Numbers flickered.
A heartbeat pattern.
A signature that should not exist.
A human invitation response.
First recorded response: Human candidate.
Status: UNCONFIRMED.
Anomaly detected.
A voice in a dark office spoke quietly.
"Run her background. Now."
Another voice—colder, sharper—replied, "If she responded to the invitation…"
A pause.
"…then she's not human."
Mary sat frozen in her classroom, clutching the black envelope like it was a death sentence.
And for the first time in her life…
Mary realized the truth.
Whatever she was—
It had finally found her.
And it wasn't letting go.