The clock ticked just once before silence reclaimed the house. The kind of silence that always followed a well-lived day or a day purposefully avoided. The Greene home stood still, a quiet two-story shelter in the suburbs, its walls scrubbed clean of the horrors they had once witnessed, but not entirely free of them.
Downstairs, the living room stretched open and empty, its soft yellow lights casting long shadows across pale tile floors. A couch sat in the middle like a grounded ship, and Austin Greene leaned into it, elbows on knees, his gaze fixed not on the television screen, but somewhere past it. The TV glowed blue against his cheek, flashing news segments, polished voices, and slow-moving text at the bottom.
"In a landmark decision today, a council of EU nations voted in favor of integrating licensed supernatural entities, what they're calling 'Meta humans' into select areas of urban society. This follows last month's historic Geneva Accord, recognizing the werewolf clans of the Nordic Ring as autonomous political bodies…"
The anchor's tone was steady, professional. There was no tremble in her voice as she listed events that would've sounded like fiction a few years ago. There were short clips, none too clear of tall figures in government chambers, their faces hidden, their eyes too bright for the camera.
Austin exhaled slowly. His thumb tapped the edge of the remote once, then stilled.
"Meanwhile, in Arizona, a controversial pilot program has begun administering a 'blood compatibility' test to willing participants looking to legally cohabitate with registered vampires. Human rights groups have expressed concern, though supporters argue it's a step toward peace and understanding…"
Onscreen, a smiling young couple; one pale, one not, held hands for the camera. The vampire wore a political pin. The human wore a bandage on her neck.
Austin closed his eyes.
It wasn't fear that swam under his skin. It was familiarity. The world was catching up to something he'd already seen. Lived. Bled from. The chaos wasn't coming. It was here. People just didn't know how to look at it yet.
His eyes drifted to the fireplace. The mantel was bare, though there used to be photos, Clara's touch. She'd liked the room filled with warm things. The couch still bore the slight indentation of her favorite spot.
He could still see her sometimes, in flashes. Carrying laundry. Laughing at something in a book. Barefoot, always barefoot.
The night she died had been clear like this.
Austin's eyes lifted toward the staircase, toward the second floor that always felt colder after that night. He hadn't been there. The military had sent him halfway across the globe. Classified op. No calls. No contact.
Adam had come home late, skatepark, he'd said. But the guilt in his voice had never left. Neither of them had spoken the memory aloud in years. Didn't have to.
He remembered the phone call. He remembered the way his knees gave out. But what haunted him more were the sounds Clara must've made sounds he'd never heard. The house had been full of them. The kind you don't forget, even if you weren't there.
He pressed a hand to his face. Rubbed the tiredness from behind his eyes.
Upstairs, Adam Greene stepped out of the bathroom, the soft click of the door barely audible over the hum of the old ceiling fan. Steam lingered faintly in the air, drifting like mist around his shoulders as he moved. His towel hung loosely around his waist, one hand combing through damp dreads as he paused by the mirror, still fogged near the edges.
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.
His ebony skin glistened under the bathroom lights. On his chest, near the bottom of his ribs, the ink of the tattoo curled into view. Small, strange, like a symbol meant to be hidden, not worn. He traced it with his fingertip. No memory of when it appeared. No meaning assigned to it—yet.
His eyes rose to his reflection again. Not judging. Just looking.
He'd changed. Maybe taller. Maybe leaner. Maybe just quieter.
"I need to work out more," he muttered to himself, flexing a bicep in front of the mirror. He wasn't too impressed with what he saw.
The air outside the room felt thick, like the house was holding its breath.
He dropped the towel and pulled on a clean black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, fingers moving slow. Not because he was tired, but because his mind was somewhere else.
London hadn't been kind. The people weren't cruel, they were indifferent. Worse, sometimes. In school, they'd called him names with a smile. It wasn't really racism if it was a joke, right?
He remembered the locker incident, the stench of the stink bomb that exploded on his face, the way it clung to his books, his skin. He never told anyone. Not even his dad.
He'd scrubbed his hands until they burned that day.
That wasn't the worst of it. The worst was his hearing. He believed he had naturally gifted ears, but what might seem a blessing was, in truth, a curse. He could overhear people talking about him from far away, their whispers reaching him as if they were standing beside him. He could detect lies in the subtle shifts of tone and the quickened beat of a heart.
It was all of this. This relentless barrage of sounds and truths, that finally drove him over the edge that fateful day. He lashed out, striking one of his many tormentors, Trent something... he couldn't be bothered to remember the last name. What stayed with him, though, was the fight.
It had been almost five years since he transferred into that middle school. Five years of whispers. Of stares. Of sidelong glances in the hallway like people were expecting him to break at any moment, and maybe they weren't wrong. Maybe he was waiting too.
The school courtyard was loud that day, packed with laughter and fake arguments as students poured out of class. Adam had been sitting alone on the stone bench under the dead tree, sketching aimlessly in the corner of his notebook, his headphones were in, but nothing played. He just wanted the illusion of being unreachable.
That's when he heard it. Muffled, at first. A voice, a laugh. He didn't even catch the full sentence. Just the end of it.
"...just look at him. No wonder his mother's dead, I'd kill myself too if I had a kid like that."
Adam didn't move right away. He blinked once. Then again.
The words rolled through his brain like thunder. Muffled. Echoing. Distant. Like he was underwater, and someone had just screamed through it.
He pulled the earbuds out slowly. Looked up.
The guy who said it. Trent, tall, lean, mouth always twisted like he was chewing on someone else's misery, was standing with his little group near the locker wall, laughing with his friends, but not looking at Adam.
But Adam knew.
And maybe Trent didn't mean for him to hear. Maybe it was just a joke between cowards. But it didn't matter.
Because in that moment, something inside Adam split.
He stood up, notebook slipping off his lap and hitting the ground with a dull thud. He walked toward them with a look that made a couple of kids instinctively step aside. One of Trent's friends tried to say something, probably "chill" or "don't" but Adam wasn't hearing any of it.
He didn't speak. Didn't shout. Didn't warn.
He just swung.
The first punch caught Trent across the jaw, sharp, clean, powered by grief and silence and the rage of a thousand sleepless nights. It dropped him hard, made him stumble back into the lockers with a loud crash. Gasps. A backpack fell. Someone shouted.
Trent spat blood. Looked up, dazed but then grinned.
"You wanna go, freak?" he hissed, wiping his lip. "Let's go."
Trent lunged.
The fight wasn't clean. It wasn't choreographed or cinematic. It was two boys, fueled by different poisons, crashing into each other like storms.
Adam was smaller, but he fought like someone who needed to win. His punches were wild but focused, his breath erratic, his knuckles already raw. He managed to get Trent down again, a knee into his ribs, a solid hit to the eye that made him howl.
But Trent was stronger. And once he got over the surprise of getting hit, he got mean.
He flipped Adam over, slammed him to the ground, and got a punch in right across his temple. Then another to the gut. The pain flashed white behind Adam's eyes, sharp and dizzying. His breath whooshed out like a balloon popped too fast.
Someone was pulling them apart. A teacher? A security guard?
It didn't matter.
All Adam remembered was lying on the pavement, face scraped, chest heaving, and the taste of blood in his mouth. Trent, being dragged away, still spitting insults. Adam, not answering. Just staring at the sky above, his knuckles trembling.
Later, in the nurse's office, someone said:
"Why'd you even go at him like that? He's twice your size."
And Adam just said:
"He talked about my mom."
That was all.
He'd never fought anyone before. He'd never fought anyone since.
But sometimes, when he was alone, in bed, staring at the ceiling, in the mirror brushing his teeth he'd look at the faint scar on his knuckle and remember what it felt like.
That burst of fury. That moment where everything else disappeared. And the quiet afterward.
A terrifying quiet.
"Adam!"
His head snapped up. At first, he thought he imagined it. The house had been so quiet, so still, it was like hearing a voice through water.
"Adam!"
There it was again; clearer, sharper. Definitely his father.
Adam stood, pulling on his socks quickly and grabbing his phone off the nightstand. "Coming!" he called, already heading toward the door.
His footsteps padded down the hallway and onto the creaking stairs, which sighed under his weight. The house, as always, smelled like faint coffee, old leather, and the soft citrus of Austin's cologne. Familiar. Stable.
Austin was still seated on the large L-shaped couch in the living room, one arm resting along the backrest, the other holding a thick envelope. The living room connected smoothly into the dining area and then into the kitchen beyond. The only light was the soft, warm glow from a corner lamp and the flickering shadows from the TV, now muted and idle.
"Sit down," Austin said, nodding to the empty cushion beside him.
Adam obeyed, running a hand through his damp hair as he sat. He glanced at the envelope in Austin's hands.
"What's that?" he asked.
Austin gave a brief smile and handed it to him. "Just a lil' Something I got earlier today."
Adam opened the flap and pulled out a sleek black folder. It looked expensive—matte finish, silver-lined edges. At the center of the cover was a minimalist emblem: a crescent moon above a stylized academy crest. Beneath it, embossed in faint gold:
Moonstone Academy
Enrollment Packet – Fall 2025
Adam raised a brow. "Moonstone Academy?"
"Yeah."
He flipped the folder open. The first few pages were dense with polished photographs—brick buildings with ivy-covered walls, oak-paneled lecture halls, neatly manicured courtyards. Students in red blazers and ties. It looked like the kind of place politicians sent their kids to, partly because it was. Like something out of a trust fund brochure.
"This looks... rich. And I think I've heard of this school before." Adam said, flipping to a section titled Campus Culture & Academic Values.
"It is," Austin said. "It's one of the most exclusive schools in the region. Real tight admissions process. Old money, legacy families, foreign diplomats. They don't take just anybody."
Adam frowned. "And they're taking me?"
Austin didn't answer right away. He waited until Adam glanced at him. "They're offering a scholarship. Full ride. Room and board. Everything."
"Wait, what?"
Austin nodded once. "Your grades were good. And you've had... a tough run. Someone pulled a few strings, made sure your name ended up in the right pile."
Adam stared at the pages again, brows furrowed. 'My grades are anything but...'
"Is this through Elizabeth?" He asked aloud
A beat passed. Austin didn't flinch, didn't confirm, but the silence said enough.
"I don't want her pulling favors for me," Adam said, his tone low, "I don't trust her."
"She didn't," Austin replied. "Not directly. Let's just say she opened a door. You don't have to walk through it."
Adam shut the folder and stared at the cover.
"So, what kind of school is it, really?" he asked. "You're making it sound like Harvard with security guards. what's the catch?"
Austin shrugged. "It's a regular school. No secret societies, no cults in the basement. Just a bunch of rich kids learning Latin and rowing boats. They've got a good science program, solid athletics, art courses. Better resources than any public school in the state."
Adam looked thoughtful.
"And they want me there?"
"They're giving you a shot," Austin said. "You don't have to take it."
Adam looked back at the folder, his thumb running over the emblem. "So why now?"
Austin exhaled slowly, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. "Because you need a place where you can breathe, start fresh. A place you're not constantly reminded of your mother... I know it bothers you to this day. It bothers me too, I never quite moved on either, bud."
Adam didn't say anything at first. He just kept his eyes on the closed folder.
"I'm not some rich kid," he said quietly.
Austin looked at him. "No. But you're mine. And I say you deserve to be in a place that'll actually open some damn doors."
Adam leaned back on the couch, folding his arms across his chest. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, the lines of the wooden beams catching the moonlight from the window.
"Can I think about it?" he asked.
"Sure," Austin said. "But you start tomorrow, you'll think about it when your already there."
"what?" Adam retorted, "you can't just throw me into some boarding school all of a sudden."
"I just did."
Adam didn't look amused.
"Don't worry about it. Tomorrow, you're just going to check out the school. They'll give you a tour, show you the ropes, and hand you an acceptance form at the end, along with other important information. Then you'll need to make your choice," he explained, pausing briefly, studying Adam's face. "If you don't like the school after that, don't sign. It's as simple as that."
Adam nodded slowly, then sighed. "Guess... it wouldn't hurt to check it out."
A small smile tugged at the edge of Austin's mouth. "You'll be alright."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Adam glanced at him, curious again. "So, how are you really paying for this?"
Austin smirked without looking at him. "Handled."
Adam raised a brow. "That's not an answer."
"I know."
Adam let it go, choosing not to press further. For now.
He picked the folder back up and looked at it again.
Moonstone Academy.
It didn't feel like a rescue. Not yet. But maybe it was a beginning.
Austin got up to make tea. Adam stayed seated, the folder still in his lap, watching the gold lettering catch the light like it had a mind of its own.
***
The fire crackled softly inside the stone hearth, casting flickering orange light across the room's heavy wooden walls. Shadows danced along the spines of countless books that lined the shelves of the study, a room steeped in control and expectation. The warmth of the fire didn't reach the air, the atmosphere remained cold. Judging. Heavy.
Elizabeth Thorne stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the edge of her broad oak desk, her silhouette fierce in the low light. She wasn't dressed in her usual poised elegance. Tonight, she wore a silk robe, midnight-black and cinched at the waist like armor. Her raven hair spilled over her shoulder, but her eyes, sharp, icy. Were fixed on the three figures kneeling before her.
Abigail. Amber. Anissa. The Thorne triplets. Barefoot. Heads bowed. Dressed in matching satin pajamas, they looked almost serene, almost. But the tension in their bodies gave them away.
"You were sent to make a clean kill," Elizabeth began, her voice cold as the marble floors of the Thorne estate. "An accident. Something wild. A rogue bear. A coyote. A mangled home invasion gone horribly wrong."
She paced slowly in front of the fire, the heel of her foot whispering against the wooden floor. Her lips curled in disgust.
"Instead, what I now have to deal with is a slaughter that practically howls werewolf to the press. Claw marks too defined. Bones shattered in patterns even a toddler could find unnatural. Blood on the ceiling, Abigail."
Abigail raised her head just slightly. "That was my—"
"Shut. Up." Elizabeth didn't shout. She didn't need to. Her tone sliced cleaner than any blade. "You do not get to take the fall for your sisters every time they trip over their own idiocy. There is a difference between loyalty and enabling, dear."
Amber flinched. Anissa didn't move.
A moment passed, thick with silence and crackling embers. Elizabeth returned to her desk and ran a manicured finger along the edge of a leather-bound file.
"There's a detective sniffing around now. Joe Hawkings." Her tone dipped to something more venomous. "Obsessive. Dangerous. If he finds the wrong thing, or worse, if he finds the right one, he could blow this entire operation wide open."
She turned slowly, her eyes finding each daughter's face in turn.
"But don't concern yourselves with him. I'll handle it. Maybe I can feed him to one of the other families. Lord knows they've been far too quiet lately. A little noise might shake out their alliances."
Then, her expression shifted, sharpened like a knife honed on stone.
"For now, forget the mess you made. We've moved on."
The triplets looked up.
"You've already met your next mission," Elizabeth said, voice soft as snow. "Our very own boy wonder."
Amber's eyes widened slightly.
Elizabeth smiled.
"Adam Greene."
The fire roared as if on cue.
Meanwhile, somewhere deeper into the night, beyond the Thornes' reach and in a distant forest soaked in silence, Cassius Vane crouched under the sloping roof of a long-abandoned bungalow. His coat was dusted with wood ash. His gloves were grey with rot and decay. But his eyes, coal-black, unreadable missed nothing.
The house had been stripped clean by forensics, but Cassius was thorough. He moved through the skeleton of the home like a man tracing ghost steps. His boots creaked against the warped floorboards. His flashlight swept across the peeling wallpaper, the torn picture frames, the bloodstained nursery.
Nothing. No hair. No scent. No silver. Just sorrow. A carved-out silence that clung to the walls like smoke.
He paused in what used to be the kitchen. The table was still flipped over. The tile stained rust-red.
A deep breath. Then he exhaled, slow and steady. He knew what he was doing here. But it didn't make it easier.
This was Marcus's house. His younger brother. His only brother.
Cassius closed his eyes for just a moment. The smell of death still lived in the corners, no matter how many agents had swept through. His chest tightened.
Why didn't I call more? Why didn't I—
He turned abruptly, stepping outside for air.
The cold bit harder out here. The trees loomed like sentinels, and moonlight spilled in thin columns over the mossy undergrowth. He didn't have a destination. Just a direction.
His boots crunched over fallen leaves. He walked toward where they'd found Emily's body. Marcus's daughter. Her throat had been torn wide, her torso mauled,mm left near the riverbank like prey.
Cassius kept walking.
He remembered being ten. Riding behind his father on horseback, carrying a crossbow too big for his arms. They'd tracked a rogue wolf that had taken a child from a village. Cassius had shot it with a silver arrow through the eye. It hadn't looked like a beast when it died. It looked like a man. Young. Barely older than Marcus had been back then.
They buried the child. And the body.
"We don't kill for vengeance," his father had said. "We kill to keep the balance."
But the balance always tilted.
Cassius had taken over the family legacy. He had hunted packs from the Balkans to British Columbia. He had seen wolves that begged. That wept. That fought only to protect their own. Somewhere along the line, he'd wondered if the war could end.
Marcus believed it had.
Cassius sighed, shaking the memory off.
Not anymore.
His foot suddenly snagged. He stumbled forward, catching himself on a tree.
"What the—"
He looked down. A root had jutted out from the ground, snagging his boot. He crouched, muttering under his breath, then froze.
There, caught in the moss and leaves beneath the root, was something that shimmered gold.
He leaned closer. A piercing. Thin. Elegant. The kind that might clip onto the ear of someone trying to hide style in silence.
He picked it up carefully, holding it to the moonlight.
Then he pulled out his phone.
"Danvers," he said when the voice on the other end picked up.
"Yes, sir?"
"I need you to lift a DNA trace from a gold accessory. Run it through the registry of all known descendants of the three werewolf bloodlines."
A pause. "Sir, with our current clearance, that could take two months or more."
Cassius didn't answer immediately. His hand closed slowly around the piercing.
Then, flatly: "You have three weeks."
Danvers hesitated. "Understood. I'll call in favors."
"You'll do more than that," Cassius muttered. "This isn't a delay. This is the trail. If this belongs to who I think it does…"
He let the words hang there, like a blade suspended in air.
Cassius looked out into the trees again. Quiet. Watching. As if something out there was watching him back.
"This is where it begins," he whispered.
And the night said nothing.