Eleanor's POV
I'd left before the final debrief.
Now, back in the silence of my apartment, the reality of my situation felt heavier than ever.
My laptop glowed, illuminating pages and pages of folklore, biology, and paranoid conspiracy theories about werewolves. I'd been cross-referencing for hours, a sinking feeling in my gut as the same terrifying themes emerged again and again.
"Beatrice," I said aloud, my voice sounding small in the quiet room. "How do I stop it? How do I stop myself from getting… triggered? From becoming violent?" The memory of Priscilla's terrified face was a brand on my mind.
You can't, came the immediate, flat reply.
"Why not?" I asked, a note of desperation creeping in.
Because I won't allow it, she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. That rage you feel? That's us. That's our nature. Suppressing it is like trying to stop your heart from beating. It's not a flaw; it's a feature.
