My name is December Rein.
I was seventeen the first time the night tried to kill me.
It was a full moon, and something chased me through the woods. I never saw it clearly—only flashes of fur, claws, and glowing eyes. Maybe it was a bear. Maybe something worse. All I knew was that it was faster than me. Stronger than me.
I ran until my chest burned, until my thoughts dissolved into pure survival. The only escape was the river. I hurled myself into the black current, and it dragged me away. I should have drowned, but I lived—broken, bloodied, with a wound torn across my back. A branch? Or claws? I never knew.
But something changed that night.
Every full moon after, fear gripped me until I collapsed. And when I woke, I was never where I'd fallen. My body moved without me—sleepwalking, wandering. At first, I thought I was cursed. Maybe even turning into a werewolf.
But silver never burned me. I never grew fangs or claws. So I told myself it was only trauma. A lie I could live with.
I made rules to keep myself safe. Every month, I lock myself away for three nights, from the first rise of the full moon until the last. A reinforced door, heavy chains, no exceptions. I check the calendar twice a day. I clear my missions a week ahead of time. I don't take chances. My secret has stayed buried because I refuse to slip.
When I was twenty, my girlfriend was murdered by a vampire. Nobody believed me—hell, I barely believed myself—until I hunted it down and drove a stake into its heart. From that night on, I stopped being a victim. I became a hunter.
By twenty-five, an organization found me. They gave me weapons and targets. I gave them one condition: I don't work on nights of the full moon. They didn't ask why. They agreed. And for the next twenty years, I was their blade in the dark.
Now, at forty-five, they've given me a rookie. A kid, sharp-eyed and mouthy, who thinks he knows more than he does.
"Why the full moon?" he asked once, when I told him about my condition. "You afraid of turning?"
I laughed and held up the silver chain I always wear. "If I were a werewolf, this would've burned me alive by now."
He smirked. "Everyone knows silver doesn't kill them. You want a werewolf dead, you crush the heart or the brain."
"Then maybe I've just been lucky," I said, ending the conversation.
The truth is, I don't know what I am. I've hunted vampires for two decades. I've seen horrors most people would never believe. But I've never once seen a werewolf. Not even a rumor.
Still, every month, when the full moon rises, I lock myself away. Three nights. No mistakes. Not to protect myself.
To protect everyone else.