Practice dragged on under the pale afternoon sky.
The lacrosse field echoed with shouts, whistles, and the thud of bodies hitting turf. Asher walked slowly along the sideline, hands in his pockets, eyes tracking the game without really focusing on it.
A ball gatherer wasn't really needed in lacrosse.
So he was just walking around.
Scott's turn came.
The ball was passed to him, clean and fast.
He sprinted.
Two defenders rushed him at once—timing perfect, angles sharp—and slammed into him hard. Scott hit the ground with a grunt, the breath knocked out of him.
Coach Finstock's voice rang out instantly.
"Hahaha! McCall!" he barked. "Guess someone doesn't like the new captain, huh?"
Scott pushed himself up faster than he should've. Dirt streaked his jersey. His grip on the stick tightened.
Stiles's turn came, but Scott stopped him with the flat of his stick.
"Yeah, that's the spirit, McCall!" Finstock yelled. "Shake it off!"
Asher's gaze sharpened.
[He's angry.]
The voice in his head spoke.
"Yeah…" Asher muttered under his breath. He already felt it coming. "This is bad."
Scott rushed again.
The first defender lunged.
Scott didn't dodge.
He hit him.
Hard.
The impact sent the guy flying onto the grass, skidding a few feet before rolling to a stop.
The second defender reacted a second too late.
Scott slammed into him next, driving him straight into the ground with brutal force.
The field went quiet.
Then Danny charged out from the goal, stepping in to block Scott's path.
Scott swung.
The stick cracked against Danny's helmet with a sharp, sickening sound. Danny collapsed instantly, sprawling onto the turf as the ball rolled free—
Straight into the net.
Goal.
Players rushed toward the fallen defenders. Someone dropped to their knees beside Danny. Blood began to drip from his nose.
Scott stood there.
He ripped his helmet off and threw it aside, in what seemed like frustration.
Stiles was at his side immediately.
"What the hell was that?!" he snapped. "You didn't have to— Danny's bleeding, Scott! Everyone loves Danny, and now they're gonna hate you!"
"I don't care."
Asher exhaled slowly.
"This damn full moon…" he muttered.
...
Evening settled over Beacon Hills, the sky darkening inch by inch as the full moon crept closer to the horizon.
Asher's room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp.
Metal clinked.
Chains wrapped around Erica's wrists and the old radiator with solid finality. Asher tugged once, twice, testing them.
"Stiles said this would do," he said, frowning slightly. "But… I'm not entirely sure."
Erica rolled her shoulders experimentally. The chains held firm.
Strangely enough, she didn't look distressed. If anything, she looked… normal. Calm. No twitching, no agitation, no glowing eyes.
"I..." she began. "I feel normal somehow..."
Asher nodded, though his jaw stayed tight. The full moon was coming—and he wasn't taking chances. Not after what happened last time.
He stepped back, giving her space.
Erica glanced around the room, taking it in for the first time.
"Hey, Asher…" she said slowly. "Your room is so…"
She paused.
"…empty."
Aside from the bed and a simple desk with his laptop, there was almost nothing. No posters. No trophies. No photos. Nothing personal.
"I'm a minimalist," Asher replied flatly.
[Minimalist?]
The voice in his head sounded genuinely confused.
[What does that mean?]
It means someone who's content living with only what's strictly necessary, Asher answered inwardly.
[That sounds like how a lowly peasant would live! We are kings, Asher!]
Asher rubbed his temples.
Erica tilted her head, her eyes drifting toward the wall opposite her.
"…And why is there a bullet hole there?"
Asher froze.
His breath caught for just a second.
"A—Ah… that's…" He scratched the back of his neck, mind racing. "It—it's—"
DING-DONG.
The doorbell rang.
Both of them stiffened.
"Someone… now?" Asher blurted out, surprise flashing across his face—quickly replaced by something closer to relief.
A perfect interruption.
"I'll check who it is," he said quickly. "Just—wait here."
Before Erica could respond, he was already out the door, footsteps hurrying down the stairs.
Left alone, Erica stared after him.
Then she looked back at the bullet hole.
Her brows knitted together.
What are you hiding, Asher…?
To be continued...
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