Snow… it never falls the same way twice.
Each flake drifts alone, spiraling in silence, carving its own path through the sky. Fragile, weightless, yet somehow inevitable.
Salem lay hushed beneath winter, a small New England town folded into the valley between bare, blackened maples. Snow had settled heavy on the rooftops, clinging to steep gables and brick chimneys until the houses looked as though they had grown out of the frost itself. Narrow streets wound between them, lined with gas lamps glowing faintly through the falling dusk.
The sun was sinking low over the White Mountains, spilling gold across the horizon before drowning the world in violet shadow. Windows caught the last light and fractured it into shards, a quiet fire flickering on every pane.
Snowflakes drifted endlessly through the air, some caught on the iron railings of porches, others dissolving against the warmth of redbrick walls. Most fell untouched, layering fences, burying sidewalks, thickening the silence until even sound seemed frozen.
It was the kind of evening Salem knew well — still, sharp, deceptively gentle.
The kind of evening where nothing seemed likely to happen.
And the kind where everything could.
One of the usually calm residential streets had taken on a strange shade that evening. At its center, breaking the white silence, lay a small dark figure in the snow.
Ori wasn't moving. Her black-ash hair fanned out around her, strands plastered into the ice like ink bleeding into paper. Her skin was almost indistinguishable from the snow itself, cold and pale, as if the winter had claimed her for its own.
The only color — the only defiance against the whiteness — was the spreading red, bright and relentless, seeping into the drifts until the snow seemed to breathe with it.
Her lashes fluttered, barely. The world above her blurred in and out, the falling snow turning into streaks of light before vanishing again. She tried to draw breath, but each inhale scraped her chest raw, the air thick with iron.
What is happening to me?
Her thoughts came in fragments, slipping through her like water through cupped hands. She wanted to move — to lift an arm, to push herself up — but her body refused. The snow was too heavy, the night too vast.
Her fingers twitched once, leaving the faintest trail in the frost. She turned her head enough to see it: the stain of red blooming outward, swallowing the white around her.
Is that… mine?
Her heart stuttered, slowing, then rushing again in uneven beats. For a moment she thought she was dreaming — it had to be. She would wake in her bed, the morning sun spilling through curtains. She told herself that, over and over, clinging to the thought as her vision slipped at the edges.
But the cold was too sharp.
And the blood was too real.
Her mind kept slipping in and out of itself. Thoughts scattered like startled birds, then went quiet again, leaving only the sound of her breath rasping against the cold.
Snowflakes kept landing on her face, melting instantly against her fevered skin. She wanted to brush them away, to move even a little, but her body no longer seemed hers. Every limb felt carved from stone.
Her vision wavered. Streetlamps blurred into streaks of gold and violet, bleeding across the snow. Somewhere far away, she heard her own heartbeat — faint, unsteady, dragging like a broken clock.
I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming.
The lie comforted her, even as the snow beneath her darkened, stained deeper with every pulse of warmth leaving her. She tried to close her eyes, but light seared through her lashes, sharp and unbearable.
Suddenly a rush of adrenaline surged through her veins, violent and unbidden. Her head spun, the world fracturing around her. Images rushed through her mind — fragments of faces, shadows, the smear of light against snow.
Is this what it feels like to die?
Her body convulsed, and then something inside her began to twist. Her dark, ash-black hair drained of its color strand by strand, turning pale, as though the night itself was fleeing her. Her eyes, once deep blue, widened in shock as their hue shattered, bleeding into a vivid, unnatural red.
Heat and cold warred within her. One moment she was ice, the next she burned with fever, her skin clammy and raw. Her neck throbbed with the pulse of lost blood, every heartbeat weaker than the last.
At last, she could no longer hold her gaze to the sky. Her eyelids grew heavy, the world tipping away into silence. And then Ori drifted into darkness.
Downtown was quiet, the kind of evening lull when most shop windows were already dark. A few signs still glowed faintly — a hardware store at the corner, the barber's chair empty in its reflection. Logan strolled along the narrow street with a paper cup warming his hand, the sharp scent of roasted coffee threading through the cold.
He cut a striking figure, tall and broad-shouldered, his build carrying the kind of strength that looked earned rather than inherited. A dark coat hung open against the wind, the collar turned up, framing a face sharpened by habit rather than vanity — square jaw, rough stubble, eyes a startling blue that seemed too clear for the dusk around him. His hair, a tousled brown, caught the fading streetlight in muted strands.
On most nights, he looked like nothing more than a man finishing his errands, calm and ordinary against the hum of New England winter. But tonight, as he paused to sip his coffee, something in the air shifted.
A metallic tang threaded through the breeze, cutting cleanly across the bitterness of roasted beans. It stopped him mid-step. His brow furrowed, instinct pressing sharp against the edges of his composure.
Blood.
Fresh.
Close.
Without thinking, Logan dropped everything but the weight of the weapon strapped across his back. The coffee cup hit the pavement, steam curling into the cold, forgotten. Instinct had already taken hold, sharper than reason, tugging him toward the source of that metallic scent.
He ran. Boots striking against the icy street, breath clouding the air, every step pulled him closer. He didn't need to wonder what the smell meant — his mind already knew, his body already braced. Blood this strong could only mean one thing.
There's been another attack!
He cut through the narrow streets, every turn pulling the scent sharper. It clung to wooden fences, seeped into the snow, threading through the air until it filled his lungs like smoke.
The town was silent — too silent. Only the groan of old shutters in the wind, the muffled echo of his boots on frozen ground. A lamppost flickered above, its glow haloed in snowfall, and the metallic tang grew so strong it was almost suffocating.
Another corner. Another street.
And then he saw her.
A small figure lay collapsed in the snow, still as stone. Her hair — shockingly pale, drained of its natural color — fanned across the ice, but it was no longer pure. Streaks of crimson clung to it, staining the strands like silk threads dipped in blood.
Logan stopped cold. His body reacted first — hand brushing the hilt of the weapon at his back, every nerve alert, trained to expect danger. But then his eyes fixed on her, and the tension shifted.
She wasn't moving. Too pale, too much blood already spilled. He'd seen this before, and the memory pressed against him like a weight. A human on the edge of death, caught in that razor-thin moment where the body decides: to end, or to change.
Logan leaned closer, the world narrowing to the sound of her faint, ragged breaths. For a moment, disbelief shadowed his face. This shouldn't have been possible. No one was turned like this. Not here. Not without consent.
And yet, she was alive.
His chest tightened, the weight of choice pressing against him. He should have walked away, reported it, let the system deal with her. But instead, without another thought, he slipped his arms beneath her.
She was lighter than he expected, fragile against the bulk of his coat. Her hair — pale white, streaked red from the blood in the snow — brushed against his shoulder as her head fell against him.
Logan drew her closer, the cold wind closing in around them. For the first time in years, instinct and duty didn't agree.
And so he carried her into the night.