Most people remember the moment their childhood ended.
For me, it was the night the moon turned black.
I was ten years old, running barefoot through the trees behind my family's house in Veracruz. I used to chase fireflies there, pretending they were tiny spirits guiding me through the darkness. My father always said the forest belonged to us—"Rivera blood is old," he'd whisper. "Older than what the world believes."
I didn't understand what he meant then
I do now.
The forest was different that night—quiet in a way that didn't feel natural. No cicadas. No owls. No crickets. Just the sound of my father's breathing behind me as he walked with a lantern in hand.
"Juan," he said softly, "stay close."
He never sounded frightened. My father was the kind of man who scared off danger with a stare. But that night his voice trembled.
And then I saw why.
The moon—full just minutes before—was dissolving into shadow. A murky darkness spread across its face like an eclipse that shouldn't exist.
My father froze. "No," he whispered. "Not again.
A branch snapped.
Something massive moved in the trees.
My father set the lantern down slowly. "Juan," he said, his voice low, steady, too calm. "Whatever happens, you run. Do you hear me? You run and don't look back."
"I don't want to leave you."
He knelt and put a shaking hand on my shoulder. "You're strong. Stronger than me. Stronger than anything." His eyes shined in the dying lantern light. "I love you, son."
Before I could answer—before I could beg him to tell me what was happening—the trees exploded with motion.
A creature stepped out of the darkness.
Taller than a man.
Covered in coarse black fur.
Jaws too large for its skull, dripping with thick, dark saliva.
Eyes like burning coals.
The smell of rotten earth hit me so hard I gagged.
"Run, Juan."
I didn't.
My father grabbed a machete from his belt and swung at the thing. But the creature moved faster than anything I'd ever seen. One swipe of its claw sent my father flying backward.
He hit the ground with a sound I still hear when I close my eyes.
I screamed and threw myself at the creature.
And then my bones snapped.
Like someone breaking branches inside me. My skin tore, but there was no pain—just heat, like molten metal rushing through my veins.
Claws burst from my fingers.
My jaw cracked into a muzzle.
Fur—thick, black, shining under the eclipsed moon—poured across my body
I didn't choose to become a panther.
I didn't even know I could.
The animal inside me didn't hesitate.
It leapt.
It attacked.
It roared with a sound that shook the trees.
I remember tearing into the creature with claws that weren't mine. I remember its blood—hot and bitter—splattering across my fur. I remember its screams.
But I don't remember winning.
Because something hit me. Hard. A force like a hammer striking the back of my skull.
When I woke, the forest was burning.
The creature was gone.
My father was dead.
And my mother was dragging my human body away, sobbing, whispering prayers and curses in the same breath.
"Lo despertaste," she cried.
"You woke it up."
I asked her what she meant.
She never told me.
I never shifted again until Beacon Hills.
Never felt claws carving up my arms from the inside.
Never heard the whispering voice beneath my heartbeat.
Never smelled that same rotten scent in the air.
Not until the day I set foot in that school.
As if the town itself recognized me.
As if something here had been waiting.
For ten years…
something inside me slept.
Now, it stirs.
And I fear the day it fully wakes.