The afternoon classes ended faster than I expected, as if time itself was trying to push me out of that room. The final bell rang, sharp and hollow, and chairs scraped the floor in a tired chorus. Everyone stood, talking at once, relief spilling into noise.
Mae stayed silent the entire time.
She didn't raise her hand. Didn't look around. Didn't even pretend to listen. She just stared at her desk, fingers folded together, unmoving. I hated myself for noticing. I told myself it was pity—that's what I called it. Pity was safer. Easier.
But somewhere deeper, even if I didn't want to look, something small still reacted when she shifted in her seat or brushed her hair behind her ear.
I walked out of the classroom with the others, the hallway buzzing with plans—arcades, cafés, weekend gossip. I had half a mind to go to the bookstore, to lose myself between shelves and paper, but the thought of my soaked notes flashed back at me. Four subjects. Pages warped and ink bleeding like old wounds.
Home, then.
The ride back was quiet. Too quiet. I watched buildings slide past the window, my reflection layered over the city like a ghost that didn't quite belong. Cerberus didn't speak. That alone made me uneasy.
When I opened the front door, the familiar smell of the house greeted me—fabric softener, something simmering faintly in the kitchen. My mom was on the couch, legs tucked under her, eyes glued to the TV. Some drama was playing, voices rising and falling with exaggerated emotion.
She glanced at me and smiled. "You're home early."
"Yeah," I said, slipping off my shoes. My voice sounded normal. I focused on that. "Had less to do today."
She hummed, not questioning it, already half-absorbed back into the show. "There's snacks in the kitchen if you're hungry."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
I paused for a second, watching her. Just watching. The way she laughed softly at the screen. The way everything here stayed the same, untouched by what I'd seen, what I'd done.
"Mom," I said before I could stop myself.
She looked back at me. "Hmm?"
The words caught in my throat. I shook my head. "Nothing. Just… saying hi."
She smiled again, warm and easy. "Go rest, then. You look tired."
I nodded and headed upstairs. In my room, I dropped my bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of my bed. The silence pressed in, thick and familiar. I pulled out my notes, spreading the pages across the desk. The ink had faded, but the words were still there—salvageable.
Cerberus didn't speak. Maybe he was resting. Perhaps he was watching.
I picked up a pen and started rewriting, line by line—this was the hardest thing I had to do today. At some point, impatience crept in. My thoughts drifted to how easily I could move now—how fast, how precise. Without thinking too hard about it, I tried to let a little of that power bleed into my hand.
The pen blurred.
For a second, it worked. The words flowed faster than my thoughts, neat and sharp. Then the paper shuddered under my palm. A harsh tearing sound split the quiet as the page ripped straight down the middle.
I froze, staring at the damage.
"…Damn it," I muttered.
I lifted my hand. The edges of the tear were rough, like they'd been clawed apart. I leaned back in my chair, exhaling through my nose. From somewhere deep inside, Cerberus chuckled—low, amused, and mercifully silent. No commentary. That somehow made it worse.
"Don't start," I murmured, even though he hadn't said a word.
I rewrote the page the normal way after that. Slowly. Painfully. I let myself sink into the routine, the simple discipline of copying words, fixing formulas, restoring what had been ruined. Time slipped past without me noticing. The sky outside my window darkened, the house settling into its evening quiet.
A knock startled me.
"Nick?" my mom's voice came through the door. "Dinner 's ready Come down and eat."
I glanced at the window, surprised to see my own reflection staring back at me, tired eyes and ink-stained fingers. "I'm coming," I called.
Downstairs, dinner waited. I ate because that's what normal sons did. The food tasted bland again—flat, lifeless. Normal food. The confirmation lifted heavy weight in my chest.
Afterward, I stood to leave. "I need to finish my notes."
My dad looked up from the table. "Don't stay up late."
"I won't," I said, and meant it as much as I could.
Back in my room, I paused by the window. A shape stood under the streetlight across from our house. Too still. Too familiar.
Mae.
Without thinking, I picked up my phone from my desk. I checked the messages I'd ignored earlier. The last one read: I'm outside, please meet me.
Thirty minutes ago.
My jaw tightened. I typed back, Go home. Just rest. I'm not going out, no matter what.
More messages came in. I didn't open them.
An hour passed. When I looked again, the street was empty.
I returned to my desk and finished rewriting everything. Midnight crept in quietly. When the last page was done, I didn't lie down. Instead, I reached for the hood and pants Tristan had given me. The fabric felt familiar, reassuring.
I changed, pulled on the mask, and turned off the lights. Slid the window open, and the cold night air rushed in, sharp and clean, washing over my face. It smelled like rain that never came and concrete that never slept. For a moment, I just stood there, letting it steady me.
Inside my head, Cerberus stirred.
Time to hunt, kid.
His voice rolled through me like a growl vibrating in my bones.
"I know," I whispered back.
The glass reflected my face, half-swallowed by darkness. My eyes had already changed—purple bleeding through the brown, faint but unmistakable. I stared at them longer than I should have. They didn't look frightened. They looked… ready.
I climbed onto the sill and jumped.
The fall barely registered. My boots kissed the wall below, knees bending on instinct, and I pushed off again. Wind roared past my ears as I landed on top of a streetlight, the metal humming under my weight. I didn't stop. I leapt again, then again, moving from post to post like the city itself was a staircase built just for me.
Below, streets blurred into ribbons of light. Cars passed. Windows glowed. People lived their small, fragile lives, unaware of what stalked above them.
The red district announced itself long before I reached it—neon bleeding into the night, music thumping through walls, laughter too loud to be honest. I dropped into an alley and pulled my hood lower. The ground was sticky with spilled alcohol and worse things I didn't want to identify.
I walked. Slow. Careful.
Drunks slumped against walls, muttering to ghosts. A couple argued near a dumpster, their voices slurred and sharp. Someone vomited in the shadows. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth stopping for.
"Tch," Cerberus clicked. Boring night.
"Good," I murmured. "Let's keep it that way."
Then it happened.
A sound cut through the noise—bang. Distant. Faint. Almost swallowed by the music and shouting, but not enough to fool me. My body reacted before my mind did, muscles tightening, heart kicking harder.
You heard it, the sound of action, Cerberus said, tone shifting.
"I heard it," I said, already moving.
I broke into a run, boots splashing through shallow puddles as the alley opened into wider streets. The neon thinned. The music faded. The air grew colder, heavier with salt.
The pier came into view—solid concrete stretching into the dark water, its surface cracked and stained, lights bolted into metal poles instead of wood. No creaking planks here, just the dull echo of my footsteps bouncing off unforgiving stone.
I slowed at the edge, crouching behind a stack of concrete barriers. The sea slapped quietly against the pillars below, cold and patient. My pulse thudded in my ears. Somewhere ahead, voices echoed—tense, hurried.
Cerberus growled softly. Now it gets interesting.
I swallowed, eyes scanning the shadows.
"Yeah," I whispered. "It does."