Mark woke to the smell of antiseptic and old wood.
His body felt heavy. Wrong. Every breath tugged at wounds that should have been gone by now. Bandages wrapped his torso, his arms, even part of his neck—too many for someone like him.
Light filtered in through the curtains.
"You're finally awake."
Mark turned his head slowly.
Harvy Cromvell sat in a chair beside the bed, posture relaxed, hands folded over a cane he didn't need. His expression was calm—too calm.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't," Harvy added mildly.
Mark swallowed. His throat burned. "How long was I out?"
"Long enough," Harvy replied. "Doctors did what they could. Wolves did the rest."
He paused, eyes sharpening just a fraction.
"Which is why this concerns me."
Mark exhaled slowly.
A few seconds of silence passed—deliberate. Testing.
"Tell me," Harvy said at last. "What happened to you last night?"
Mark didn't answer immediately.
"You were injured badly," Harvy continued. "Yet your healing is… delayed. That doesn't happen without reason." His voice dropped. "What did you fight?"
Mark shifted, pain flaring through his ribs. He clenched his jaw but kept his tone steady.
"I can't tell you," he said. "Not yet."
Harvy studied him. "That's not an answer I accept easily."
"I know," Mark replied. "But I need to ask the person technically responsible for this first."
Harvy's brows furrowed. "And who might that be?"
Mark met his gaze. "Just trust me."
Silence stretched.
Harvy tapped his cane once against the floor. "You're asking a lot, boy."
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't under control," Mark said. "Mostly."
Harvy's eyes narrowed. "You're certain of that?"
Before Mark could respond—
The door opened.
Iris stepped inside.
Her presence hit the room like a shift in pressure.
She looked pale. Exhausted. Her eyes were rimmed red, but her posture was straight—defiant in a quiet, dangerous way.
Iris stepped into the room without knocking.
Mark noticed her immediately. Not because she made noise—but because the air shifted when she entered. She looked… composed. Too composed for someone who'd torn through a facility hours ago.
"You're awake," she said, walking closer. "How are you feeling?"
Mark gave a small shrug. "I've been better."
Her eyes flicked over the bandages, lingering a second too long. "Figures."
She turned away before he could say anything else and went straight to the dresser. Opened it. Pulled out a small duffel bag.
Fold. Place. Fold. Place.
Harvy straightened in his chair. "Iris," he said carefully, "what are you doing?"
She didn't look at him. "Packing."
"I can see that," Harvy replied, a hint of offense creeping in. "I meant—why are you packing in the first place?"
Iris paused.
Just for a second.
She glanced at Mark.
Not long enough to invite questions. Just long enough to acknowledge him.
Then she looked away.
"I'm going to the Hale mansion," she said evenly. "I'll stay there for a few days. It's been a while since I last saw them."
The room went still.
Harvy's jaw tightened. "Why so suddenly?"
Iris zipped the bag shut. The sound was final.
"I need space," she said. "And time to process what happened to me last night."
Her tone was calm. Controlled. Almost rehearsed.
No mention of Elena.
claws.
No mention of pure blood, rage, or betrayal.
Just the transformation.
Harvy studied her face, searching for something—hesitation, fear, a crack.
There was none
"…Very well," he said at last.
Iris slung the bag over her shoulder.
She didn't look back.
Few Moments Later
Mark shifted, planting his feet on the floor.
Pain answered immediately.
Not sharp—worse. Deep. Persistent. Like his body had forgotten how to put itself back together.
He hissed through his teeth but stood anyway.
"Don't," Harvy said at once, rising from his chair. "You're in no condition to move."
"I'm fine," Mark replied automatically.
His knees betrayed him a second later. He steadied himself on the bedpost, breathing slow until the room stopped tilting.
Harvy stepped closer. "Those wounds—"
"—aren't life-threatening," Mark cut in. "I'll heal."
Not like before, he didn't say.
Harvy studied him carefully. "You're lying."
Mark gave a tired half-smile. "I've been through worse than this, don't worry."
Silence hung between them.
"I think it's time I go home," Mark added. "I've stayed long enough."
Harvy frowned. "You can't even stand straight."
"I can walk," Mark said. "And I don't want to be here when… discussions start."
That was polite.
Harvy knew what he meant.
"You're stubborn," Harvy muttered.
"Yeah," Mark agreed. "I get that a lot."
He reached for his clothes, movements slow, deliberate. Every pull of fabric sent a reminder through his ribs, his back, his arms—magic scars that refused to fade.
Harvy watched as Mark dressed, carefully layering shirt over bandages, jacket over bruises. Hiding damage the way wolves always did.
"You should rest," Harvy said quietly.
Mark paused at the door. "I will. Just not here."
He glanced down at himself once more, making sure nothing showed.
Then he straightened, forcing strength into his posture even as his body protested.
"I'll be okay," he said again—this time less convincing, but more determined.
Harvy didn't stop him.
Mark stepped out into the corridor alone.
Behind him, the room felt heavier.
Ahead of him, the road home felt longer than it ever had.
The doorbell rang softly, cutting through the quiet morning.
Mark's mother had just stepped out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel resting over her shoulders. She frowned slightly — no one ever rang this early. She crossed the hallway and opened the door.
Mark stood there.
Not frantic. Not panicked. Just tired.
"Oh—" she blinked, surprised. "Mark? You were out?"
He stepped inside without a word at first. She closed the door behind him, watching the way he moved — slower than usual, but steady. He walked straight to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and poured himself water. His hands didn't shake.
She leaned against the counter.
"You didn't come home last night," she said gently. "We got back late. I thought you were asleep in your room."
Mark took a long sip before answering.
"I couldn't sleep."
That was it. No excuse. No story.
She tilted her head, studying him. "What's troubling you?"
"Nothing," he replied quickly, then softened it. "I just… went for a late-night jog. And then I....Lost the track of time."
She accepted it almost immediately.
To her, it fit.
A teenager. Quiet. Overthinking. Burning off stress instead of talking about it.
She smiled faintly and reached out, brushing his arm.
"Oh, sweetie. Don't worry so much. You're doing great — you always overthink things." She paused. "Want to take the day off?"
Mark shook his head. "No. I'm fine."
He set the empty glass in the sink.
"I'm just going to take a shower."
"Alright," she said warmly. "I'll get something ready for you."
Mark nodded once and headed down the hallway.
As soon as the bathroom door closed behind him, the calm slipped.
He rested his forehead against the cool tile wall and let out a breath he'd been holding since the doorstep. The ache along his ribs flared quietly, sharp but contained.
No one had noticed.
Good.
For now, that was enough.