The discharge process was faster than Alex expected. Too fast. Doctors were baffled by his miraculous recovery. Broken bones had mended. A traumatic brain injury had seemingly vanished without a trace. He could walk, talk, even sprint down a hallway if he wanted to. They released him with no explanation, just warnings to "take it easy" and "report anything unusual."
He didn't tell them about the nightmares. About the sensation of running on four legs. About eyes glowing gold in a mirror that blinked before he did.
Back home, everything felt off. His room was how he'd left it—video game posters, a dusty guitar, textbooks on his desk—but he didn't feel like the same person who once lived there. His body was too light. His skin too tight, like it couldn't quite hold everything inside.
He stood before the bathroom mirror, shirt off, studying the strange mark on his wrist. It pulsed faintly with a silvery glow when he looked at it under the right light. Circular, with intersecting lines like claws crossed over the phases of the moon.
He rubbed at it, half-hoping it would fade. It didn't.
Later that day, his mom made him see a specialist. A dermatologist examined the mark under a magnifier, frowned, and took several photos.
"It's… not a tattoo," she said slowly, "and not scar tissue either. Almost like it's part of your pigmentation—no, deeper than that. Subdermal? I'd like to run a biopsy."
Alex declined.
Back at school, everything felt louder. Sharper. Every heartbeat in the hallway, every shoe squeaking on the linoleum floor hit his ears like a thunderclap. And the smells. Teen spirit had never been a more accurate description. It was overwhelming.
In the hallway, he bumped shoulders with a tall guy in a leather jacket. The guy turned—green eyes, dark hair, strong jawline. He didn't speak, but his gaze lingered.
Alex kept walking.
When he reached his locker, his fingers brushed against the lock—and the metal bent. Just slightly, almost imperceptibly. He stared at it, pulse quickening. His breath steamed in the cool hallway air, even though it wasn't cold.
What the hell was happening to him?
By the end of the day, Alex had memorized everyone's scent. He could hear conversations from classrooms away. And when he brushed past a girl with copper hair and piercing eyes—Lydia, a name sparked in his head like déjà vu—she stopped mid-stride and looked right at him.
"You smell like..." she whispered, confused, but didn't finish.
Like what? Death? Moonlight? Something ancient?
He didn't ask. He just walked faster, his heartbeat echoing in his skull.
That night, as he lay in bed, the mark on his wrist glowed faintly again. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the growing fear.
But sleep brought no peace—only flashes of red moons, snarling teeth, and a voice calling him through the trees.
"You're close. We're waiting."
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Chapter 3: The Full Moon next?