There were flashing lights.
Police cruisers. Yellow tape. A coroner's van.
Blake froze behind a fence at the back of the property, breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded. Not with fear. With certainty.
Something was wrong.
He moved closer, staying low. His house looked the same. Faded paint, busted gutters—but it was surrounded by cops. Neighbors stood across the street, whispering.
He crept around to the side and crouched behind a trash bin near the alley. From there, he could hear them.
"…body was found in the kitchen."
"…no sign of forced entry."
"…the son's missing."
"…ripped open, like an animal attack."
Blake's chest tightened. He pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself.
No.
He pushed up to look through the window.
Blood.
Everywhere.
A single sheet draped over something in the middle of the floor.
No… no, no, no.
He backed away, stumbling into the alley, gasping for air. The pressure in his chest built until it exploded in a choked sob. He collapsed against the fence, hands in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp.
His dad was dead.
He hated the man. Hated the yelling, the judgment, the fists. But that was still his dad. The only family he had left.
And now he was gone.
And Blake knew—he hadn't done it.
He remembered the moment clearly. He remembered running.
This wasn't him.
This was Thorne.
By the time the sun was high, Blake had made it back to the edge of the preserve. He limped into the shadows of the trees, ignoring the throb in his chest. He found a low ridge and sat, watching the wind stir the branches.
He didn't cry again. He didn't scream.
He just stared.
And thought.
Thorne did this.
He wanted me to lose everything.
And he had.
Blake clenched his fists, nails digging into the palms again. But this time, they weren't just nails. He felt the claws start to push through, just slightly.
"I'll kill him," he said.
The words tasted wrong in his mouth.
But they were real.
"I'll rip his throat out."
But even as he said it, he knew something else.
He couldn't beat Thorne like this.
Not yet.
The fight in the woods had made that clear. Thorne didn't even take him seriously. He played with him. Let him flail and bleed.
Blake had power now—but no control.
No focus.
"No way I'll be ready before tonight," he muttered. "The full moon's tonight."
Panic fluttered in his chest. The police would be looking for him—for questioning, maybe worse. And if they found him and locked him up…
And the moon rose while he was in there—
He didn't know what would happen. But it wouldn't be good.
"I need somewhere to hide. Somewhere I can lock myself down."
He wandered deeper into the preserve, eyes scanning the brush and stone. Eventually, he found it—a cave, half-hidden behind a thick patch of bramble and moss. Inside, it was shallow, but just big enough. Quiet. Safe.
He made his way into town, hoodie pulled low, avoiding every glance. He hit a hardware store and grabbed a pair of heavy-duty chains and two sets of iron cuffs. Paid in cash. No questions.
Back in the cave, Blake wrapped the chains around a thick boulder inside and secured them tight. He tested the cuffs, pulled the metal through his fingers, felt the weight. Then, on instinct, he grabbed a massive stone blocking the cave mouth—something he never could've lifted before.
And he moved it.
It scraped across the ground with a roar of effort, but he rolled it halfway in front of the entrance.
Only then did it hit him—just how strong he really was.
Between all the chaos and blood, he hadn't realized.
But now, kneeling in the shadows, chains beside him, waiting for the moon…
He did.