For a long time, Adam just stared.
His mother stood a few feet away, her presence so achingly ordinary it made the air feel thinner. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, steady and familiar. The kitchen light glowed in soft amber tones, catching in her brown hair and giving it that warm sheen he remembered from childhood, the one that always reminded him of cocoa under sunlight.
"Adam?" she asked, brow creasing. "You okay, honey? You look like you've seen a ghost."
The joke landed in that classic Clara way, half teasing, half warm, but something in his chest twisted at the words. He couldn't laugh. He couldn't even blink.
She tilted her head, studying him as she stepped away from the counter, wiping her hands absently on the dish towel. Her movements were light and unhurried, every gesture laced with a kind of easy grace that time had no right to preserve. She came to stand just a foot from him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, soft floral notes with the faintest trace of coffee beans, the scent she always carried in the mornings.
Her sweater fit comfortably over her frame, sleeves pushed to her elbows. The jeans hugged her shape without trying. She looked so alive, so vividly real, that Adam almost forgot this wasn't supposed to be possible.
She frowned gently. "What's wrong, sweetheart? You burning up or something?"
Her hand came up instinctively to touch his forehead, the back of her fingers cool against his skin. That simple contact broke him. The world tilted, and all the walls he had built over the years, the quiet toughness, the controlled detachment, cracked apart. He didn't think, didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.
Clara blinked, surprised, but then chuckled softly. "Well, somebody's affectionate tonight."
Adam's arms tightened around her. He couldn't stop shaking. The sound that escaped him wasn't laughter, it was something raw, something he hadn't let himself feel in years. His throat tightened painfully as he buried his face in her shoulder. The faint smell of her shampoo filled his nose, lavender and honey, exactly as it used to be.
"You've got your father's strength," she teased gently, voice muffled against his chest. "If you squeeze any harder, you'll crack my ribs."
But when she felt his shoulders tremble, the teasing stopped. Her hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers sliding through his short dreads the way she used to when he couldn't sleep as a kid. "Hey," she whispered, softer now, the humor fading into concern. "What's wrong?"
He tried to answer, but the words came out broken, messy. "I—I missed you. I'm so sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I should've—I should've done something—"
The sentence collapsed under the weight of his own voice. The guilt that had haunted him for a decade surged up like floodwater. He'd spent years avoiding it, distracting himself, pretending that he'd moved on. But standing here, wrapped in her arms, the illusion shattered. He was eight again, small and helpless, staring at flashing red and blue lights while paramedics pulled a stretcher through his front door.
Clara didn't say anything at first. She just held him tighter. The warmth of her hand against his cheek steadied his breath.
"Shh," she murmured, voice low and steady. "Hey. None of that now." She drew back just enough to look him in the eyes. Her smile had softened, the playfulness replaced with quiet sadness. "You listen to me, Adam Greene. You were a child. There was nothing you could've done. You hear me? Nothing."
He shook his head weakly, but she reached up and cupped his face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked down his cheeks. Her touch was impossibly real.
"I missed you every day," she said softly. "Every single day. And I love you. More than you'll ever know."
Adam's breathing slowed. The ache in his chest eased just enough for him to meet her gaze. Her eyes, those same bright hazel eyes were wet, reflecting both of them in miniature.
She smiled faintly, that small, crooked smile that always came before a joke, but her voice didn't match it this time. It was quieter. Heavier.
"I wish I could stay longer," she said. "But there's something I have to tell you."
Adam blinked, confused. "What?"
She exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "You're going to die."
The words dropped into the air like stones.
For a moment, the entire room went still, the ticking clock, the hum of the fridge, even the air seemed to hold its breath. The warmth drained from his skin, replaced by a cold that felt like it came from inside him.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
She just stood there, hand still on his cheek, eyes gentle but unbearably sad.
And then the lights flickered.
The kitchen dimmed.
Everything froze in that single heartbeat, the echo of her words hanging in the air.
You're going to die.
***
The treehouse had gone quiet except for the sound of Adam's faint, uneven breathing. Each inhale was shallower than the last, each exhale slower. His chest barely lifted beneath the dim light that filtered through the slats. Luna's claws dug into the wooden floor as if she could force his lungs to move again through sheer rage.
"What do you mean he's going to die?" she shouted, her voice trembling between fury and fear. "You're a mage, Michael. Fix it."
Michael didn't look up. His hands hovered an inch above Adam's body, glowing faintly, but the light flickered like a candle in the wind. "I can't fix this," he muttered, and the defeat in his tone only made Luna's blood boil hotter.
"Can't or won't?" she snarled, stepping closer until her shadow fell over him. "You've been tossing spells around all night. Don't you have a magic word or some kind of glowy rock that can fix this?"
He finally looked up, exhaustion painting dark circles under his eyes. "It doesn't work like that. His spirit's fighting itself. The wolf inside him isn't fully bound to him yet. He has to let it in, or it will tear him apart."
Luna blinked. "Then go in there and tell him that."
Michael let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You think it's that simple? To reach into someone's head like that takes years of practice. Even for me, it's dangerous. You mess up, you don't come back. Neither does he."
"So you're just gonna sit there and let him die?" Her words cracked halfway through.
He didn't answer. The light beneath his palms dimmed completely.
Luna turned away, pacing the small space, the boards creaking beneath her boots. "Your fucking useless," she spat under her breath.
Michael heard it but didn't argue. His gaze flicked from Adam to her, watching her shoulders rise and fall with every unsteady breath. He had seen Luna angry, violent, sarcastic beyond reason, but not like this. Not desperate.
"Why do you care so much?" he asked quietly.
That stopped her. She froze, spine straight, head turning slowly toward him. "What?"
"You heard me," he said. "Why do you care? You've barely known him for two months. Since when do you lose your mind over someone who's just… some guy?"
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Then, defensively, she scoffed. "I don't care. He's just… he's just my classmate or something."
Michael tilted his head. "You're crying."
She blinked hard, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "No, I'm not."
"Then why are you shaking?"
She stepped closer, baring her teeth. "You want me to shake you instead?"
He didn't move. He only looked at her with quiet curiosity, which made her anger falter. He saw the flicker of panic cross her face as she searched for words that wouldn't come out sounding like the truth.
"I don't care about him," she said finally, her voice too fast, too brittle. "I'm not into black guys anyways."
The room went still.
Michael's brows furrowed, and for a long moment, he just stared at her. "Wow," he said softly. "That's what you're going with?"
She winced as if struck. "That's not what I meant, okay? It's not like that. I just—" She cut herself off, rubbing her face hard with both hands. "I just overreacted."
"Yeah," Michael said. "Clearly."
"He saved my life," she snapped suddenly, looking up at him, eyes bright with something raw. "Okay? He saved me. That's all."
The silence that followed was heavy but not cruel. Michael nodded once, quietly, then turned back toward Adam. The air between them softened.
Luna's gaze drifted to Adam's still form. His face looked calm, almost peaceful, and that made it worse. For a second, she thought he might already be gone. Her chest tightened painfully.
She didn't want to think about what that would mean.
Her mind started to drift. The edges of the room faded, and suddenly she wasn't in the treehouse anymore. She was somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
Snow. A forest covered in white. Pines stretching endlessly into the sky. She remembered the crunch beneath her paws, the crisp air biting her lungs. In the distance, she saw him, a little boy, dark-skinned, small, wearing a jacket too big for him. He couldn't have been more than ten. A rifle rested awkwardly against his shoulder, far too large for his tiny hands. He tried to fire, missed, stumbled back as the recoil threw him into the snow.
She had watched from the trees, unseen, a predator's eyes glowing faintly between the branches. The boy had laughed after falling, brushing snow from his hair. He was clumsy and bright and so alive.
"Someone's here," Michael's voice cut through her reverie.
Luna blinked and snapped back to the present.
Michael was standing at the window, his hand raised in alarm. "Outside. Movement."
Luna rushed to the ladder, leaning out into the night. The air was sharp, the moon high. Her eyes adjusted instantly, and then she saw them.
Below the treehouse stood the Thorne triplets.
Amber's fur glinted silver-black under the moonlight, her massive form crouched behind Miguel, who was forced to his knees. One of her clawed hands gripped his hair, jerking his head back so his throat was exposed to the cold air. Her other hand hovered, claws gleaming inches from his skin.
Anissa prowled the perimeter, her fur a smoky gray, eyes like shards of winter. Every few seconds she would glance upward, scanning the shadows.
And in the center, standing tall and still, was Abigail.
Her fur was a soft ash-blonde, catching every glimmer of moonlight. Her body was lean but powerful, her movements fluid, almost elegant. The triplets were terrifying and beautiful in equal measure, their forms both monstrous and magnetic. The longer Luna stared, the more she hated that beauty.
"Move," Abigail said coldly, her voice echoing up the trunk. "And your driver dies."
Amber's claws pressed slightly against Miguel's skin. A thin line of red appeared, glinting in the pale light.
Luna's nostrils flared at the scent of blood. Instinct screamed at her to attack, but logic whispered that she was cornered. One wrong move, and Miguel's throat would open like paper.
"What do you want?" she called down, her voice steady, though her tail was bristling behind her.
Abigail smiled, sharp and cruel. "We want Adam. Obviously."
Luna's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because he doesn't belong to you... You're a danger to him" Abigail's gaze slid past Luna to where Michael stood near Adam's still body. "Hand him over. Your mage friend will lower him down, nice and slow, and we'll be on our way."
"And if we refuse?"
Amber's claws dug a little deeper. Miguel gasped, blood dripping to the dirt.
Abigail's smile didn't waver. "Then we stop playing nice. Orders or not."
Michael moved before Luna could stop him. He held up both hands in a placating gesture. "No one's dying tonight."
Luna turned to him, furious. "You can't just give him up!"
"Do you have a better idea?" he asked, his tone low but sharp.
She didn't answer. She just stared down at Miguel, helpless rage tightening her jaw.
"Good," Abigail said. "Then we understand each other. Lower him down."
Michael muttered under his breath, and the faint shimmer of magic gathered around Adam's body. Slowly, gently, Adam began to float toward the ladder, descending into the waiting arms of Anissa. The gray-furred werewolf caught him easily, glancing up at Michael with open disdain before stepping back into the darkness.
Amber shoved Miguel to his feet, her claws withdrawing from his throat, though she kept one heavy hand on his shoulder as a warning.
Luna's voice shook as she spoke. "If you hurt him, I'll kill you."
Abigail tilted her head, amusement flickering in her golden eyes. "You'll try," she said softly, then turned away. "But not tonight."
The three sisters melted into the forest, their movements so fluid it was almost beautiful. Within seconds, they were gone.
The clearing below was empty except for the faint glimmer of blood on the grass.
Michael exhaled shakily and turned to Luna. "Are you going to follow them?"
She didn't answer right away. Her gaze stayed fixed on the darkness where the triplets had vanished. "No."
"Why not?"
"Firstly, because of Miguel," she said simply. "If I go after them now, they'll kill him."
Michael frowned. "And if they do anyway?"
"They won't." Her voice was quieter now. "If they did, I'd have nothing left to lose." She looked down, eyes glinting in the half-light. "They know that."
Michael studied her for a moment, then nodded. "And the other reason?"
She didn't respond.
Luna sat on the edge of the treehouse, staring out into the forest. The moonlight caught her hair, turning silver strands almost white. Her hand flexed absently against the wood.
Abigail's words echoed in her mind. He belongs to us.
It stung more than she wanted to admit.
She thought back to the first day she'd met Adam. How he'd stumbled into homeroom, awkward and late, and somehow managed to sit right next to her. She'd smelled it immediately, something beneath his human scent, something wrong. Familiar, too. The Thornes. Their scent clung to him like smoke.
That had been enough for her to keep her distance. To roll her eyes when he tried to talk to her. To pretend she didn't notice when he smiled.
She had thought it was safer that way.
But they had taken him anyway.
She dug her claws into the wood until it cracked beneath her fingers.
Michael watched her in silence. He knew better than to interrupt.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. "They said I'm a danger to him."
"Are you?"
Her jaw tightened. "Maybe."
Michael turned to look at her fully, but she wasn't meeting his gaze anymore. She was looking out into the forest again, the wind tugging gently at her hair.
"Technically," she said after a long pause, "he was supposed to be dead a long time ago."
Michael froze. "What do you mean?"
But she didn't answer.
The words hung between them, heavy and electric, leaving more questions than answers.
Outside, the forest had gone utterly silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The moon above looked pale and distant, watching them with cold, unblinking light.
And somewhere far away, beneath that same sky, Adam Greene slept in the hands of monsters.