Two days had passed since the incident. Two days as well since I had first stepped through the gate of this high school, with that lingering smell of liquid wax and old notebooks that clings to your clothes.
That morning, the sky hung very low, a dull, uniform gray that swallowed the light. The courtyard was almost empty: a few seniors gathered near the fence, shoulders hunched, cigarettes hidden in the palm of their hands, and the dull, intermittent sound of a soccer ball hitting a cinderblock wall. I crossed the central path without hurrying, my backpack hanging from one shoulder, earphones around my neck, the cord dangling, no music playing—just something to keep my hands busy.
The hallways of the main building were bathed in the cold light of fluo lamps that flickered occasionally when the humidity rose. The worn linoleum floor, a dirty beige, held the black marks of countless shoes; my footsteps echoed a little too loudly, with that faint delay that always comes back a second later. Tired posters hung on the walls: a school trip to Berlin that had been canceled long ago, a desperate call for the drama club, an open house day whose date had already passed months ago. The air smelled of cheap disinfectant mixed with the stale odor of poorly ventilated locker rooms.
I was heading toward room 204, my schedule folded in four in my back pocket, when the principal's office door opened right in front of me. A warmer light spilled out—probably from an old desk lamp with a dark green shade.
Mr. Delorme appeared in the doorway. His gray suit hung a little too loosely on his shoulders, his navy-blue tie slightly loosened. His face looked tired, with deep circles under his eyes, but his voice remained calm, almost subdued.
"Hartmann… could you come in for a minute, please?"
It wasn't really a question. I nodded.
"Yes, sir."
I followed him in. The door closed behind us with a quiet click.
The inside of the office looked exactly how you'd imagine a principal's office in a suburban high school: gray metal shelves stacked with beige folders labeled in marker, a dusty artificial plant, an old Mac with yellowed corners sitting on a cracked faux-leather desk pad. On the wall hung a framed photo of the Minister of Education from several years ago, a map of the region covered in neon sticky notes, and a small round clock ticking with hypnotic regularity. The smell was that of coffee gone cold since yesterday, mixed with aging paper and a faint trace of stale tobacco clinging to the curtains.
And then I saw them.
Cleo Jäher was leaning against the cast-iron radiator, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed on the floor as if the cracks between the tiles had just revealed some secret. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun; a few strands stuck to the back of her neck. She was wearing the school's gray sweatshirt, too big for her, sleeves pushed up to her forearms. She didn't move an inch when I walked in.
Tyler, on the other hand, was standing by the window, his hands buried in the pockets of his sweatpants, shoulders slightly hunched. He was chewing the inside of his cheek; you could see his jaw tightening in small spasms. His white sneakers had streaks of dried mud along the sides—he must have been hanging around the soaked field before coming here.
The principal slowly walked around his desk, placing both hands flat on the desk pad without sitting down. He looked at each of us in turn, studying us for a long moment, as if trying to read something in our posture.
A heavy silence settled in the room. All you could hear was the ticking of the clock, the soft patter of rain beginning to hit the windows, and, somewhere far away, the muffled murmur of a class starting.
Finally, he sighed—a deep, tired sigh.
"Sit down, all three of you."
There were three chairs in front of the desk, carefully aligned, as if someone had placed them there specifically for us. I sat in the middle, the backrest too straight against my shoulder blades. Cleo dropped into the chair on my left without a sound, Tyler onto the one on my right more heavily, making the wood creak slightly.
Mr. Delorme watched us again for a moment, his eyes narrowed.
"You know why you're here."
His voice was low, almost a whisper. No anger. Just immense weariness.
"The last two days… let's not lie to ourselves. Something happened. Something serious. And I want to hear each of your versions, calmly, without interrupting each other, without any prior arrangement."
He paused, turning his head toward the window where the raindrops were slowly sliding down the glass.
"We have all the time we need."
Outside, a gust of wind slammed a poorly closed window somewhere in the hallway. Inside, no one moved. We waited. The ticking, the rain, our breaths overlapping in the thick silence of the office. The silence lasted a few more seconds, heavy, almost suffocating. The steady ticking of the clock seemed louder than our breathing.
Finally, the principal straightened slightly behind his desk.
"I see that I'm dealing with… problematic students."
His voice wasn't aggressive or sarcastic. Just matter-of-fact.
Cleo slowly raised her head. A blonde strand slipped in front of her eyes. She shrugged lightly.
"I wouldn't say problematic," she said calmly. "Just a little less well-behaved than the others." Tyler quickly turned his head toward her.
"Cleo, be quiet," he muttered through his teeth. "You're making our case worse."
The principal raised a hand, as if to calm the exchange.
"Ah, I forgot something important."
He gave a small, tired smile.
"I didn't introduce myself properly. My name is Mr. Delorme, and I am your new principal."
Tyler leaned back further in his chair and said almost automatically,
"Ah… I see. You don't really look like the old one."
An awkward silence followed his remark.
The principal didn't seem offended. He simply grabbed a beige file from the stack on his right and opened it with the sharp sound of paper.
"Mr. Withman," he said, looking up at Tyler. "I've read your file."
He slid a few sheets.
"As well as the file of each one of you."
His gaze slowly moved from Tyler to Cleo, then to me.
"And I've made a decision."
He leaned forward and opened the drawer of his desk. The wood creaked slightly. He took out three stapled documents and placed them carefully in front of us.
The paper slid across the desk with a faint rustle.
"Rather than proceeding with expelling you from the school…"
He took out a black pen and rolled it toward us.
"…you are going to sign a disciplinary agreement."
The pen stopped in the middle of the desk.
Cleo was the first to react. She leaned forward, grabbed the pen without hesitation, and quickly scanned the page.
"Seriously…" she murmured.
She shrugged and signed with a quick motion.
The scratching sound of the pen on the paper seemed strangely loud in the room.
She pushed the document back toward the principal.
"There."
The pen then passed to Jäher. He took a few more seconds, reading two or three lines before signing as well.
Then Tyler let out a short breath through his nose.
"Great…"
He signed too, a little more roughly.
The pen finally reached me.
I glanced quickly at the paper. Administrative sentences, complicated words… disciplinary agreement, behavior, responsibility.
I signed.
The principal collected the three sheets and stacked them neatly. He placed them in a cardboard folder already filled with dozens of other documents.
The drawer closed with a quiet click.
Cleo crossed her arms.
"Okay… but what exactly are our signatures for?"
The principal placed his hands on the desk and looked at each of us.
A brief spark of amusement passed through his eyes.
"Very good question."
He paused slightly.
"To put it simply… you just agreed to your punishment."
Tyler frowned.
"What punishment?"
The principal leaned forward slightly.
"During Halloween night…"
The rain was now hitting the windows harder.
"…you will be cleaning the streets of the neighborhood with the municipal team."
Silence immediately fell again.
Tyler blinked.
"Wait… what?"
Cleo let out a small incredulous laugh.
"Seriously? Cleaning the streets?"
The principal calmly nodded.
"Exactly."
He folded his hands on the desk.
"Consider it… community service🎃. The principal closed the folder with a sharp motion, as if he was done with us for the day.
— You may leave now. And good luck with your community service.
No thank you, no smile. We stood up in silence, Tyler leading the way as usual, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The door slammed shut behind us, and we stepped out into the hallway.
Empty. Completely empty.
Not a single student, not a teacher wandering around, not even the usual noise from the coffee machines in the teachers' lounge. Just the hum of the neon lights and the familiar smell of disinfectant.
I frowned.
— Wait… what's going on? Why is the school deserted?
Cleo looked around, puzzled.
— Yeah… that's weird. At this hour it's usually chaos.
Tyler let out a short laugh as he kept walking.
— Halloween, guys. October 31st, morning. They probably canceled regular classes for some "theme day" or something. Remember? Last week they sent an email: free morning for Halloween prep or a field trip to that haunted museum thing. Everyone either left early or just didn't show up.
Cleo snapped her fingers.
— Oh yeah! The principal's email. "Special Halloween Day — optional activities in the afternoon, community service for students in detention in the morning." They cleared out the building so seniors wouldn't start messing around in costumes too early.
Tyler rolled his eyes.
— Great plan. We're picking up trash while everyone else dresses up like zombies. Thanks, principal.
Footsteps echoed quickly behind us.
— Hey! Lucky you guys!
Rickie jogged toward us, slightly out of breath but grinning.
— You guys got community service too this morning?
Cleo nodded.
— Yep. Looks like we're the only idiots still here.
Tyler grumbled.
— Because everyone else skipped for Halloween.
Jäher, as calm as ever, shrugged.
— It's for the principal. And it makes sense. They gathered all the punished students here to clean while everyone else prepares for the party.
Rickie burst out laughing.
— So we're officially the losers of October 31st.
Cleo sighed and ran a hand through her hair.
— I had plans tonight. A costume party at Mia's. Now I'm going to smell like dirt and garbage.
Jäher looked at her.
— If we start now, we can finish before noon. You'll still have time to get ready.
Rickie shook his head.
— Agoura Hills is huge. With just five of us… that's going to be tough.
Jäher gestured toward the empty hallway.
— Look around. No seniors outside. Just us — the ones doing community service. Everyone else is already in Halloween mode.
I nodded.
— Good point. At least it'll be quiet. No teachers watching us.
Rickie finally gave in with a resigned smile.
— Fine. Let's go. But if we finish early, I vote we crash that party tonight. We earned it.
We started walking again down the strangely silent hallway. Without the usual chaos, the school felt bigger somehow.
But now that we knew why — Halloween had emptied the place for the day — it almost felt… exciting.
Almost🎃. We dragged our feet across the courtyard, the October sun still beating down hard on the walls of AGHS. The wind stirred the fallen leaves around the fields, and you could already feel that Halloween vibe: a mix of dry grass and the faint smell of rotting pumpkins in neighborhood yards. Everything seemed calm, almost too calm for a Friday morning… until a bright yellow school bus appeared in the driveway and stopped dead in front of the gate, like it had been tracking us.
I froze, arms dangling.
— Uh… is this for us, or is it a ghost bus?
No movement inside. Dark windows, engine humming softly. Total mystery.
Then the principal emerged from the main building, his black coat flapping in the wind (he probably thought he looked like a B-movie villain). He scanned us with his signature look: half "I pity you," half "own your mess."
— Cleaning the school? he called out, his voice carrying all the way to the bleachers. We have pros for that. But, well, maybe next time…
He made a vague gesture toward the bus.
— This bus is taking you into town. Community service there: pick up the trash before the streets turn into a Halloween battlefield. Squashed candy, red cups, confetti, lost masks… you know the drill. Events like the trunk-or-treat at the community center and the local carnivals leave a lot of mess behind.
He shrugged, like "that's life."
— It's a partial holiday today. Most classes are canceled, the rest are in pre-party mode. Finish quickly, and maybe you can still join a party tonight.
He strode toward his car without a goodbye, engine roaring, and poof — gone around the corner.
We stood there for a couple of seconds, staring at the bus as if it might bite us.
Tyler cracked first:
— Wait, we're the Halloween street cleaners? While everyone else dresses up and gets free candy? That's robbery!
Cleo chuckled despite herself.
— At least we're moving. And imagine: we might even find a cool abandoned mask for tonight.
The driver opened the door, flashing a perfect grin.
— Hop in, heroes of the day! Let's roll!
Jäher sighed, half-amused, half-resigned.
— Yeah, because our schedule is jam-packed with thrilling stuff…
Rickie climbed the steps first.
— If we finish before 1 PM, I vote we crash a party. We've earned our VIP pass.
We settled in: sticky seats, the smell of old bus mixed with disinfectant, windows open to catch the fresh air. I sat by the window, watching AGHS shrink in the rearview. Cleo beside me, already scrolling through her phone to check the evening events. Tyler and Rickie behind, grumbling in perfect sync. Jäher at the back, zen as always.
The bus left the empty parking lot, heading into Agoura Hills pre-Halloween: porches with early-lit pumpkins, cobwebs draped over mailboxes, and soon a ton of trash waiting to be picked up.
The principal had calculated everything.
But at least, we were going to finish the morning smelling like glory… or garbage.
And the evening promised to be better. The air inside the bus was barely breathable: a heavy, clinging stench of sour sweat, sun-heated vinyl seats sticking to our legs, and a rancid smell of moldy cheese forgotten somewhere under a seat. The closed windows trapped the heat, and every breath felt like recycling the same suffocating humidity. The constant hum of the engine vibrated through our bones, like a dull buzzing that numbed the nerves.
Suddenly, the bus slammed on the brakes. The tires screamed against the hot asphalt, a sharp screech that made everyone grind their teeth. We were all thrown forward; Tyler muttered a curse, and Cleo grabbed the seat in front of her, her knuckles turning white.
The engine coughed once, then went silent. The driver half-stood from his seat, his voice tired and rough.
— Everyone out.
The moment my foot touched the ground outside, fresh air hit my face. A clean breath of eucalyptus mixed with the dry, earthy smell of sun-warmed dead leaves. I inhaled deeply, feeling my lungs finally expand. The downtown looks pretty clean, I said, scanning the street.
Store windows shone under the golden afternoon light, the sidewalk smooth and almost spotless… until Cleo gestured for me to turn around.
— Turn around.
Behind us: a thick carpet of yellow and brown dead leaves crunching under the wind, like endless crumpled paper. Broken branches lay scattered, some still green at the edges. Knocked-over trash cans released a sour smell of fermenting garbage—crushed candy, warm plastic cups, and stale beer from the night before.
A man in a beige coat approached us, holding a tablet. His smile was too polite, and his lemony perfume cut through the surrounding stench.
— Mayor's office. Thank you for volunteering.
Tyler muttered under his breath:
— "Volunteering"… my ass.
The man guided us to several boxes: reflective jackets that crinkled when touched, latex gloves smelling of fresh rubber, and black trash bags that stuck slightly to our fingers.
The work began. With every step, the leaves cracked under our shoes like dry popcorn, sending little clouds of dust into the air that tickled our noses. The wind lifted whole handfuls that swirled slowly, brushing our skin like cold fingers before falling again.
After about twenty minutes, Cleo dropped her bag with a dull thud.
— We're gonna die here before night even falls.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, a strand of hair sticking to her skin.
Tyler nodded, wiping his gloved hands on his jeans.
Rickie, who had been scraping papers from under a bench (the smell of damp paper and stuck chewing gum), suddenly straightened up.
— Look at this.
The crumpled poster was still damp with morning dew, the ink slightly smeared. The photo of the smiling girl looked almost alive under the orange light.
Cleo squinted… then her face tightened, a mix of anger and something darker.
— It's her. My ex's little slut.
Silence fell. The wind rustled the leaves around us like a mocking whisper.
Then our phones vibrated at the same time—a synchronized buzzing in our pockets.
Cleo turned hers on first. Her face froze, the blue glow of the screen lighting her features.
— Turn yours on.
The alert showed a blurry photo of a forest trail, grass trampled and darkly stained.
Headline: Animal attack – young woman mutilated near Agoura Hills. Lower half of body missing.
Tyler forced a laugh.
— Probably just a coyote or a mountain lion. Happens all the time in the hills.
But his voice trembled slightly.
He straightened up.
— Anyway, I'm out. Gotta get ready for the party at Jäher's place.
Jäher raised an eyebrow.
— At my place?
Cleo replied:
— Your house is perfect for Halloween. Like… classy vampire vibes.
Jäher smiled faintly.
— Almost.
We walked for twenty minutes. The air cooled, carrying the smell of pine and damp soil. The sun was setting, casting a copper-orange glow through the branches, stretching shadows across the pavement like long fingers. The streets grew quieter; somewhere in the distance, a child laughed and Halloween music played from someone testing speakers.
We stopped in front of a black wrought-iron gate, cold to the touch even through gloves. Behind it, a driveway lined with dark cypress trees smelling of resin led to a massive stone house. Tall windows reflected the sunset like orange eyes.
Rickie whistled.
— You live in a castle or something?
Inside, the hall was cool—almost cold after the heat outside. It smelled of old polished wood, oiled metal, and a faint ghost of gunpowder. The staircase creaked softly with age. On the walls: rifles lined up in rows, cold gleaming barrels, revolvers with worn grips, and boxes of ammunition that clicked softly if brushed.
Rickie touched one of the barrels with the tip of his finger.
— Hunters of what, exactly?
Jäher looked at him calmly.
— Wolves.
Silence.
Then Rickie burst out laughing—a nervous laugh that echoed through the empty hall. I laughed too, but the sound died quickly, swallowed by the thick walls.
Outside, somewhere in the hills, a distant howl rose in the wind.
Coyote… or wolf.
It answered the night like a mocking echo. A thick silence suddenly fell, as if the house itself was holding its breath with us. The air in the hall was cool, almost icy, filled with the old smell of polished wood, oiled metal, and a faint ghost of gunpowder. Rickie had frozen in place, his laugh dying in his throat. He stared at the front door behind us, his brows slightly furrowed, his skin faintly damp despite the cold.
— That was… a coyote, right? he muttered, his voice a little higher than he intended.
Jäher didn't answer immediately. He slowly removed his jacket and placed it over the back of an old chair whose worn velvet smelled faintly of accumulated dust. The fabric rustled softly under his fingers.
— Maybe.
He crossed the room to a large dark wooden cabinet. When he opened it, a wave of tanned leather and metallic oil drifted out—a cold, industrial scent that contrasted with the warm woody smell of the hall.
Rickie and I exchanged a quick glance, our hearts beating a little too fast.
— Seriously… are all those guns loaded? Rickie asked, gesturing toward the display cases.
Jäher took out a box of ammunition and set it on the table with a dull click. The metal rang lightly against the wood.
— Not all of them.
I stepped closer to a wall display case. Through the dusty glass I could see older objects: hunting knives with worn blades, rusted traps with dull teeth… and bullets that looked different from the others.
Their metal shone with a pale, almost lunar glow under the dim light of the chandelier.
— Is that… silver? I asked, my voice quieter than expected.
Jäher glanced over briefly, unsurprised.
— Yes.
Rickie let out a nervous laugh that echoed in the empty hall.
— Wait a second… Your family hunts wolves, even though they were basically wiped out of California around 1924–1925—like the last one killed in Lassen County—and you use silver bullets? Seriously? What's next, vampires? Ghost hunters?
He shook his head, though his smile was already fading.
Jäher closed the cabinet calmly, the wood creaking softly on its hinges.
— Wolves exist.
Rickie rolled his eyes, but the gesture lacked conviction.
— Yeah, thanks. We literally just saw the alert on our phones.
Jäher looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable.
— I'm not talking about those wolves.
The silence returned—heavier now, thicker.
This time no one laughed.
A sharp creak sounded upstairs. The old ceiling wood groaned slightly, as if under the slow step of someone walking carefully above us.
Rickie snapped his head upward.
— You said we were alone, right?
Jäher glanced toward the dark staircase, where shadows stretched longer and deeper.
— We are.
Suddenly the wind slammed against the large living-room windows. The glass trembled faintly, and outside the cypress trees swayed, their branches scraping against the panes in a dry, irregular sound—like fingernails scratching.
I looked outside.
The sun had almost disappeared behind the hills. The orange light had turned into a deep blue, nearly violet. The trees' shadows stretched across the grass like black fingers.
And for a split second… something moved between the trunks.
Something big.
Very big.
A massive shape glided through the darkness before melting into it again.
I squinted, my heart pounding against my ribs.
— Did you see that?
Rickie moved closer to the window, his nose nearly touching the cold glass.
— See what?
The movement was gone.
Just the trees.
Just the wind whispering through the branches.
Then, in the distance, a second howl rose—long, guttural, much closer than the first. It vibrated through the air, crossing the valley and seeming to bounce off the walls of the house.
Rickie swallowed hard, his throat dry.
— Okay… tell me that's still a coyote. Please.
Jäher didn't answer. He kept staring at the hills through the window, his face suddenly serious—very serious. His jaw tightened slightly.
— Close the shutters.
Rickie frowned, his voice trembling.
— Why?
Jäher turned toward us, his dark eyes steady.
— Because if they're already in the valley…
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
— …we don't have much time.
Outside, the wind grew stronger, and a third howl answered—closer still.
This time, it seemed to come from just behind the gate. Rickie stepped toward the large living-room window, his fingers brushing the glass, cold as ice. Night had fallen suddenly, almost too quickly. Just minutes earlier, streaks of orange still clung to the hills, but now everything was swallowed by a deep blue-black darkness. Only a few distant lights from the city sparkled down in the valley, fragile like fallen stars.
Outside, the wind shook the cypress trees along the driveway. Their branches knocked against each other with a dry, uneven whisper, like bones softly clacking together. Rickie placed his palm on the wooden shutter, feeling the rough grain beneath his skin, and slowly pushed it open. The rusty hinges creaked in the heavy silence of the house—a metallic cry that echoed through the empty hall.
Then suddenly—
— BOO!
Tyler appeared out of nowhere behind him, shouting theatrically with his arms raised like a cheap zombie.
Rickie screamed—a sharp, involuntary cry—and jumped backward, almost crashing into the coffee table behind him. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it pulsing in his ears, his throat, even in his temples. Adrenaline burned through his veins.
— Damn it, Tyler! he shouted, breathless, one hand on his chest.
— You idiot, you just scared the life out of me!
Tyler bent over laughing, hands on his knees, his rough laughter loud and contagious.
— Wait… wait… breathe, man!
He squinted and glanced down at Rickie's pants, then burst out laughing again.
— Tell me you didn't actually piss your pants…
Rickie looked down quickly, then lifted his head again, teeth clenched, cheeks burning.
— That's your fault, idiot!
Tyler finally straightened up, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. A faint smell followed him—freshly opened beer, cheap vanilla perfume, and a hint of weed lingering on his clothes.
He turned toward Jäher, who was leaning casually against the wall near the staircase, arms crossed.
— By the way… you don't mind if a few people show up, right?
Jäher raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable.
— A few people?
Tyler flashed a mischievous, almost devilish smile under the dim chandelier light.
Then he turned toward the front door and shouted at the top of his lungs:
— Alright! You can come in!
The door burst open.
A wave poured in—excited voices, bursts of laughter, the deep thump of bass from a portable speaker already pulsing in the air. Dozens of students flooded into the hall in seconds. Some wore improvised costumes—cheap skeleton masks, capes made from bedsheets, smeared zombie makeup—while others carried backpacks clinking with cans, warm packs of beer, bowls of chips crackling between their fingers.
The cool night air rushed in with them, carrying the smell of sugary perfume, sticky soda, microwave popcorn, and a faint trace of distant wood smoke from nearby houses.
The old wooden floor groaned under the weight of so many footsteps, creaking rhythmically like a heart suddenly racing. Someone started a Halloween playlist on the speaker—a mix of creepy sound effects (distant howls, witch laughter) layered over hip-hop and party EDM.
The living-room lights, dimmed by old lampshades, cast dancing shadows on the walls. Orange and purple string lights—already plugged in by someone—blinked softly, bathing the room in a glowing, ghostly hue.
Rickie stood frozen in the middle of it all, mouth slightly open, watching the human tide flood the living room: groups forming around tables, cans clinking with metallic clinks, chips crunching between teeth, laughter exploding everywhere.
He slowly turned his head toward Tyler, still stunned.
— Wait… did you invite the whole school or something?
Tyler shrugged, a satisfied grin spreading across his face, already holding a can in his hand.
— More or less. It's Halloween, man. Gotta celebrate.
The music grew louder, bass vibrating through the floorboards, and the house—silent and threatening only moments before—transformed into something alive, chaotic, electric.
Outside, the wind kept blowing through the trees.
But inside, the howls now belonged to the party 🎃. Rickie was still standing in the middle of the living room, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his mouth slightly open as if he had just been slapped by something invisible. The party had exploded around him within minutes: bass vibrating through the old wooden floor, laughter bouncing off the walls, the smell of warm beer mixing with burnt popcorn and cheap vanilla perfume. Orange string lights blinked faintly on the ceiling, casting trembling shadows over faces painted like cheap zombies and vampires.
Jäher had stepped away from the wall, his arms still crossed. He watched Rickie for a moment, then lowered his eyes to the mud-stained jeans and the wrinkled T-shirt Rickie was still wearing after the day's cleanup.
— While the party settles down, you're not going to stay dressed like that, he said in a low voice, almost tired. Go change. There's a bathroom at the end of the hallway, and clean clothes in the guest room on the right.
Rickie blinked, slowly coming out of his daze.
— Huh? Yeah… yeah, you're right.
He ran a damp hand across his forehead. His skin felt sticky, a mix of sweat and dust from picking up trash all day. The smell of damp plastic and soggy cardboard still clung faintly to his fingers. The music suddenly exploded—a spooky remix of "Thriller" that made the windows and the old wooden floor vibrate. The bass pulsed in the chest like a second heartbeat, and the air in the hall changed instantly: cooler, but thick with mixed smells—warm beer foaming in red plastic cups, scorching microwave popcorn, sweet vanilla perfume mixed with strawberry candy, and a faint hint of weed drifting from the group near the fireplace.
Cleo burst in first, wearing an improvised Vampirella costume: a cheap black cape dragging across the floor, dramatic black lipstick smeared across her lips, and a necklace of fake pearls clinking with every step. She held two plastic cups filled with suspicious blood-red punch.
— Losers! she shouted when she spotted Rickie and Tyler.
— Have you seen this? The whole school is here! I even saw the principal park his car at the end of the street—he's gonna lose his mind tomorrow.
She handed a cup to Rickie, who grabbed it automatically, still a little shaken from the jump scare.
— Drink this. It'll help with your little heart attack.
Rickie sniffed the punch. It smelled like cheap vodka, orange juice, and something artificial that vaguely resembled cherry.
— What did you put in this? Virgin blood?
Cleo laughed.
— Almost. Just grenadine syrup and Tyler's dignity.
Tyler, already dancing in place with a can in his hand (zombie costume: torn shirt, fake dried blood cracking on his skin), raised his arms dramatically.
— Hey! Respect the king of the party! I brought the playlist, the snacks, and even a projector for creepy shadow shows later.
The crowd kept growing: seniors wearing cheap Ghostface masks, girls dressed as sexy witches with pointy hats that kept catching on the chandeliers, and a guy dressed as Michael Myers who was already blocking the kitchen doorway with a plastic machete.
Someone had plugged in orange and purple LED string lights; they blinked to the rhythm of the music, casting ghostly flashes across the dark walls and the weapon displays—which now almost looked like part of the Halloween decoration.
Jäher, still leaning against the wall near the staircase, watched everything without moving. His face remained neutral, but his eyes scanned the room—and the windows—with quiet intensity. He wasn't wearing a costume, just a black hoodie that made him look like a shadow among shadows.
Rickie stepped closer to him, drink in hand, raising his voice slightly over the laughter and bass.
— Dude… you sure all this is okay? Your house is basically a weapon museum. And with those howls outside earlier…
Jäher shrugged slightly, speaking low enough so only Rickie could hear.
— The house is big. They'll stay downstairs. And the shutters are closed.
But at that exact moment, a cold draft slipped under the front door—a breath carrying the damp smell of the hills, wet soil, and pine. The LED candles on the tables flickered for a second.
Cleo, already dancing with a group near the speaker, shouted over the music:
— Hey, Jäher! Do you have a basement or something for a spooky Never Have I Ever game? Or should we go outside and hunt for ghosts?
Tyler immediately jumped on the idea, excited.
— Yeah! Scavenger hunt in the hills! Whoever finds the first coyote wins a beer!
The crowd cheered.
But Jäher slowly shook his head—almost too subtly to notice. "The crowd cheered, but Jäher shook his/her head – an almost imperceptible movement." Jäher remained motionless for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the locked door, then on the crowd waiting for his answer. The music still throbbed in the background, but the chatter around him had quieted—the people closest to him sensed the tension, and even Tyler had lowered his arms, not daring to push too hard.
He exhaled slowly, almost resigned.
"Okay."
The word landed sharply, surprising everyone. Tyler's eyes widened.
"For real? You're agreeing?"
Jäher nodded once, slowly.
"Yes. But listen carefully."
He raised a hand to command silence, and the crowd gradually hushed, the bass of the music suddenly sounding more distant.
"The wolves disappeared from California in 1924. Extirpated. The last one officially killed in Lassen County. Since then, nothing confirmed for almost a century… until they started coming back from the north, from Oregon, in recent years. But what we're hearing out there tonight… it's not a normal coyote or puma. And it's not an ordinary gray wolf either."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air. Cleo frowned.
"So… we're still going out?"
Jäher looked at her.
"Yes. Because if we stay locked inside all night, you'll end up cracking, drinking too much, doing worse shit than going outside. And I'd rather control what's happening out there than let the house turn into a trap for idiots."
Tyler clapped his hands, excited.
"Yes! The king has spoken!"
But Jäher raised his hand again.
"Conditions. Non-negotiable."
He walked over to a wall cabinet—not the one with the rifles, but an older one, tucked at the back of the hall, almost hidden behind a dusty velvet curtain. The key turned with a sharp click. Inside: more archaic objects. Knives, rusted traps… and a massive crossbow, made of dark wood and forged metal, string pulled taut, ready to fire. It looked like it belonged in a medieval museum, but in perfect condition—no rust at all, the mechanism gleaming with fresh oil.
Jäher unhooked it carefully, the wood creaking faintly under his fingers. He checked the safety catch with a smooth, practiced motion, then selected a handful of bolts from a leather quiver nearby: most ordinary, but some with pale, almost white tips—an silvery gleam that caught the light from the orange LED garlands.
"We go out in groups. No fewer than ten at a time. We stay within sight of the house—no farther than the gate. Lights off outside. Phones on flashlight mode only if needed. No shouting, no portable music. If anyone hears anything abnormal—howl, branches snapping, movement in the trees—we come straight back inside."
He slipped the bolts into a quiver attached to his belt, then slung the crossbow over his shoulder. The cold metal clinked lightly against his hoodie.
"And I'm coming with you. With this."
Tyler whistled, impressed despite himself.
"A crossbow? Dude, you're full-on fantasy mode. Why not a rifle?"
Jäher adjusted the strap, the wood of the weapon brushing against his back.
"Because rifles are loud. Very loud. And if we're dealing with… something that isn't a normal wolf, silence is our best ally. The crossbow is precise, quick to reload if you know how, and… let's just say silver-tipped bolts go through certain things better."
Cleo raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-worried.
"You're seriously saying we're going werewolf hunting with a silver-bolt crossbow?"
Jäher gave a brief, genuine smile—the first of the evening.
"Not werewolves. Just… something that doesn't like silver. And that didn't disappear in 1924 like the history books claim."
Rickie swallowed hard, feeling the cold night air seeping under the door despite the closed shutters.
"Okay… let's do it. But if there really is something out there, you shoot first, right?"
Jäher nodded.
"I shoot first. And you run."
He turned to the crowd.
"First group in five minutes. Dress warm. Turn off the exterior lights before we open the door."
The music kicked back up, louder, as if trying to chase away the tension. Excited shouts rang out again, but with a nervous edge. People grabbed jackets, phones; some were still laughing, others casting uneasy glances at the shuttered windows.
Jäher, crossbow slung over his shoulder, walked to the door. He placed a hand on the bolt, hesitated for a second.
"I hope you're right," he murmured.
Then he pulled the latch.
The door swung open onto pitch-black night. A cold gust rushed in, carrying the scent of damp pine and wet earth. Far off in the hills—or maybe not so far—a howl answered: short, guttural.
Jäher raised the crossbow slightly, aiming into the darkness.
"Let's go."
The party inside carried on, but outside, the real night was beginning.The first group to step out into the night was about a dozen people in single file behind Jäher. The cold air hit like a slap: the scent of damp pine, wet earth from the dew, and that faint mineral edge that always lingers in the Agoura Hills after sunset. The LED string lights inside the house were still glowing, but outside everything was dark—no exterior lights, no streetlamp near the gate. Only a few phone flashlights pierced the blackness in shaky beams, sweeping across the cypress trees lining the driveway like dark sentinels.
Jäher led the way, crossbow loaded in a low grip, safety off but finger far from the trigger. The wood of the weapon felt cold against his palm, the taut string vibrating slightly with each step. Behind him, Tyler whispered jokes to lighten the mood:
"If we run into a coyote, I'm asking for an autograph before I bolt. Deal?"
Cleo, right next to Rickie, rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
"Shut up, Tyler. If you attract something with that screechy voice of yours, I'm leaving you as bait."
The group moved slowly toward the gate—no farther, as promised. Soles crunched on the gravel driveway, a sharp, steady sound that felt way too loud in the nocturnal silence. The wind gusted in bursts, rustling the dead leaves carpeting the ground like a crackling blanket. Every now and then, a dead branch snapped somewhere in the trees with a sharp crack, and everyone froze for a second.
Rickie, walking close to Jäher, murmured:
"You hear anything?"
Jäher shook his head without slowing.
"Not yet."
But his body said otherwise: shoulders tense, eyes constantly scanning the shadows between the trunks, ears tuned to any sound that wasn't the wind or their footsteps.
They reached the gate. The cold metal felt damp under Tyler's fingers as he placed his hand on it to open it quietly. The latch squeaked, a high-pitched sound echoing in the night.
"We staying here?" Cleo asked, voice low.
Jäher nodded.
"We watch. We listen. And we head back in five minutes."
The group spread out a bit along the gate, some crouching to get a better view of the hills below. The city lights twinkled far off, tiny and reassuring. But here, in the darkness of the trees, everything felt closer, more alive.
Then it happened. Rickie descended the dark wooden stairs, each step creaking under his weight as if the house itself protested the noise from the party. The music throbbed downstairs, muffled by the thick walls, but up here on the upper floor, the air was cooler, almost still, thick with the smell of old waxed wood and accumulated dust. He tugged at the collar of his too-thin t-shirt—some basic thing he'd thrown on without thinking—and muttered to himself:
"This outfit barely covers anything… It's freezing up here."
He shivered, goosebumps rising along his bare arms. The orange LED string lights filtering up from the ground floor cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, giving the staircase an almost sinister feel.
At the bottom, he crossed the crowded hall. People were dancing, laughing, kissing in dark corners; the smell of warm beer, sweet perfume, and crushed chips hung everywhere. Rickie scanned the crowd for familiar faces. No Cleo. No Jäher. No Tyler either.
He approached a small group near the punch table—three guys in half-assed costumes (one as a skeleton with makeup already running, another as a pirate with a dangling eyepatch) and a girl dressed as a witch sipping her cup and laughing too loudly.
Rickie leaned in, raising his voice over the music.
"Hey! You seen Cleo, Jäher, and the others?"
The skeleton guy—a senior Rickie vaguely recognized from school—looked up, a mocking grin on his lips.
"Yeah, they went out like ten minutes ago. Jäher said something like 'nobody leaves,' but… they went anyway."
Rickie's stomach knotted. The chill from upstairs shot straight into his chest.
"What? They went out? Even after what he said?"
The pirate shrugged, already distracted by his phone.
"Yeah, dude. Tyler insisted, like 'just a quick walk.' Jäher grumbled something but ended up following with his psycho crossbow. They said they'd be back quick."
Rickie clenched his teeth, anger rising faster than fear.
"Shut up, man. It's not funny."
The skeleton chuckled, but it rang hollow.
"Relax, it's Halloween. They're just messing around. They'll be back in two minutes laughing." Rickie didn't reply. He spun around, shoving through the crowd without care. His heart pounded too hard—not from the music, but from that scream he'd heard earlier—and the image of Jäher with his loaded silver-bolt crossbow.
He reached the front door. Locked. The bolt was drawn, but the key was gone from the lock. Someone had taken it—or Jäher had.
Rickie placed his hand on the handle. The metal was ice-cold. On the other side, the wind whistled against the door, and a distant crack—branch or not?—echoed in the night.
He muttered to himself, voice shaking:
"Fuck… they really went out."
Behind him, the party carried on: laughter, bass, clinking cups. But for Rickie, the noise suddenly felt very far away.
He pounded his fist on the door—once, twice—as if someone might open it from outside.
No answer. Rickie stood frozen in front of the locked door, the icy handle under his sweaty palm. On the other side, the wind howled against the wood, and a distant crack—branch or not?—rang out in the night like a warning. The party raged on behind him: deafening music, hysterical laughter, clashing cups. But for Rickie, it all felt suddenly distant, almost unreal.
He muttered through gritted teeth:
"I've got no choice…"
He dropped to a crouch, knees hitting the cold floor, and began frantically searching around the door. His fingers swept the ground: sticky dust, crushed chip crumbs, a dried wad of gum that stuck under his nail. He slid his hand under the worn entry mat, along the baseboards, even behind the creaking coat rack he shoved aside.
A few nearby people noticed. A girl in a cat costume (plastic ears, fake-fur tail) snickered as she passed.
"Hey, dude, you lose your exit ticket?"
Another, already wasted, raised his cup laughing.
"He's looking for his dignity! Look at him, total freak mode!"
Rickie didn't even look up. His cheeks burned with shame and frustration, but he kept going: he practically crawled, feeling every inch of the floor, knocking over an abandoned cup that spilled sticky liquid onto his sneakers. The smell of cheap vodka and flat soda stung his nose.
Nothing. No key.
He half-straightened, breathless, hands trembling. He was about to give up—really, stand up, head back into the crowd, and pretend nothing happened—when a thought hit him like a punch.
If I were Jäher…
He closed his eyes for a second, picturing Jäher's calm face, that almost supernatural composure, the way he always spoke like he was three steps ahead.
…I'd put the key right in plain sight… but somewhere no one would think to look.
Rickie opened his eyes. His gaze slid to the far end of the hall—toward the old wall-mounted display case Jäher had opened earlier to grab the crossbow. It was still slightly ajar now, the glass door reflecting the faint orange flicker of the LED strings.
No one was looking that way. The crowd danced, drank, kissed; the case sat in a dim corner, almost forgotten amid the chaos.
Rickie sprang up, weaving through bodies across the room. His heart hammered so loud it drowned out the music in his ears. He reached the case, hand on the cold handle. The glass was dusty under his fingers, and a faint whiff of oiled metal and old leather escaped as he swung it wide open.
Inside: knives, rusty traps, neatly lined ammo boxes… and, placed right in plain view on the top shelf ledge—as if deliberately put there—a small iron keyring. The front door key gleamed faintly in the dim light, its ring engraved with a cross.
A chill ran up Rickie's spine—not from cold, but from a freezing certainty.
He put it there. Right where no one would rummage through the weapons.
He snatched the keyring with a trembling hand, the cold metal clacking against his palm. Behind him, someone shouted his name—Tyler? Cleo?—but he didn't listen.
He spun toward the front door, slid the key into the lock. The mechanism clicked once, twice.
The bolt gave way.
The door cracked open onto the black night. A rush of cold wind poured in, carrying the smell of damp pine, earth, and… something musky, animal, that made the hairs on his arms stand up.
Rickie hesitated for a second, key still clenched in his fist.
Then he shoved the door wide open.
From our side, the group had shattered into pieces—exactly what Jäher had sworn to prevent at all costs.
Cleo… maybe she was out there kissing some guy in this shitty night, or worse, getting devoured by her own regrets. Tyler? Gone. Dead, maybe already. No one knew. We'd scattered like dead leaves in the wind, and here I was, alone with an unbearable pain gnawing at my bones. At first I thought it was just the cold biting into them, or maybe that shitty tuna sandwich I'd scarfed down on the road—bland meat, rancid mayo, a metallic taste sticking to my palate. My stomach twisted in sneaky spasms, nothing unbearable. Just a familiar discomfort.
Then the pain changed color.
It turned hungry.
It started in the hollow of my palms, as if something alive had woken up in there and was scratching to get out. A violent cramp bent my fingers backward so hard I felt the tendons snap like over-strung guitar strings. I clenched my fists to crush the feeling. Mistake.
A hideous crack exploded in my hands—not a small dry snap, no: a wet tear, like breaking a green branch full of sap. I looked down.
My knuckles swelled before my eyes, the skin turning waxy white, then purple-black, stretched tight like a condom about to burst. And then—CRACK—the bone in my middle finger broke in two with the sound of rotten wood splitting. The fractured tip burst through the skin in a scarlet spray, an ivory-red shard tearing the flesh in a vertical grin. Blood pulsed out in jets, hot and sticky, splattering my face, flooding my open mouth in a silent scream. The taste was metallic, salty, almost sweet.
I finally screamed. A raw, animal sound that caught in my throat as my windpipe clenched on its own.
The other fingers followed like a chain reaction.
The index twisted 180°, the bone snapped diagonally, the skin split into gaping lips. A flap of flesh dangled, torn by the motion, exposing the yellow-white tendon still quivering. The next middle finger literally exploded: the middle phalanx shattered into sharp shards that pierced the palm from inside out, like rusty nails driven by an invisible force. Blood fountained, splashing my t-shirt, my thighs, the floor. Each drop landed with a wet plop on the wood.
My nails peeled off one by one, like eggshells being ripped away. They fell with soft thuds, leaving bloody craters where the nail beds throbbed, bright red and glistening. The skin on my hands tore in long ribbons, curling back like scorched paper, exposing red, glossy muscles that spasmed uncontrollably. Tendons hung loose, severed in places, swaying with my convulsions like thick, slimy worms.
I dropped to my knees. My forearms began to swell next. The skin cracked in irregular lines from elbow to wrist, as if I were being scalped from the inside. Streams of blackish blood ran down my arms, dripping onto the floor in thick pools that spread slowly. The smell rose: iron, raw meat, acidic bile. My own scent of death being born.
I tried to breathe. My ribcage locked. Something—an bone, a rib?—cracked under my skin, a wet, spongy sound like crushing a blood-soaked sponge. The pain radiated to my spine, a white fire that arched me backward.
My hands—what was left of them—were no longer hands. Shredded stumps, masses of open flesh, jagged broken bones pointing every which way, muscles writhing like severed worms. Blood flowed in steady streams, forming a warm pool under me against my knees. I'm crouched in the clearing, the full moon staring down at me like an accusing eye—cold, merciless, unblinking. My body's already on fire, a liquid heat throbbing under my skin as if I've been thrown into a giant shredder. Every breath is a struggle, every heartbeat sends lightning bolts of pain ripping through my veins.
Behind me, a voice cuts through the fog of agony.
"Hey… Riven?"
It's Rickie. His voice shakes a little—part worry, part relief.
"I've been looking for you everywhere, man…"
I whisper through gritted teeth, the words barely squeezing out as my jaw starts to lock:
"Don't come any closer."
But he keeps walking forward anyway, boots crunching on dead leaves and damp earth. He either didn't hear me or didn't understand. His voice gets louder, closer:
"What are you saying? You look like shit, come on, let's—"
That's when it accelerates.
My hands—fuck, my hands—explode from the inside. The knuckles crack like dry wood under a hammer, the phalange bones snapping clean with wet, violent pops. White-and-red bone tips burst through the skin like rusted blades, tearing flesh into dangling shreds soaked in blood. Blood sprays in hot arcs, splattering my thighs, the ground, and even Rickie's face as he steps too close. My fingers lengthen in brutal spasms, human nails shedding like empty shells while black claws punch through the fingertips in fresh geysers of blood. I feel every tendon ripping, every muscle reshaping into something stronger, something monstrous.
I scream—a raw howl that twists into a guttural growl. My back arches violently, spine cracking vertebra by vertebra, skin splitting open in a long, gaping gash from neck to lower back. Cold air bites exposed muscle, then coarse fur surges out, forcing the wound edges apart like screaming lips. Blood cascades down my spine, pooling dark beneath me.
Rickie finally freezes. His eyes widen as he sees the blood on his own face, on his hands. He stumbles back a step, voice cracking:
"Riven…? What the hell is happening to you?"
My ribcage heaves once—ribs snapping outward with sharp, spongy snaps. A jagged bone point pierces my side, dragging bloody foam and lung shreds. I cough, spitting a thick black clot that lands near his boots. My face… the jaw dislocates with a wet, grinding crunch, stretching into a muzzle. Teeth erupt into fangs, punching through gums in bursts of hot blood that pour down my tongue. My eyes burn, vision flooding red then shifting to glowing yellow—everything sharper, more primal.
I lift what's left of my head toward him. My voice isn't mine anymore: a low, animal rumble thick with threat.
Rickie whispers, terrified:
"Fuck… What the hell is this? …"
Rickie's Point of View
The forest was a black, sticky hell, branches slapping my face like living blades. I ran without thinking, lungs burning, legs heavy with mud and terror. Behind me, that growl… that fucking growl that wasn't human anymore. It was Riven. Or whatever was left of him. I didn't want to think about it, but I could hear him: heavy, methodical paws hitting the ground. He was following me. He was hunting me.
I tripped over a root sticking out like a trap. I went down hard, face-first into cold mud and rotten leaves. The taste of dirt and blood filled my mouth. I rolled onto my back, gasping, eyes wide open to the sky where the moon shone like a cruel spotlight. And right then, as I lifted my head to get up, an arrow whistled over me and buried itself in the tree just inches from the beast. The shaft was still vibrating when a second, then a third followed. They missed by a hair, but I could see the flashes of pain in Riven's yellow eyes every time the tips grazed his fur.
Jäher stepped out of the shadows, bow already drawn, face hard as stone. He was already nocking another arrow, movements fast, precise, no hesitation at all.
"Jäher! Stop!" I shouted, scrambling to my feet, hands up. "It's Riven, damn it! It's our friend!"
He didn't even look at me. Another arrow flew. This one hit Riven in the shoulder—not deep, but enough to tear away a strip of flesh. The beast roared—a sound that froze my blood, that shook the trees around us—and charged.
Jäher didn't have time to reload. Riven slammed into him full force. The impact was brutal, almost unreal: Jäher flew backward like a broken doll, crashed through a thorn bush with a dry crack, bounced off a thick trunk, and rolled several meters before stopping against a fallen tree. He spat a dark stream of blood that ran down his chin and soaked his collar. He was alive, but barely.
In the distance, the party music still throbbed—low bass, muffled laughter. It felt like it was coming from another world. No one knew what was happening here. No one was coming.
Jäher slowly raised his head. His eyes… they changed. The usual brown shifted into an electric blue, glowing, like something was lighting up inside him. It wasn't normal. It wasn't human. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a syringe filled with a faintly glowing silver liquid. His fingers didn't shake.
Riven—the beast—advanced one heavy step, growling. I screamed:
"Jäher, no! Fuck, stop! It's Riven!"
But Jäher rose in a movement too smooth, too fast. He no longer looked like our panicked friend. He looked… like something else. A hunter. A monster too.
The fight began. Slow. Almost beautiful in its horror.
Riven charged first, front paws sweeping through the air. Jäher dodged at the last second—the wind from the claws tore his collar. He rolled to the side, drove an arrow straight into the beast's thigh. Riven staggered, growled in pain. Jäher leaped onto his back, arms locked around the massive neck, squeezing with all his strength. Riven reared up, bucked violently. Jäher held on for a second, then was thrown against a tree. The trunk cracked. He fell, got back up immediately, blood streaming from his forehead, blue eyes burning brighter.
"You're gonna die tonight, you piece of shit," Jäher growled, voice rough and distorted.
He fired another arrow. Riven caught it mid-air between his fangs and crushed it. Then he charged again, slower this time, more menacing.
Jäher didn't move. He planted his feet in the mud, raised the arm holding the syringe, and waited.
Riven hit him full force. They rolled together in the mud—fur, limbs, blood. Riven's fangs snapped two centimeters from Jäher's throat. And right then, Jäher drove the syringe into the beast's neck—deep, brutal. The liquid spread.
Everything slowed down even more.
Riven's muscles locked, then went slack. He collapsed onto his side, panting. The fur slowly retracted, bones cracked in reverse, the muzzle shrank. He became Riven again. Naked, covered in mud and blood, unconscious.
I rushed to him, dropped to my knees.
"Riven! Riven, talk to me! Fuck, say something!"
Jäher got up slowly, wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were fading back to normal. He picked up an arrow stuck in a nearby tree, nocked it, and aimed at Riven's motionless chest.
I threw myself in front, arms spread wide.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Jäher didn't lower the bow.
"I'm killing this thing."
"This thing is my friend!"
"Your friend almost ripped your throat out thirty seconds ago."
"But he's my friend!"
Jäher clenched his teeth, the bow creaking under the strain.
"And fuck it. If we don't kill him now, he'll kill the others. You first, next time."
I shook my head, tears cutting tracks through the mud on my cheeks.
"Riven isn't like that. He fights it. He's always fought it. He's saved us more than once."
Silence. The party music kept going in the distance, indifferent.
Jäher finally lowered the bow—just a little. Not enough to feel safe.
"And fuck it… If he ever kills someone, it'll be on you. You'll be the only one responsible."
He released the string, put the arrow back in his quiver.
"Help me get him to the basement of the house. Quick. Before anyone sees us."
I looked at Riven—unconscious, vulnerable—then at Jäher.
"And how? He weighs a ton…"
Jäher sighed, exhausted.
"I don't know. But hurry up. The moon's still high. And I'm out of syringes."
We both bent down. I slid an arm under his shoulders, Jäher under his knees. We lifted him with a synchronized grunt. His blood dripped onto the leaves. We disappeared into the night, heading for the old house.
The forest closed behind us.
The moon kept watching. We moved through the darkness like two ghosts carrying a body. Riven's feet dragged slightly along the ground, leaving shallow trails in the mud and dead leaves. Every step snapped twigs under our boots, and every breath from Jäher came out in a rough, wheezing hiss. My arm under his shoulders was already numb, the dead weight of his body constantly reminding me that he was no longer conscious… but he was still breathing. Weakly. Unevenly.
The old house finally appeared at the end of the path: a gray wooden structure, broken windows, the roof sagging on one side as if it had grown tired of existing. The cellar door was at the back, half hidden by thorny bushes. Jäher forced it open with a shoulder slam without even slowing down. The rotten wood gave way with a dry crack. We went down the steep concrete steps, the air immediately becoming colder, damper, heavy with the smell of wet earth and mildew.
At the bottom, a bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. Jäher pulled the cord; the yellowish light flickered twice before turning on for good. The basement looked exactly how I imagined it: cracked concrete, rotting old furniture, a few rusty tools hanging on the wall, and a heavy chain with a large rusted padlock resting on a crooked table. In the center lay a thin, stained mattress placed directly on the floor.
We laid Riven down as gently as we could. His head rolled to the side, a streak of dried blood stuck to his temple.
I knelt beside him and placed a hand on his chest. He was breathing. Slowly. But he was breathing.
"He's alive," I whispered, more to reassure myself than to inform Jäher.
Jäher didn't answer right away. He closed the cellar door behind us, slipped the padlock in place, and turned the key twice. Then he leaned back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up. His bow lay beside him, the quiver almost empty. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, turned it on, and set it between us.
The cold blue light lit his face from below: a cut on his forehead, a split lip, his eyes now brown again… but exhausted. Deeply exhausted.
"Why did you do that?" I finally asked, my voice low. "Your eyes… that blue… what are you, exactly?"
He stayed silent for a long moment. Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and blood. Rickie stood still for a few seconds, his breathing still uneven. The music from the party echoed faintly through the house, but here near the staircase, the atmosphere had suddenly grown heavy.
He looked straight at Jäher.
His eyes carried a mix of curiosity and concern.
"Do you want to know what I am?" Rickie asked quietly.
Jäher slowly lifted his head to look at him.
"Go on… hurry up."
Rickie gave a small nervous smile, as if he wasn't sure whether to joke or say something serious.
"I'm a wolf."
He paused, watching Jäher's reaction.
"A tribrid, to be more precise."
Silence fell between them. Somewhere in the living room, someone burst out laughing.
Jäher didn't move. His gaze stayed calm… almost too calm.
Then he answered flatly,
"Interesting."
Rickie frowned slightly.
"Wait… that's it? You're not even going to ask what that means?"
Jäher shrugged.
"Not really."
Rickie crossed his arms, a little annoyed.
"And you? Are you going to tell me what you are?"
This time, Jäher allowed himself a brief smile. Not amused—more tired than anything.
"I'm a wolf too."
Rickie blinked.
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
Jäher paused, then added calmly,
"But I'm mostly a wolf hunter."
Rickie froze for a second.
Then he said, incredulous,
"Wait… what? Why would you hunt your own kind?"
Jäher's gaze hardened slightly.
He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, then replied in a sharper tone,
"Can you shut up for a minute?"
Rickie raised his hands in surrender.
"Hey, hey… alright. I was just asking."
Silence settled between them again.
The music in the living room switched to another song, the bass vibrating through the walls.
But between Rickie and Jäher, something had changed.
And neither of them knew yet if that revelation would bring them closer…
or put them against each other. They looked at Riven. His chest barely rose anymore. Purple bruises were beginning to appear along his ribs, where the arrows had grazed or pierced the skin. He looked so fragile, so human now.
"And that syringe? What is it?"
"A mixture. Wolfsbane, colloidal silver, and something my father used to call 'the restraint.' It blocks the transformation, forces the body back into human form… but it hurts. A lot. And it doesn't last forever. A few hours, maybe a whole night if they're lucky. After that…"
Jäher shrugged.
"After that, it depends on him."