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KENDALL

I wake up soaked in sweat, heart clawing at my ribs like it’s trying to rip its way out. The room’s dark except for the silver glow pouring in from the window. Hunter’s Moon, Adora called it earlier. She said it like it meant something. I didn’t ask.

I’m shaking. Not from cold. From that damn dream.

It’s slipping from my mind already, but I remember blood. A lot of it. Staining snow, dripping from teeth—my teeth? I dunno. Doesn’t matter. My body’s humming with something I can’t name, and I want to scream, or shift, or run. Maybe all three.

I kick off the blankets like they personally offended me and sit up. The sheets cling to my back, damp. I reach for my phone on the nightstand—2:03 a.m. Of course. Witching hour. Or whatever the hell the lore is this week.

I creep out of bed, floorboards cold as shit under my bare feet. The house is quiet, too quiet. The kind that presses into your chest, like it's daring you to make a sound.

It’s nights like this where I’m happy that we still live together. If we had had a sober father and a mother who could stand on her own two feet, Adora and I would have left and had our own place by now. Maybe. Maybe not. A part of me feels like we don’t know how to be alone… or want to be.

Adora’s door is cracked. There’s light seeping through. Not warm and yellow, but white-blue like she’s got her laptop open. I knock once, soft.

She doesn’t answer.

“Adora?” I whisper, nudging the door open.

She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, back straight, eyes locked on the moon through the window like she’s hypnotized. Her hair’s loose—rare—and her skin glows pale, almost translucent in the moonlight.

“Jesus, you tryna summon something?” I joke, trying to unstick my voice.

She flinches like I slapped her, then blinks and looks at me. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

I freeze. “Felt what?”

“The pull.” Her voice is low. Raspy. Like she’s smoked a pack of Camels and seen God. “The dream.”

My mouth goes dry. “What dream?”

She looks at me, eyes too wide. “You know.”

I don’t. Not fully. But I know enough to know I don’t want to have this conversation right now. “I had a nightmare, sure. I also had burrito night. You do the math.”

Adora just stares at me. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. “Where’s Dad?”

I exhale. “Out. Again. What else is new?”

She looks back at the moon. “He shouldn’t be out tonight.”

“Oh please, since when do we start giving a shit? He’s probably face-down in a bar off the highway or gambling his paycheck away. Let him rot. You know, I never understood why Dad wanted us to take Mom’s last name, but honestly, I’m glad he did. I don’t want to be attached to him anymore than I have to be.”

Adora’s mouth twitches like she’s gonna say something, then clamps shut. Her whole vibe is weird. Tense. Like she’s holding in a scream. I hate it.

“You’re being real cryptic tonight, sis.”

She finally looks at me again, eyes searching. “Kenny… if something happens?—”

“Don’t,” I cut in, holding up a hand. “Don’t start with the ‘if something happens’ speech. You’re not dying, and I’m not babysitting your succulents.”

She huffs a tiny laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “You’re not even a little curious? About what’s going on?”

“Adora,” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “I’m tired, I smell like fear sweat, and my head’s full of teeth and blood and snow. I am not in the mood for riddles. If you know something, just fucking say it.”

She hesitates. “I don’t know. Not really. But something’s coming.”

I stare at her for a long beat. “Jesus Christ, you sound like Dad.”

Her face hardens. “With that mouth, so do you,” she mutters but there’s no real venom there. Then a little more quietly, “Maybe he’s not as crazy as we think.”

“Okay, and now I’m leaving.” I back out the door, heart pounding faster than it should. Something about her words sticks to me like molasses—heavy, sticky, sweet with dread.

Back in my room, I yank the curtains shut. The moon’s glow lingers anyway, pressing against the thin fabric like it wants in. I grab my pillow and scream into it. Not loud. Just enough.

This isn’t normal. I’m not normal. I’ve known that since middle school. I move faster than most, see sharper, hear things I shouldn’t. But I always chalked it up to instincts. Hypervigilance. Trauma from growing up with a drunk for a dad.

Now… I’m not so sure.

I’m halfway back under the covers when my phone buzzes.

Stefan : You okay? Had a weird dream.

I stare at the screen. Okay, that’s weird.

Me: Woke up sweating. Full moon things. I’m fine.

Stefan : That’s a lie. I can tell. Want me to come over?

Me: No. Don’t.

I toss the phone onto the nightstand, face-down. The thought of seeing him right now feels… off. Like oil and water. I love him, I think. Or I used to. Or maybe I’m just clinging to normal.

Because normal is slipping through my fingers.

I can’t shake the feeling that this night and this moon is the beginning of something I’m not ready for.