The day had passed in a blur of lectures, coffee cups, and scribbled notes, but Alden's words haunted Damian like a pulse he couldn't silence. Watch your back.

The threat echoed through him as he pushed open the door of his house that evening. Normally, the familiar creak of the hinges and the faint smell of cedar might have been comforting. Tonight, they weren't. Tonight, the air inside was heavy, suffocating, charged with something unseen.

Damian froze in the entryway. He could feel his father's presence before he even saw him. Elias Blackthorn, sheriff of Blackwater Hollow, carried authority like a storm cloud. Silent, brooding, suffocating.

Damian set his bag on the couch, forcing his movements to look casual, though his chest felt tight. His gaze drifted toward the office, the heart of the house, where Elias sat hunched over his desk. The lamplight painted deep grooves into his face, highlighting the shadow of a man who had built his identity on control.

"Late," Elias murmured, not looking up at first. His voice was low, even, but laced with an edge sharp enough to cut. "Or avoiding me?"

Damian swallowed. "Class ran long."

Elias finally lifted his head, studying him with those unflinching dark eyes. The sheriff's gaze was a force in itself, as if he could strip away every excuse and find the truth buried underneath. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together, and let the silence drag until it became unbearable.

"I've been thinking," Elias said at last. His tone was calm, deliberate, almost reasonable. That was how he worked—never a shout, never a loss of control, but words chosen like chess moves. "It's not too late. You're smart. Driven. You could transfer back into law with little trouble. You'd do well there. Better than chasing distractions."

Damian's jaw tightened. Distractions. His father said it like medicine was a hobby, an indulgence, not the fire that burned in his chest every time he opened a textbook or studied an artery's branching.

"You think I don't see what this is doing to you?" Elias went on smoothly. "Long hours, pressure. Medicine eats people alive. You're not built for that, Damian. You're built for this town. For its people. For the badge."

Damian clenched his fists at his sides. Alden's voice slithered through his mind: You'd be wise to watch your back. He was already raw, already stretched thin. He didn't want to fight tonight—but his father's words pressed harder, suffocating him like a noose.

"You could still honor your family," Elias pressed, his tone quiet but firm, the subtlety of manipulation sharpened over years of being sheriff. "The Blackthorn name has weight here. People trust it. Your great-grandfather built this town's safety with his own blood and grit. Do you really want to throw all that away? For what? A dream?"

Damian's chest burned. He tried to breathe evenly, but the words cut deeper than they should. Every syllable felt like a verdict being passed on him.

He snapped.

"I'm not throwing anything away!" Damian's voice cracked like lightning, shattering the silence. His hands trembled, nails digging into his palms. "I'm trying to build something of my own! Don't you get it? I'm not you. I don't want to be you."

Elias didn't flinch. He only leaned back in his chair, calm as ever, his expression unreadable. "This isn't about me. It's about you, Damian. And the truth is—you're not ready to walk this path. Medicine doesn't need you. But this town? This family? We do."

The softness in his tone made it worse, not better.

Damian's voice broke with frustration. "I don't care about the town. I don't care about your legacy. I want to be a surgeon. I want to be like Mom. And nothing you say is going to change that."

For a heartbeat, something flickered in Elias's eyes. Not anger—disappointment, sharp as a blade.

"As long as you live under this roof," he said at last, his voice soft and final, "you'll live by my rules."

Damian couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He felt the walls closing in on him, his father's gaze pressing down like a weight too heavy to bear.

Something inside him snapped. Without another word, he spun on his heel, storming out of the office. The slam of the front door rattled the windows, echoing through the house like a gunshot.

The night air hit him like a slap, cold and sharp in his lungs. He walked fast, then faster, fury propelling him down familiar streets. Blackwater Hollow loomed around him—quiet houses, dark windows, every corner feeling like an eye watching him. A cage.

His feet carried him, almost blindly, to the forest's edge.

The woods loomed, black and endless, branches clawing at the night sky. He hesitated only for a breath, then stepped forward, needing the cover of the trees, needing distance from everything—his father, his house, his name.

But the forest was not empty.

The air shifted. Thickened.

Damian froze, every nerve screaming. Something moved.

He turned, scanning the trees. Nothing. Only darkness, shadows within shadows. But then—

Eyes.

Two burning points of red glowed in the distance, suspended in the dark. They weren't like fire. They were like hunger.

His chest tightened. His legs locked. Run, his brain screamed, but his body refused.

The eyes moved. Closer. Too fast.

A blur. A rush of air.

Agony.

Fangs sank into his side, tearing flesh, ripping muscle. White-hot pain seared through his nerves, exploding outward like fire. His cry broke in his throat, swallowed by the forest. The taste of iron filled his mouth.

He fell, knees sinking into the cold mud.

The world spun. His heartbeat thundered, every pulse a drumbeat too loud, too fast.

Then came the fire.

His bones burned from the inside, then cracked. Snapped. Reformed. He convulsed, body arching, back bowing under the force of it. Fingers curled, nails blackening into claws. His jaw locked so tight his teeth threatened to shatter.

Every nerve screamed. His body was breaking and remaking.

He clawed at the earth, choking on his own breath. The world bled in and out of focus, colors sharpening too vividly, the green of moss, the silver of moonlight, the crimson of blood soaking his shirt.

A low growl rumbled in his throat. Not human. Not his.

The red eyes lingered, watching. Not like predator to prey, but like master to claim. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they vanished into the trees, leaving only the echo of something monstrous.

Damian collapsed, his body trembling, soaked in blood and sweat, half-formed claws digging into the dirt.

The forest was silent, except for his ragged gasps.

When consciousness blurred back, he was in his bed, sheets damp with sweat, clothes sticky with dried blood. His skin still burned where the bite had marked him. His body felt alien—bones too sharp, senses too sharp. Every creak of the house, every gust of wind outside, pressed into his skull like a storm.

And through the haze, one thought rose above the rest:

Dad is going to kill me.