By thirteen, Adam Milligan had fought monsters, stitched his own arm twice, and maintained a B+ average in middle school.
Balancing the three worlds—school, hunting, and normality—was like juggling knives. Blindfolded. On fire.
"Mr. Milligan, are you with us?"
Adam blinked, his attention snapping back to Mrs. Delaney's algebra class. Twenty-five pairs of eyes turned toward him, his classmates grateful for any distraction from quadratic equations.
"Sorry," he mumbled, straightening in his seat. "Could you repeat the question?"
Mrs. Delaney's lips thinned with disapproval. "I asked you to solve for x in the equation on the board."
Adam glanced up at the whiteboard, his tired brain taking a moment to process the numbers and variables. Three hours of sleep after a night tracking a shapeshifter through the industrial district wasn't ideal preparation for 8 AM math.
"Uh, x equals seven," he said after a quick mental calculation.
Mrs. Delaney's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's correct. Though I'd appreciate seeing your work next time."
As she returned to the lesson, Tommy Wilson leaned over from the next desk. "Dude, you okay? You've got that thousand-yard stare again."
Adam forced a smile. "Just tired. Video games."
The lie came easily now. Video games. Extra studying. Helping mom with chores. All perfectly normal excuses for the dark circles under his eyes, the occasional unexplained absences, the bandage peeking out from under his sleeve.
None of his classmates would guess he'd spent last night salting and burning the remains of a dead drifter who'd been killing cats and leaving them arranged in specific patterns around town—signs of a budding necromancer, according to Roy.
He'd been training with Roy for a year now. The old hunter had stopped calling him "kid" and started calling him "partner"—usually with sarcasm, but sometimes with respect. Adam had gone on a handful of small hunts: a poltergeist near Stillwater, a black dog on a farm outside Brainerd, a minor demon infestation in Duluth that Roy handled while Adam kept the salt lines solid.
He wasn't green anymore. Not veteran either. Something in between.
But that didn't make the juggling easier.
Weekdays were school, study, and pretending he didn't know how to make holy water. Evenings were training or research. Weekends were weapons drills, lore deep-dives, or short field runs with Roy—depending on what smelled weird in the news that week.
And somehow, in between it all, Professor Eleanor Reed still expected perfectly written essays and critical folklore analysis.
"This is disappointing, Adam," she said, sliding his latest paper across her desk. Red ink marked up the margins—not with corrections, but with questions. You referenced this binding ritual in your last paper. Why the inconsistency? This contradicts established Babylonian mythology—is this from another source?
"Sorry," Adam said, the word worn smooth from overuse. "I've been busy."
"So I see." Reed studied him over her glasses, eyes sharp. "Your mother mentioned you've been spending time a friend of your father. Roy, was it?"
Adam tensed. "Mom told you about Roy?"
"We ran into each other at the hospital when I had my physical. She seemed... concerned about how much time you spend with him."
"Roy is a friend of my father,he is teaching me... survival skills. Camping stuff." Adam shifted in his seat. "It's not a big deal."
This is the lie he told.
"Camping stuff," Reed repeated, clearly skeptical. "And that explains why your analysis of the supernatural suddenly includes details that aren't in any of our reference texts?"
Adam looked away. "I did some independent research."
"Clearly." Reed leaned forward. "Adam, when we started these sessions three years ago, you were a curious ten-year-old with an unusual interest in mythology. Now you're writing like... like someone with field experience."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do." Reed tapped his paper. "This isn't academic analysis anymore. This is practical application. You're writing about these myths like they're instruction manuals."
Adam said nothing, heart hammering in his chest.
Reed sighed, removing her glasses. "I'm worried about you. Your mother is worried about you. Whatever you're involved in—"
"I'm fine," Adam cut her off, standing abruptly. "I appreciate your concern, Professor, but I'm just a kid who likes weird stories. Nothing more."
Reed watched him gather his books, her expression unreadable. "The paper is due revised by next week," she said finally. "Try to remember you're writing for academia, not a hunter's handbook."
Adam froze for a split second before nodding and hurrying out.
She was starting to get suspicious.
Adam tried to keep up appearances. He still attended their weekly study sessions, acted curious about "myths" like he didn't already have half of them categorized in his hunter's journal.
But Reed was too sharp.
She noticed the new scars. The exhaustion. The subtle shift from interested student to something else.
"You're different," she remarked one afternoon as they walked across campus after their session. "More... guarded."
Adam shrugged. "Just growing up, I guess."
"No," Reed shook her head. "It's more than that. You move differently. You're constantly scanning your surroundings. You flinch at sudden noises." She stopped walking, turning to face him. "These aren't the behaviors of a typical thirteen-year-old."
"Maybe I'm not typical," Adam replied, trying for a casual tone.
"That much is obvious." Reed's voice softened. "Adam, if you're in some kind of trouble—"
"I'm not." He forced a smile. "Really. Everything's fine."
But it wasn't fine, and they both knew it.
And then he missed two meetings in a row. Gave a bad excuse the third time. Showed up limping the fourth.
"Basketball injury," he claimed when Reed pointed out his uneven gait.
"You don't play basketball," she countered.
"Started recently."
Reed's patience was visibly wearing thin. "Adam, I've known you for three years. In that time, you've never once mentioned an interest in team sports. Now suddenly you're playing basketball so intensely you've injured yourself?"
Adam could feel his carefully constructed world starting to crack. The lies were piling up, contradicting each other, becoming harder to maintain.
Roy had warned him about this. "Compartmentalizing only works if the compartments stay separate," he'd said. "Once they start leaking into each other, the whole system fails."
And now the leak had started.
So she followed him.
It was a Tuesday evening when she trailed Adam out to an abandoned lumber yard on the edge of town. She kept her distance, phone clutched tightly in her coat pocket, ready to call someone—though she wasn't sure who. The cops? Animal control? The CDC?
Adam had told his mom he was studying at the library. Instead, he'd slipped out the back exit and headed straight for the industrial area, moving with purpose, checking over his shoulder occasionally but never spotting Reed in her sensible sedan, keeping three cars between them.
At the lumber yard, Roy was already waiting, leaning against his truck, a duffel bag at his feet. Even from a distance, Reed could see it wasn't filled with camping gear.
What she saw defied all explanation.
In the fading light, Adam and the grizzled man—Roy—stood facing down something inhuman. Pale skin, stretched limbs, glowing eyes. It hissed as it crept forward, only to be blasted back by a jar of salt and oil that exploded in a flash of fire at Adam's feet.
Reed froze behind a stack of pallets, wide-eyed. Adam moved with precision, knife drawn, calm in the chaos. Roy took a shot. The creature howled. Disintegrated.
Ash floated through the air.
And then Adam turned—and saw her.
Their eyes locked across the yard. Adam's face drained of color.
"Shit," Roy muttered, following Adam's gaze. "We've got company."
Reed stepped out from her hiding place, legs trembling but head high. "Adam Milligan," she called, her voice surprisingly steady, "you have some explaining to do."
The confrontation was fast and awkward.
"What the hell was that?" Reed demanded, dragging Adam behind the yard's chain-link fence, out of sight.
Adam's voice was quiet. "You shouldn't be here."
"I followed you. Because you were lying to me. And now I know why."
Roy strolled over, wiping monster goop off his jacket with no real urgency. "Friend of yours?"
"Professor Eleanor Reed," Adam muttered. "Folklore scholar. Probably furious."
Reed folded her arms. "So you are this Roy i have been hearing"
"Roy Keller. Occasional babysitter. Full-time monster hunter."
Roy held out a hand. Reed didn't shake it.
She turned back to Adam, eyes fierce. "You're thirteen. What the hell are you doing fighting... whatever that was?"
"Revenant," Roy supplied helpfully. "Nasty bastards. This one was eating stray dogs before moving on to the homeless population."
"Not helping, Roy," Adam hissed.
Reed ignored them both, her academic mind clearly racing to process what she'd witnessed. "A revenant? As in a returned corpse? Animated by residual consciousness?"
Roy blinked, surprised. "Well... yeah. Exactly that."
"Fascinating," Reed murmured, then seemed to remember her anger. "And completely beside the point! Adam, answer my question."
Adam didn't answer right away. "Protecting people. Learning. Preparing."
Roy shrugged. "He's not wrong."
Reed glared at him. "And you thought it was a good idea to train a child to stab things in the woods?"
Roy lit a cigarette. "He was doing it before I met him. I just made sure he didn't die doing it."
Adam shot Roy a grateful look. At least he hadn't told Reed about the rugaru incident.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Reed demanded. "That a twelve-year-old was hunting monsters alone before you came along?"
"I was almost thirteen," Adam muttered.
"Not helping your case," Reed snapped.
The silence stretched.
Then Reed said, quieter, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Adam looked away. "Because once you know… you can't un-know."
Reed turned her gaze to the scorched ground where the creature had died. She was breathing hard, eyes tracking the ash like it might move again.
"I've spent my life studying stories," she murmured. "And now I find out they were real all along?"
"They're not just real," Adam said. "They're dangerous. And they're getting worse."
"Worse how?" Reed asked, her academic curiosity visibly battling with her shock.
"More numerous," Roy answered, grinding out his cigarette. "More aggressive. Moving into populated areas where they used to avoid humans."
"Something's stirring them up," Adam added. "Pushing them out of their usual territories."
Reed seemed to be processing this, her initial panic giving way to analytical thinking. "And you two are, what? Some kind of monster exterminators?"
"Hunters," Roy corrected. "We're hunters."
"You're a grown man and a thirteen-year-old boy."
"Age doesn't matter much to a revenant," Roy pointed out. "Dead is dead."
Reed pressed her fingers to her temples. "This is insane. I should be calling the police, or child services, or—"
"And tell them what?" Adam interrupted. "That you saw a walking corpse get taken down by a kid and a drifter? They'll have you committed."
"He's right," Roy added. "This isn't something the authorities can handle. Most don't even believe."
"So what, then?" Reed demanded. "I just forget what I saw? Go back to teaching folklore as if I don't know it's all real?"
Adam shook his head. "You can't forget. That's what I'm saying. Once you know, everything changes."
She didn't answer.
Not for a long time.
Reed paced back and forth along the fence line, her breath fogging in the cool evening air. Adam could almost see her mind working—categorizing information, comparing what she'd witnessed to the legends she'd studied her whole career, reconciling academic theory with violent reality.
Finally, she stopped. Her expression had settled into something determined.
"I need to see your research," she said firmly.
Adam and Roy exchanged glances.
"My research?" Adam asked.
"Yes. Your notes, your sources, whatever you've compiled on these... creatures. If what you're saying is true, then my entire field of study has been dancing around reality without acknowledging it." She straightened her shoulders. "I want to know what's real and what isn't."
Roy laughed, a short, surprised sound. "Lady, most people run screaming when they find out monsters exist. You want to catalog them?"
"I'm a scholar," Reed replied stiffly. "Knowledge is how we combat fear. And apparently, it's how we combat monsters too."
Then: "What do you need from me?"
Adam blinked. "What?"
Reed stepped forward, steady now. "If you're doing this—with or without me—then I'm in. But I expect full transparency. No more lies."
Roy raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're ready for that kind of crazy?"
"I'm a tenured professor," she said flatly. "I've seen worse."
Adam couldn't help it—he smiled.
Later that night, in Reed's campus office, Adam laid out his journal. The pages were filled with detailed notes, sketches, and observations—far beyond what any thirteen-year-old should know about death and monsters.
"This is... extensive," Reed murmured, carefully turning the pages. "Some of this correlates with obscure texts I've only seen in university archives. How did you—"
"It's complicated," Adam interrupted. "But everything in there is accurate. Or as accurate as I can make it."
Reed paused at a page labeled "Winchester Family History."
"Winchester? As in the rifle?"
Adam tensed. "As in my father's family. John Winchester."
"Your father is a hunter too?"
"Yeah." Adam hesitated. "But he doesn't know I'm involved. And I'd like to keep it that way."
Reed then ask " Wait, aren't you his father friend? Adam?"
"In a way he is my father friend, fellow hunter you know...is just that he doesnt know who my father was" Adam said.
Reed studied him. "Does your mother know what you're doing?"
"No. And she can't find out."
"Adam—"
"She'd be in danger," he cut her off. "Knowledge is protection in some ways, but it's also a target. The less she knows, the safer she is."
Reed didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. Instead, she turned back to the journal, lingering on a page about a creature called a rugaru.
"This is your first encounter, isn't it? The one that brought you into this world?"
Adam nodded, surprised by her insight. "How did you know?"
"The entry is more detailed, more emotional." She tapped a paragraph where the handwriting was less steady. "This wasn't research. This was experience."
Adam looked away. "It nearly killed me. Roy saved my life."
"And now you hunt together." Reed closed the journal, her expression solemn. "Adam, I can't in good conscience encourage a thirteen-year-old to fight monsters. But I also can't pretend I don't see what's happening." She sighed. "So here's my proposal: I'll help with research, provide access to rare texts, maybe even alibis when needed. But I want regular check-ins, and I want veto power if I think something is too dangerous."
"That's not how hunting works," Adam protested. "Sometimes you don't have time to check in. Sometimes danger isn't optional."
"Then Roy calls me," Reed insisted. "Someone adult needs to know where you are and what you're facing. That's non-negotiable."
Adam glanced at Roy, who had been silently observing from the corner.
"She's not wrong," the older hunter admitted. "Having backup—even just someone who knows where to send help—isn't a bad idea."
Adam considered this, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But you have to promise not to try to stop me. This isn't a hobby I can drop. It's..." He struggled to find the words. "It's something I have to do."
Reed studied him, seeing beyond the teenage exterior to something older, harder. "Because of what happened with the rugaru?"
"Because of what's coming," Adam said quietly.
Reed and Roy both looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean, 'what's coming'?" Roy asked.
Adam had said too much. He backtracked quickly. "Just... there's always another monster, right? Always something else to hunt."
Roy's eyes narrowed, but he didn't press the issue.
Reed seemed to sense the tension. "Well, whatever comes, you now have an expert in folklore on your side." She held out her hand. "Partners?"
Adam took it, relief washing through him. "Partners."
As they shook hands, Adam felt something shift—another piece falling into place in the strange puzzle his life had become.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe changing the story meant changing the players too.
"So," Reed said, settling behind her desk with a notepad, "tell me more about revenants. The texts describe them as being bound to specific locations, but the one tonight seemed quite mobile."
Adam glanced at Roy, who nodded his approval.
"Well," Adam began, slipping easily into the role of teacher rather than student, "traditional lore gets some things right, but practical experience shows..."
And for the first time in months, Adam felt the weight on his shoulders lighten just a little. He wasn't alone anymore—not completely. The circles of his life were overlapping, and for once, it didn't feel like his world was collapsing.
It felt like it was expanding.