Blake woke up face-down in the dirt, the scent of blood and pine needles thick in his nostrils. The air was cool, damp with morning dew. His hoodie was shredded along the side, clinging to a mess of dried blood. His breathing was shallow but steady.
He pushed himself up, groaning. Every movement screamed, but he was alive. Somehow. He should've been dead.
The creature—the eyes, the teeth—he remembered it in flashes. The bite. The pressure. The darkness.
He staggered out of the preserve, boots dragging through the underbrush, hoodie torn, face bruised. By the time he made it home, the sun was just creeping up. His dad glanced at him from the kitchen doorway, beer already in hand.
"Thought you finally got yourself killed," he muttered.
Blake didn't answer. He just went to the bathroom, stripped off the hoodie, and stared at the bite. Except... there was barely a wound. Just faint pink scars.
It had almost completely healed.
---
The next day at school, everything felt off.
The hallway was too loud. The lights were too bright. The cafeteria smelled like ten different kinds of sweat and sugar and burnt meat all at once. He rubbed his temples, trying to focus.
Then it got worse.
He heard it.
A heartbeat.
Not his. Someone else's. Then another. And another. It was like the sound of drums coming from inside his ears. Every person he passed carried their own rhythm, and his brain refused to filter them out.
Blake clenched his fists. He leaned against a locker, eyes shut. He couldn't breathe.
"Hey, man—you good?"
Blake turned—and saw Scott McCall standing there, awkward as always, backpack half-zipped. The asthmatic kid who was on the lacrosse team but never actually played. Always on the bench, always wheezing.
Scott reached out, friendly. Just trying to help.
Blake's instincts flared.
He shoved him.
Scott flew backward, crashing into a row of lockers hard enough that a few people gasped. His inhaler hit the floor with a rattle.
Blake froze.
"What the hell?!" Scott yelled.
Blake didn't answer. He ran. Locked himself in the bathroom.
He looked in the mirror.
His eyes weren't just bloodshot.
They were glowing gold.
---
Blake didn't go to school the next day. Or the next. He stayed in his room. Curtains drawn. Sweating through nightmares, waking with clenched teeth and trembling hands. His dad didn't ask questions.
A week passed. By then, school was over. Freshmen year ended quietly, without Blake. He didn't care.
But he couldn't stop thinking about the preserve.
So he went back.
Late afternoon, hoodie pulled over his head, he traced his steps from that night. The shadows seemed longer now. Deeper. The air thicker.
He found the spot.
Leaves disturbed. Dirt kicked up. And near the base of a tree—deep claw marks.
Three long gouges, slashed through the bark like it was paper.
Blake stared at them, heart pounding.
That's when he heard footsteps behind him.
Not fast. Not loud. Measured. Calm.
He turned.
It was the substitute teacher. From English class.
Only... it wasn't.
He stood taller now. Straighter. The calm smile was gone, replaced with something colder. Something predatory. And his eyes—
**Glowed red.**
Blake stepped back instinctively. The man didn't follow.
"You've changed," the man said softly, voice deeper than before.
Blake's heart raced. "What are you?"
The man tilted his head. "You feel it, don't you? The hunger. The strength. The way your body doesn't break like it used to. That wasn't an infection. That was a gift."
Blake's throat tightened. "No. That thing... it bit me. I'm sick. I've been hearing things, feeling things—I'm not... normal."
The man stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to wrap around him. "You're not sick, Blake. You're reborn. You're a werewolf. One of us. And I'm the one who gave you that gift."
Blake stumbled back a step. "What—? No. No, that's insane. Werewolves aren't real."
The man smiled again, but this time it was teeth—sharp, white, too perfect. "They are. And you're living proof."
Blake's chest tightened. "Who... who are you?"
"Call me Mr. Thorne," the man said, voice smooth as glass. "Your teacher. Your Alpha. And you... you're mine now."
"Screw that," Blake snapped. "I'm not part of your anything."
Mr. Thorne's voice dropped, low and guttural. "You don't get to run from what you are. The full moon will come again. And when it does—you'll either be with me, or you'll tear this town apart trying to run from yourself."
The air felt like it dropped ten degrees. Blake's heart pounded in his ears. He turned and ran, lungs burning, legs pumping harder than they ever had.
He didn't look back.
But he knew those red eyes were still watching.