In House 254 of Ngong's Flora Estate—a townhouse estate where each house stood alone—Edward had woken up just recently. At first, he thought he was in purgatory. His eyes blinked open to a blinding white glow. But relief washed over him once he realized it was just sunlight, pouring generously through his window, bathing the room in a magnificent orange hue.
His admiration, however, was short-lived. A fierce row erupted from downstairs.
Without thinking, he bolted from bed and dashed down the stairs.
Now he sat in the armchair his father had pointed to upon his entrance. For some reason, it didn't feel as comfortable as it had the night before.
An itching silence plagued the room. Edward found it hard to breathe. His throat felt dry, and the air scraped against it like sandpaper.
His father, Jarold, sat directly across from him—legs crossed, arms folded tightly across his chest, his back pressing into the sofa's plush cushion. His terrifying glare pierced straight into Edward's soul.
Edward squirmed in his seat, trying to find a position that could ease the pressure building in his chest.
His mother, Miridald, leaned quietly against the kitchen doorway, resting the right side of her body on the frame. Her arms were also crossed, and exhaustion was plastered all over her beautiful face. Arguing with her stubborn husband always drained her. She needed a breather.
Edward rubbed his sweaty palms against his pajama pants, shifting his gaze between his father and mother. Neither spoke. His father's glare never wavered. His mother stared blankly at the floor.
He felt like he was losing his mind—if he hadn't already. He knew retribution was coming. But why couldn't his father just get it over with?
Then it came. The silence shattered.
Jarold cleared his throat, and Edward squeezed his eyes shut.
"Oh boy. Here it comes," he murmured to himself.
Jarold's deep voice boomed across the room.
"So tell me, Edward... Why did you blatantly defy me? Watching the exact movie I warned you not to. And don't even get me started on finding you passed out in the woods, in the middle of the night, screaming like some maniac. Go on. I'm listening."
Something about his unusually calm tone sent not just chills—but ice-cold terror—down Edward's spine. A trap. He could sense it. But he couldn't place it.
Still, he knew one thing: he wasn't getting off the hook easily.
He took a deep breath and met his father's unflinching stare. Seeing the "go on" look in Jarold's eyes, he began explaining everything that had happened the previous night.
---
The Night Before
Edward tiptoed to his parents' bedroom door. Slowly, he turned the knob and peeked inside.
Voilà! They were asleep.
He closed the door silently and crept downstairs.
It was exactly 10:00 p.m.
"Man Slaughter"—the horror movie everyone at school was talking about—was finally airing.
There was no way he was missing it.
In the dim light of the house, he found his way easily to the living room. He turned on the TV and sank into his favorite armchair. The volume low, the anticipation high.
At first, he thought the movie was overhyped. But as it progressed, the blood in his veins turned cold, and goosebumps riddled his skin.
He had to finish it. If the school bullies ever found out he bailed out, they'd never let him hear the end of it. He'd be branded a scaredy-cat forever.
But when the next grotesque slaughter scene hit, he couldn't take it. Hugging his folded legs, he turned his gaze away from the screen and toward the window beside him.
With his cheek resting on his knees, he stared at the thin cotton curtains.
Then—a shadow darted past the window.
"Was that... a wolf?" he wondered.
"No way. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. It's just the horror movie messing with my head... right?"
Before he could calm his thoughts, a loud crack followed by a bang came from the backyard.
Fear flooded his body. But somehow—his legs started moving on their own.
Through the kitchen and to the back door he went. His hands joined the rebellion, unlocking the door with trembling fingers.
He cracked it open—just a hair's breadth—and peered into the backyard.
The wrecked door was obvious. And so was the baseball bat lying on the lawn.
That gave him courage.
He stepped out.
The wind howled as the full moon shone overhead. Gripping the bat, Edward marched—no, drifted—through the mangled backyard door into the woods, driven by a strange, stubborn curiosity.
After several minutes of walking, he gave up.
Nothing. Not even a shadow.
He dropped his guard. The bat hung lazily from his hand.
"Wolf? What was I thinking?" he chuckled to himself.
"I better get inside before this cold turns me to ice. Not that father would care." His voice carried a melancholic edge.
Then—he stopped.
It wasn't the broken door that froze him.
Something was following him.
Heart hammering, he turned slowly... hoping, praying for a friendly face.
But the world stopped when he saw it.
An enormous, vicious-looking grey wolf.
It stood like a beast ready to pounce, snarling with blood-stained canines and red eyes that screamed murder.
His bat fell with a dull thud.
He screamed—a high-pitched, terrified shriek.
Then, everything went dark.
---
Back in the living room, Edward finished his tale.
But questions still danced in his mind. How had his father found him? Safe, untouched? Had he seen the wolf? If so, why was he pretending otherwise?
He didn't have time to ask.
Jarold leaned forward.
"You know," he began coldly, "in all that gibberish, nothing makes sense. A shadow? A wolf? A mangled door? Is that the best you could come up with? You couldn't even craft a better lie after all that time faking sleep?"
"But it's all true, Fa—"
TAP!
Jarold's palm met Edward's face.
Hard.
The blow sent Edward flying over the armrest. Time slowed. His head spun. He landed face-first on the carpet, then sat up, dazed, rubbing his cheek as tears streaked down his face.
"Miridald, do you see now why I'm strict with this... miserable excuse for a son?" Jarold barked. "Do you? Huh? DO YOU?"
Miridald didn't respond. She stood still, guarding the kitchen entrance, ready to intervene if he raised his hand again.
Jarold trembled with fury.
"What did I even expect? Coherence? Honesty? Pathetic. Just like him." He shot a venomous look at Edward, still on the floor.
"A bad tree always yields bad fruit." With that, he stormed out, slamming the door.
Edward glanced at his mom, then bolted to his room, door slamming behind him.
He rushed to his window seat, hugged his knees, and stared outside—eyes swollen, soul shaken.
The Saturday morning felt cold. The birds that had chirped earlier were gone. The forest and neighborhood were wrapped in eerie silence.
Then—he saw something.
Something that didn't make sense.
His heart skipped.
The backyard door... was intact.
Perfect.
"No... no, it can't be..." he muttered, clutching his hair, trying to stop himself from spiraling.
He blinked.
Again.
Again.
The door was fine.
His father was right.
None of it made sense.
---
Elsewhere…
In a far-off region, a man—a werewolf—stood inside his alpha's office.
The alpha faced the window, a cigarette lazily resting between his fingers. He swung slowly in his chair, puffing clouds into the air.
After a moment of silence, he spoke.
"So... did you carry out your mission?"
The man answered instantly, voice trembling.
"Yes, sire. I did."
A devilish grin crept onto the alpha's face.
"Good," he said, blowing out smoke.
"Now the game has just begun."