Iris sat motionless on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing.
She wasn't physically restrained, yet her thoughts held her tighter than any chain. They looped endlessly—faces twisted in rage, desperate screams, the sickening tear of claws through flesh. Her hands clenched into fists until her nails bit into her palms, as if pain could silence the memories.
What am I gonna do?
The question echoed louder than the rest. Monster. Weapon. Mistake. The wolf inside her stirred restlessly, still foreign and hungry.
A soft knock broke the suffocating quiet.
"Miss Iris?"
She didn't answer right away.
"There are two young men in the hallway," the servant continued, voice carefully neutral. "They claim to be your friends. Mark and Simon."
Everything inside her stilled.
Before her mind could catch up, her body was already moving—down the hallway, out the door, toward the grand staircase. She stopped midway down the steps, heart hammering.
They were there.
Standing in the foyer like nothing in the world had changed. Like her entire reality hadn't fractured the night she first shifted.
Mark leaned casually against the banister, relaxed and smiling that easy, crooked grin of his. Simon stood beside him with arms crossed, observing everything with his usual half-amused, half-exasperated expression.
The weight crashed back into her chest all at once.
I killed people.
Her throat tightened. Her feet refused to move another step. She dropped her gaze to the polished floor, unable to meet their eyes.
What if they know? What if they see the blood on my hands? What if they look at me and see a monster—
"Hey, Iris!"
Mark's voice cut through the spiral—bright, normal, impossibly warm. She looked up. He waved lightly, still smiling.
"What are you doing up there? Come down already."
No fear. No hesitation. No judgment. Just Mark.
Her vision blurred. Her throat burned. She had braced herself for disgust, for distance, for the moment they realized what she had become. But that simple, familiar smile shattered every defense she'd built.
She moved.
Then she ran.
Down the remaining stairs and straight into them. Mark caught her without hesitation, steady and grounding, his arms wrapping around her in a firm but gentle hug. Not dramatic. Just… there.
"Hey… it's okay," he murmured, voice softer now. "That's the curse of being a wolf. The first shift always takes a piece of you. But you're still you."
Simon snorted from the side, arms still crossed. "Yeah, and let's be honest—" He shrugged, tone light but sincere. "They had it coming. Who even tries to summon a literal demon in the middle of a territory dispute? That's just asking for natural selection to do its job."
A small laugh escaped Mark. Then Iris. It wasn't loud or perfect, but it was real—the first genuine sound she'd made since that night. For the first time since her claws had torn through flesh, she could breathe again.
She pulled back slightly, still holding onto Mark's shoulders, and her eyes caught on the hem of his shirt where it had lifted near his side. The skin beneath was angry and raw, not healing as it should.
"Mark…" Concern flooded her face, pushing everything else aside. "Your injuries… they're still not healed."
Mark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing away. "Yeah… it seems like—"
"—damage caused by magic doesn't heal so easily."
The sentence finished itself, Voice Came From Behind, calm, cold
Iris froze.
Mark's easy smile vanished instantly. Simon turned sharply.
Standing just a few steps behind them—unnoticed until that moment—was Luke Ross. Silent. Watching. His presence filled the foyer like winter air slipping through an open door.
Mark felt it before he saw him.
That pressure—heavy, quiet, and wrong—settled over the foyer like an unseen storm front. Every instinct screamed at him. He moved without thinking, chair scraping back across the floor as he dropped into a low guard, body coiled and ready.
Simon blinked. "—Mark?"
But Mark wasn't listening. His eyes locked past Iris to the man standing a few steps behind them.
Luke.
For a brief moment, silence swallowed the room.
Then Luke let out a faint breath—almost a laugh. Not mocking. Just faintly amused.
"Hey, kid." He tilted his head slightly. "How did you get those injuries?"
Mark didn't relax. Didn't blink. "Who are you?" A beat. "And why should I tell you anything?"
Luke's smile thinned, not offended, merely noting. "Kids these days…" A quiet exhale. "No sense of respect."
His eyes sharpened.
"You're a wolf." A deliberate pause. "And wolves understand one thing better than anything else."
He took a single step forward—slow, controlled.
"Dominance."
The air tightened.
"So go on." A slight gesture. "Take your shot."
That was all Mark needed.
He exploded forward—no hesitation, no second thought. Step, pivot, spin—a clean, fast flying kick aimed straight at Luke's face.
Or that was the plan.
Luke's hand moved. Not fast. Not flashy. Just precise. He caught Mark's ankle mid-air as if the kick had been thrown in slow motion.
Everything stopped.
Mark's eyes widened in genuine shock.
Luke looked at him—not impressed, simply measuring. Then he threw him. Not violently. Not angrily. Just… effortlessly.
Mark's body slammed into the far wall with a resounding crack. Before he could hit the ground, instinct took over again. Three knives flashed from hidden sheaths—clean throws, perfect angles, deadly precision.
Luke didn't even shift his feet. His hands moved once, twice, three times. Each blade stopped dead, caught between his fingers as though they carried no momentum at all.
A faint pause.
"Oh…" Luke glanced at the knives in his hands. "You're a sneaky one." A slight nod, almost approving. "Using blades while being a wolf… I like that."
Mark dropped into a crouch, catching himself roughly, breathing heavier now. His eyes never left Luke.
"STOP!"
Iris's voice sliced through the tension—sharp, shaking. She rushed to Mark's side, helping him steady himself. "What are you both doing?!"
Mark straightened, but his glare remained fixed on Luke. Iris whirled around, anger rising hot in her chest.
"Mr. Luke—" Her voice tightened. "They're my friends." She took a step forward. "You can't just attack them like that."
Luke regarded her with the same calm, unchanging expression.
"I didn't attack him," he said evenly. "I asked nicely."
His gaze flicked briefly to Mark. "He chose not to cooperate."
Iris's jaw clenched, frustration, confusion, and protectiveness warring inside her. "That doesn't give you the right—"
Luke cut in, not harsh, just final. "Miss Iris… it was a perfect duel, which he accepted and lost miserably."
Silence fell again.
Iris stared at him—really looked this time. Not as the man her grandmother respected. Not as the shadow her father had once trusted. But as someone dangerous. Someone who operated outside every rule she understood.
And that… made her angry.
Her fists tightened at her sides. The wolf inside her stirred, restless and protective, pushing against the fragile control she had only just begun to grasp.
Luke watched the shift in her eyes with quiet interest, as if noting another piece of a puzzle only he could see. Mark stayed tense beside her, Simon hovering uncertainly, the air still crackling with the aftermath of dominance asserted and challenged.
The foyer, once a place of tentative relief, now felt like the edge of something far larger—and far more dangerous—than any of them had bargained for.