Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1: EVERYTHING IS GRAYER AT FORKS

(Present)

Forks didn’t feel like a town. It felt more like an echo.

“Miss, are you getting out or…?” the driver asked, indifferent.

I didn’t answer. I just stepped out of the car, not even glancing at him. The shadows stayed behind in the cab—silent, watchful. Then, as always, they followed me.

My uncle stood there like a war statue—tall, broad, his face weathered by years of discipline. His clothes were plain but meticulously arranged: polished boots, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. His eyes scanned the surroundings, alert for threats, though he was only looking at me.

As I approached, the faint scent of cigarette smoke reached my nose. The crunch of my boots on gravel broke the silence.

“Vhisa,” he said.

“Caelum”

We nodded.

Still, I saw how his gaze lingered on my face a moment too long, searching for something: bruises, signs, answers. Something he didn’t find. Something he wouldn’t find. Not today.

He took my case and carried it to the back of his truck. He didn’t say a word, but I noticed how he lifted it, not like it was heavy, but like it was fragile. His jaw tightened before he returned to the driver’s seat. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know where to begin. And I… didn’t really want to hear it.

We got into the truck. The shadows were already there, settled in the backseat. One of them rested a hand on the seat back, as if curiously observing Caelum. He couldn’t see them, of course. No one could.

The drive to his house was short, but heavy. He didn’t play music—just the growl of the engine and the soft patter of rain on the roof. From time to time, he glanced at me from the corner of his eye—the kind of glance I imagine he’d give to active landmines in a war zone.

The truck stopped in front of a wooden house that creaked even without wind. It wasn’t decorated—no flowers, no chairs on the porch, not a single sign that said someone lived there. Still, the windows were clean, and a neat stack of firewood sat beside the door.

And yet, even though he acted like talking to me was as painful as walking barefoot on broken glass, he still got out to open the door for me when we arrived.

“The room at the end of the hall is yours. It’s ready. There’s a lock, if you need it. The bathroom’s in the hallway.”

“Thank you,” I said with a nod.

“There’s food in the fridge. I didn’t know what you liked, but I got a few things. I read in your file that you don’t eat fish.” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d revealed something far too personal.

I looked at him, puzzled, not because he knew about the fish, but because he’d tried. He had actually done something for me.

The shadows slid across the floor, weaving through the kitchen ahead of me.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Caelum said, turning to climb the stairs. He paused on the first step.
“If you need to talk… or not talk. Anything. I’ll be upstairs. My room’s the one on the left, close to yours.” He looked like he was about to say something else, but then shook his head, as if discarding the thought, and continued up.

I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent.

Once alone, I opened the fridge. Yogurts, wheat bread, fruit, some chicken, beef—even sugar-free orange juice, the same they made me drink at the clinic.

I felt nauseous.

The sting crept into my eyes as the shadows stared at me. They had no faces, but I could feel them—an itch beneath my skin, a pressure in the air. I knew they were there, watching.

My old friend—the buzzing—was back again. That low, constant hum that stunned me every time the shadows drew near. They slid through the corners of the kitchen, probing the space like curious parasites. Restless. Watching. Their dark forms reflected in the windows, thicker and heavier than ever.

Their shapes were broken—vaguely human, but wrong. Limbs twisted, as if they’d forgotten how to move like ours. They crawled without touching the floor, making that familiar sound, like countless teeth grinding against each other.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, a glass of water in my hand, and took a deep breath. For the first time since I’d left that white, padded cell in the clinic, I felt something close to relief. Not peace—no. It was more like a truce.

They were there, in the forest beyond the kitchen window, beneath the trees. Waiting. Watching. But something had changed. They had shape now—something disturbingly familiar. 

Something that reminded me… of me.

---

Two Weeks Before the Ball (Flashback)

The cafeteria was buzzing that day—murmured conversations, bursts of laughter, the unmistakable clatter of trays hitting tables. Everyone had a voice. Everyone but me.

“Mind if I sit?” Joseph asked, tilting his head toward the empty seat across from me. His voice was gentle—too gentle, really, for someone talking to me.

I hadn’t seen him coming. No one ever came to my table.

Everyone fell suddenly silent, as if the world around us had been muted. It lasted only a fleeting second, but it was enough.

A couple of trays clattered together with a hollow sound. Then, my name echoed—whispered from more mouths than I ever wanted. One voice said, “With her?” Another added, “I don’t get why he’s with her.” Someone else asked, surprised, “Is he insane?”

Then came the laughter—high-pitched, incredulous. Some nervous, others cruel.

And when Joseph didn’t walk away, didn’t change direction, didn’t pretend it was a mistake, the whispers turned into a steady murmur.

As if everyone in the cafeteria leaned in toward our table. As if the mere fact that someone like him was talking to someone like me broke an unspoken rule they all silently obeyed.

I turned to look at him, and there he was. That annoyingly handsome face, like he’d stepped out of a low-budget romcom, and that carefree attitude that had always rubbed me the wrong way. But this time… something felt different.

Not about him. About me.

The shadows inside me stirred, like a flock of crows suddenly taking flight in my stomach.

“Why?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

“Because I’m done pretending you’re invisible,” he said.

I knew he was lying. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew. The shadows gave him away—sliding under the table, curling around my ankles, twisting and twirling through the gaps beneath the chairs. They buzzed softly, like they were laughing.

They weren’t laughing at him… They were laughing at me.

Still, I gave him a silent nod, letting him take the seat. He smiled—a wide, toothy grin—and slid the chair closer to sit beside me.

For the first time, Samantha didn’t shove me in the hallway. But of course, she still looked at me—her brow furrowed in that familiar mix of disdain and suspicion, as if those expressions had been crafted just for me. And she wasn’t the only one.

I could still feel their eyes on the back of my neck, like fine needles pricking my skin.

I still heard the low voices as I passed, the whispers that didn’t need to say my name for me to know they were about me.

Only now, they didn’t get closer. They no longer blocked my way in the halls. Not because they had accepted me, but because now, they weren’t so sure.

Joseph smiled at me during chemistry. He offered me a cookie. He asked what kind of music I liked.

And every time he did, the shadows crept closer—their chill brushing against my neck, my back, the nape of my neck. I fought the urge to shiver. That cold wasn’t just cold—it burned, like they were trying to remind me:

This isn’t real.

This won’t last.

But I wanted to believe it was real. Even if only for a fleeting moment.

Chapter Text

Caelum was silent on the drive to school. The sky hung heavy with a deeper shade of gray—darker than the day before—as if Forks were determined to swallow every last drop of color that dared to linger. The windshield whispered wearily beneath the steady drizzle. He wore his police uniform, minus the cap. Freshly shaved, he smelled of coffee, cigarettes, and a kind of resignation I knew all too well.

His badge gleamed on his chest, right above his heart, as if to remind everyone—and perhaps himself—that he was on the right side. His gun rested in its holster at his hip, heavy, visible, almost ceremonial. As if needing it was part of the ritual of living among people.

“Remember, you can call me if anything weird happens,” he said suddenly, without looking at me. “Or if you need to get out.”

“You don’t have to walk me to the front door,” I muttered.

“I’m not here for you,” he replied, eyes fixed on the road. “There’ve been reports of theft near the high school parking lot.” Funny, how convenient that was.

He was lying. I knew it the same way I know when shadows shift their patterns—how they tremble like a tightrope about to snap. Caelum was lying, and the shadows knew it, too. They watched him from the back seat, judging him like a silent jury.

The sky had the same color as wet pavement, a light drizzle lazily hit the windshield, as if even the weather wasn’t sure of being here. Forks High School slowly appeared beneath the trees, like a punished disguised as an Educational Building. It was small, gray, and smelled like repressed adolescence from afar. 

“Don’t talk to anyone who approaches out of ‘curiosity,’” Caelum said suddenly, his voice rough, almost metallic. “If someone bothers you or gets aggressive, scream, cry, or… just call me. Got it?”

I shot him a glare, and for a fleeting second, I could tell—he truly believed I might hurt someone. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but the thought was there. He feared it.

“Got it,” I replied with a smile that never reached my eyes.

I stepped out of the car, the shadows trailing behind me.

One of them clung to the fender, staring at Caelum like a warped reflection in a puddle. Its legs were too long, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. Another coiled around my boots, reluctant to let me move forward. I walked on anyway.

The shadows had been restless since I woke up, clinging to the ceiling, pressed flat against the walls, as if hiding from something. There was something in Forks that unsettled them. Or maybe it was just the building ahead—that damp, crumbling heap of bricks and concrete they insisted on calling a high school.

Walking into the building felt like diving into something dense, like wading through whispers. The other students’ stares were sharp as needles; some were bold, others shy, but every single one landed on me. I headed straight to the principal’s office to finish my registration, skipping any pretense of ceremony.

The secretary greeted me with a well-rehearsed smile that didn’t quite match the dark circles under her eyes.

“Oh! Caelum’s niece, right?” she said. “Please say hello for me,” she added, her cheeks and neck flushing like a flattered teenager.

I couldn’t blame her. She could try all she wanted. Caelum was good-looking for his age, but he struck me as one of those complicated men—charming at first, difficult over time.

As if suddenly remembering her job, she rummaged through the clutter on her desk and handed me a sheet of paper. “Here’s your schedule… and welcome to Forks, sweetheart.”

The shadows laughed—or tried to. It sounded like static from an old radio.

Locker 119. The number felt more like a warning than an assignment.

The hallway smelled of wet paper, disinfectant, and teenage bodies trying too hard to look confident. The walls were plastered with faded flyers and hand-drawn maps. Everything felt temporary, fleeting—like nothing here was meant to last.

The staring began the moment I stepped out of the office and into teenage hell. It wasn’t because of my clothes—dark, neutral, clean—or my face. It was the novelty. Or maybe someone had already started spreading rumors.

“Is that the new girl?” someone whispered behind me.

“Yeah, the weirdo who used to live in a mental clinic,” another voice replied.

“I heard she stabbed someone with a plastic spoon,” a third added.

The shadows stirred.

So creative…

I kept walking. If I stopped, I’d hear more. Worse—I might respond.

My first class was History. I took a seat at the back, as always. Not out of strategy, but necessity.

The desks bore the scars of past lives—carved initials, threats, broken hearts.

The teacher droned on about wars while the shadows slipped between desks like ghostly students.

One of them stood in front of me. Faceless, but marked by a white scar that ran from where a brow should’ve been down to its neck. It was mocking me, showing up like it knew something I didn’t.

I didn’t move. No one reacted.

Class continued. So did the shadows.

It was during English class that someone spoke to me for the first time.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” a girl asked, her voice soft and calm.

I turned to look at her—light brown hair, an honest smile, eyes that looked tired of being overlooked. Angela Weber, if I remember correctly. The secretary had mentioned her name when she handed me my schedule.

“Go ahead,” I said without giving it much thought. She didn’t seem threatening.

She took the seat beside me with care, more respectful than hesitant.

“It’s your first day, right?” she asked. “Just a tip: avoid sitting near the soda machine in the cafeteria. It makes this weird noise,” she added. “And Mike Newton is always talking about football there.” She said it like I should know who Mike Newton was.

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh, so I just nodded.

Angela seemed to understand my silence. She didn’t take it personally—just smiled, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not pushing.’

…….

It was Angela who practically dragged me to the cafeteria—not by force, but by setting a slow, steady pace that made it easy to follow her.

The cafeteria was a storm of noise. The clatter of cutlery on trays, raised voices bouncing off the walls, and the mingled smells of tater tots, meat, and sour milk.

We sat together, away from the crowded center. She offered me a tangerine, and I accepted it, even though I wasn’t hungry.

That’s when I saw them.

Five silhouettes sat at the far end of the cafeteria, apart from everyone else. They were unnaturally beautiful—like figures lifted from an ancient painting and placed into this scene—ivory skin, impossible eyes, movements too precise, too controlled.

The shadows around them seemed to pause mid-motion.

One of them froze mid-step. Another recoiled slightly, as if brushing against fire. The last one hissed—soft, but unmistakable.

Then came a new kind of buzzing. Deep and resonant, barely audible to anyone who didn’t know how to listen. But I felt it at the nape of my neck. Not a warning. An alert.

“Who are they?” I asked, my voice low, eyes still locked on them.

Angela followed my gaze and sighed, like she’d answered this question a hundred times before.

“The Cullens. Doctor Cullen and his wife’s adopted kids. They’re... different. But not bad, if that’s what you’re asking.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to know.

The youngest of them looked at me—copper hair, a distant, absorbed expression. It lasted only a second, but it was enough.

The buzzing in my head erupted. The shadows twisted beneath my feet, drawn by some invisible thread.

That boy. Edward.

The shadows turned their gaze on him. And for the first time since they’d entered my life, they looked afraid.

“Are you okay?” Angela asked, frowning.

I nodded. “Just a bit cold.”

It was a lie. I knew I wasn’t okay. And I knew that cold wasn’t coming from outside.

---

(Later – After Lunch)

The shadows didn’t settle.

Not when I stepped out of the cafeteria. Not when the door creaked shut behind me. Not even as I wandered through a hallway lined with identical lockers and students who looked past me like I wasn’t there.

The shadows were tense, bristling, as if sniffing something in the air.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. Breathing exercises were useless. So was counting to ten. I’d tried everything back at the clinic. But nothing there had ever looked at me with golden eyes that seemed to know me.

I didn’t know who they were.

But the shadows did.

**

Biology was next.

I walked into the classroom and took a seat at one of the tables in the back. I didn’t even notice who was already sitting there. The overhead lights were too bright, and the smell of formaldehyde clung to the air like a bad memory.

The shadow closest to me was vibrating—not just moving, but trembling, as if barely restrained.

I tightened my grip on the pen Angela had given me at lunch. The plastic creaked under my fingers.

Then came the footsteps. Slow. Measured. Intentional.

And there he was—one of them.

The one with the clenched jaw and eyes like burnished amber. Pale. Perfect. Unsettling.

I recognized him instantly—he’d been at the far table in the cafeteria, staring at me like he could read every thought I’d ever had.

I didn’t know his name. I didn’t want to. 

But he sat beside me. Same stool. Same table. Why?

His expression was unreadable—polite, almost—but his fingers were so tense against the tabletop it looked like he might snap it in half. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t speak. But his presence was heavy, like gravity had shifted around him.

And the shadows… They recoiled. Crawling back, retreating like he was fire. Or something worse.

I adjusted my position, barely glaring at him from the corner of my eye. I could see his clenched jaw, the barely dilated nostrils, as if he was holding his breath.

The shadows didn’t want him here. And coming from them, that meant something.

The teacher entered the room and began lecturing on eukaryotic cells—mitochondria, nuclei, all the usual textbook material. I barely heard a word.

My mind was split between two thoughts:

The shadows curled beneath my stool, as if afraid of being seen.

The boy beside me, his fingers clenched around the edge of the table like he was holding himself back from something.

Eventually, the silence became too much. Too heavy. Too loud. I turned to him.

“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.

I wasn’t expecting an answer. But he gave one.

“Yes.” Too quick. Too smooth. His voice was low, soft, almost polite—but the tension in his neck betrayed him. It wasn’t an answer, it was an excuse.

I turned back to the front, counting to ten. Then twenty.

It didn’t help. Because something inside him spoke to me, in the same language the shadows used. And that wasn’t just unusual, it was dangerous.

**

As soon as the bell rang, he was the first to leave. He walked out of the classroom without even glancing back, like getting away was urgent. Like staying a moment longer would cost him dearly.

The shadows were slow to follow. They clung to me, as if afraid he might return. I couldn’t understand what kind of creature could make them tremble like that. But now I know.

And now… I was in Forks.

---

**(Later - Caelum’s House)**

The house was empty when I got back.

The sky was heavy with thick grey clouds, the kind that seemed to press down on everything, even without rain. I tossed my backpack onto the couch, not ready to go upstairs yet. I sat for a while, watching the shadows slowly crawl across the walls. They looked as exhausted as I felt.

They didn’t speak. Not a sound. Just stood there, still.

And all I could do was think about lunch, those golden eyes, and the ice-cold silence in Biology. About the way the shadows shrank, and how I did too, though I wouldn’t admit it out loud. I sighed.

Caelum wouldn’t be back until later. He’d told me that morning, “Extra hours at the station. I’ll see you after six.” His voice had sounded strange—not in tone, exactly, but in the way it was one of the few that didn’t treat me like I was about to fall apart.

I stood up.

There was something comforting about using my hands—chopping, mixing, heating. Cooking was the closest thing I had to a ritual that didn’t involve shadows. It was simple. It was mine. 

I rummaged through the cupboard. Spaghetti. Easy.

I boiled water, pulled out a pan for the sauce. As I cooked, I let the steam blur my thoughts. They didn’t disappear, of course, but they softened, like they’d been soaked in something warm. The shadows gathered around me, as they always did, but they never came near the fire. They never did.

“Cowards,” I muttered without thinking.

One of them vibrated.

The sauce bubbled gently in the pan, the smell of tomato and garlic filling the house with a warmth that had nothing to do with Forks. It felt like home—or something close to it. When it was ready, I pulled out two plates out of habit.

I sat down and started my dinner. The house remained silent, the shadows swaying in the corners like leaves trapped in murky water. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d felt when I saw the Cullens—about that heavy silence that didn’t come from me, or the shadows, or even the weather. It came from them, and it fell over me like black rain.

**

The door opened a few minutes after six.

“I’m in the kitchen,” I called out before Caelum could say anything. I heard the familiar clink of keys being dropped into the bowl by the door, the soft rustle of his coat being hung. His footsteps were slow and deliberate—the kind of steps that belonged to someone who always analyzed before acting.

He entered the kitchen and looked at me briefly. It wasn’t condescending or watchful—just present. “You cooked?”

I nodded, offering him the plate I’d set aside. It was still steaming.

“Spaghetti,” I said, as if that explained everything.

He sat down and took a bite. For a moment—just a fleeting one—there was peace. The kind that exists when no one is asking anything of you. “How was your first day? Was it difficult?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I had a bad night. Barely slept.” It was true, and it was enough.

Caelum nodded. He wasn’t tense or worried. Just listening. “Anything else?”

I thought of the golden eyes. The shared table. The silence that had weight and shape.

“Not really,” I said. Then, casually, “Do you know the Cullens?”

Caelum froze. He carefully set his fork down on the plate, then looked at me, his expression unreadable. Was it fear—or something worse?

“Did they bother you? Did they do something to you, Vhisa?”

His voice held a trace of worry—perhaps the closest thing to emotion I’d seen from him since I arrived.

I shook my head. The shadows clung to me—one curled up my arm like smoke, another loomed silently beside Caelum.

“No, they didn’t do anything to me. I just saw them during lunch break, and one of them sat with me in Biology. He barely spoke.” And I knew it—Caelum knew something. It was obvious. But I also knew he wasn’t going to tell me.

The shadow beside him leaned in, twisting into an unnatural shape. It made a clicking sound—wet, sharp, and revolting. My stomach turned.

A deafening silence stretched between us. Caelum hadn’t moved. He shivered, though just barely. At first, I thought it was the cold wind slipping through the open dining room window. It was still ajar, absurdly so for mid-March, when everything still felt like winter.

But the shadow beside him was laughing—that harsh, choppy sound they make when they want to scare me.

No one else could see them. Only me.

Closing the window wouldn’t make them leave. Overthinking it wouldn’t help either. I’d tried that at the clinic. It only made things worse.

Caelum kept staring at me, as if trying to decide whether I was lying. After a moment, something in my face must have satisfied him. He gave a small nod, jaw still clenched, then quietly resumed eating.

Chapter Text

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Again.

The ceiling in my room had become the most honest thing I’d seen in days—white, cracked in the corner, with a tiny spot that looked like a dead butterfly. I’d stared at it for so long, I wasn’t sure if it was real or just something my exhausted mind had conjured.

In the darkness, the shadows were quieter, but no less vivid. Their murmurs softened, like they were gliding along the walls, careful not to disturb. One of them sat in the chair by the desk, slowly spinning, making the wood creak with every turn. It was a hateful sound, like a tooth breaking inside your mouth.

And yet, that wasn’t what unsettled me the most. What truly bothered me was Caelum’s reaction.

It was subtle, but unmistakable—the shift when I mentioned the Cullens. It wasn’t anger or surprise. It was something deeper, like my question had pulled him back to a place he never wanted to return to. As if even saying their name was a betrayal of some unspoken oath.

He didn’t say a word. Just kept eating, like the conversation had never happened. That’s how it worked with him: silence wasn’t emptiness—it was a boundary. A line I couldn’t cross, no matter how loud I screamed from the other side.

I turned over in bed, burying my face in the pillow.

Asking again would be pointless. All it would do was make him shut down even more.

One of the shadows crept up from the edge of the bed. It had no warmth, no real weight—just that low, persistent buzzing in the back of my mind. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t want to. If I looked, it would move. It would smile. And I didn’t have the energy to play mind games with something that probably didn’t exist outside my own head.

But even without seeing it, its presence seeped into my bones. The air trembled, thick with silence, as if it had turned into something solid. I could feel it brushing against my thoughts, slipping into corners I’d tried to seal shut. It didn’t do anything—it was just there. Waiting. As always. As if it knew that, sooner or later, I would break.

My fists clenched beneath the sheets without me realizing it. I only noticed when the shadow on the bed inched closer, like it wanted to curl up beside me. I felt its hum at the nape of my neck—a swarm of bees trapped in a single body. I wanted to scream at it to leave, but I knew that would wake Caelum.

And Caelum couldn’t see me like this.

Not while he still thought I was okay.

Not while he still believed everything from before was behind me.

I sat up abruptly, the motion pushing the shadow away. The mattress groaned under my weight, and the air filled with that sour, rancid scent nightmares sometimes carry. The shadow slid to the floor like spilled ink. It made no sound. They never did—unless they wanted to mock me.

I hugged my knees to my chest. My collarbone trembled, and I felt the scar beneath it twitch. It ran diagonally across my skin, ending just before my chest. A jagged piece of dirty glass had made it, leaving behind rough edges and skin that never quite closed right.

It hadn’t bled in months, but it still itched sometimes, like it refused to let me forget. Occasionally, it hurt when I raised my left arm—a quick, dry tug that reminded me not everything had healed.

And something inside me stirred. I didn’t know if it was rage, fear, or that familiar emptiness—the one that comes from knowing you’re alone, even when you’re surrounded by people.

Maybe Caelum wasn’t telling me what happened with the Cullens because he thought I was fragile. That, after what happened at the ball—after that—anything could break me.

And maybe he was right.

Sometimes I did feel like that: broken, patched together. Like a wild animal trained to behave, but still ready to bite if anyone got too close.

But this wasn’t like before. This wasn’t a panic attack, a hallucination, or recycled paranoia. This was real.

I saw it in his eyes when I asked, “Do you know the Cullens?”

He knew them. And if he wasn’t going to tell me, I’d have to find out on my own. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Starting tomorrow, I’d begin to look closer, to notice the things no one else did. I’d follow the golden traces left behind by that strange boy in Biology, the one who barely spoke to me but carried the same shadow in his eyes that I carried in mine.

There was something about the Cullens that didn’t add up.

And I wasn’t afraid to get my hands dirty anymore.

I would find out why.

---

Sleep came like a dry, sudden blow. I didn’t see it coming. One of the shadows brushed against my cheek, but I wasn’t strong enough to push it away. I don’t remember dreaming—or if I did, it was one of those gray dreams that slip through your fingers before you can hold onto them.

---

The smell of strong coffee and the crackle of a radio coming to life in the kitchen woke me. A metallic voice on the other end rattled off a code I didn’t understand, but Caelum responded with a quiet, affirmative murmur.

I sat up slowly, eyelids still heavy. The shadows were there, as always. One by the door, another perched on the back of the desk chair, and a third gliding across the ceiling in that erratic, logic-defying way. They didn’t speak, but they all watched me.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t speak to them. I’d learned that if I didn’t initiate contact, sometimes they stayed quiet.

I dressed in silence. Jeans. A black T-shirt. The fabric brushed against my scar as it passed over my collarbone, and a shiver ran down my spine. It didn’t hurt—not anymore—but the sensation was like a phantom finger tracing the memory. A reminder that it was still there. Always there. A signature I never asked for, and one I couldn’t erase.

I took a deep breath and glanced at the mirror. The shirt was thick enough to keep out the cold and to hide the scar. I’ll be fine.

I didn’t bother combing my hair. Not like anyone in Forks would notice the difference.

I went downstairs with the shadows trailing behind me, sliding along the walls like they were part of me, my real shadow. The hallway to the kitchen was cold. One of them moved ahead and crouched in the doorway, head tilted, as if trying to understand why I could touch the ground.

I poured myself a cup of coffee. I wasn’t really hungry, but I grabbed a piece of toast anyway. The shadows gathered in the darkest corner of the room, watching me chew. One of them—the largest, with a scar across his face—made a soft sound, like fingernails scraping glass. I didn’t know if it was meant to unsettle me or if it was some kind of language.

I didn’t want to find out.

“Come on. I’ll take you on the patrol,” Caelum said at last, glancing at me. His voice was flat, but not cold.

I nodded. Sometimes, words weren’t necessary.

I climbed into the patrol car and buckled my seatbelt. The seat smelled of old leather and spilled coffee—a strangely comforting mix. Outside, the sky was thick with clouds. It wasn’t raining yet, but the air already tasted damp and heavy.

The engine rumbled softly as we pulled out of the driveway. The forest blurred past in dark green streaks. Silence. Just the low hum of the radio and the faint tapping of my nails against the window.

Until I spoke. “Yesterday, when I asked you about the Cullens…” I began, eyes fixed on the trees. “You reacted strangely.”

Caelum didn’t answer right away. He turned left, taking the detour onto the main road.

“So… you know them, right?” I continued. “Did you fight with their parents or something?”

He exhaled softly through his nose. It wasn’t a laugh. It was something closer to resignation.

“They didn’t do anything to you,” he finally said. “You said you sat with one of them.”

“Yes, but your reaction was like they’re some kind of war criminals.”

A pause. Just a single, loaded moment where Caelum’s grip on the wheel tightened. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “It’s none of your business, Vhisa.”

“Why? Why do I feel like all of this is because you think I can’t handle things after what happened at the ball?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

I crossed my arms. The shadows were with me, as they always were. One crouched between the car seats, its head tilted like a broken owl. It stared at me, unblinking, fully entertained. It crossed its legs, mimicking my posture. I hated when they did that. It took everything in me not to scream.

I didn’t know where the other two were, but I’d bet at least one was under the car, waiting to curl around my body like smoke.

Caelum pulled up in front of the school building. He didn’t look at me, but his knuckles were white on the wheel.

“If they say anything to you—if any of them bullies you—you tell me. Right away. But until then… keep your distance. I don’t want to see you around those kids, Vhisa. I mean it. You’ve had enough.”

I got out without a word. Slammed the door harder than necessary.

The police car didn’t move. Caelum watched me through the rearview mirror. Waiting. Like he knew this was just the beginning.

And he was right.

The shadows followed me.

One of the shadows slid off the roof of the car like it was melting. Another crawled out from under the passenger seat. A third—taller than the others walked beside me, matching my steps exactly, like a reflection in a warped mirror.

They moved through the crowd of students as if they didn’t exist. But every now and then, someone would shiver or scratch the back of their neck, like they’d felt something brush against their skin.

The tallest shadow stopped beside me at the entrance of the building. It turned its faceless head slowly, then raised a trembling hand to point into the distance.

I followed its gesture.

It wasn’t him. He wasn’t there. But his siblings were—and they were all looking at me.

The biggest one leaned against his truck, arms crossed, eyes locked on mine. He looked amused, like he knew something I didn’t. One of the girls—blonde, beautiful—stared at me like I’d personally offended her. Like my existence was a custom-made insult.

Then there was the tall, skinny boy, with a tiny brunette girl curled into his chest. I couldn’t read his expression, but the girl’s gaze was curious, not hostile, but tense. The way someone looks at a bomb, wondering if it’s live.

And then I felt it. The shadows pressed closer. Not toward the Cullens—never toward them. They clung to me as if I could protect them. As if they could hide inside me. They tangled around my ankles, clung to my back, and crawled through my ribcage like frozen ivy. Each touch left a slick, cold sensation like something wet and dead was breathing against my skin.

There was something about the Cullens that terrified them. And they pushed me forward—as if I, a girl who could barely sleep through the night, could somehow save them from whatever made them shudder.

***

The ringing of the bell snapped me out of a staring contest I hadn’t even realized I was part of. When I looked to the right, Caelum’s patrol had vanished.

The Cullens walked in perfect sync toward one of the buildings, as if nothing had happened—like they rehearsed their steps every morning—before disappearing into the sea of students and gray walls.

The shadows still clung to me, buzzing. That awful sound in the back of my head. A migraine was blooming, threatening to split me open from the inside. Still, I knew I had to keep moving, get to class. The other students in the parking lot were already staring, whispering. No one can stand frozen in place for too long without looking unhinged.

And when it came to that, my reputation preceded me.

I forced myself to blink and start walking, letting the tide of students carry me into the building. One step at a time, like I wasn’t the one moving, like someone else was pulling the strings from afar. The shadows didn’t help. They buzzed at the base of my skull like a frustrated swarm—too close, too alive.

I veered off in the main hallway and headed to the office. Caelum had told me I needed to pick my electives that day. Tuesday. I had no idea what time it was, or if I’d even make it to my first class in one piece—but I was here. That had to count for something, right?

The secretary greeted me with a smile and handed me a laminated form.

“The options are on the sheet, honey. Cooking, computing, art, civics... pick two, sweetie. Then take it to Professor Green in the admin room.”

The options weren’t bad. I picked Cooking and Art. I was good at cooking—not so much at drawing—but it beat computer science.

But then, the company arrived. “Mind if I sit here?” A deep voice, like thunder rolling through clouds.

I looked up. He was massive. Not just tall, massive. Like someone had tried to build a teenager out of grizzly bear parts and couldn’t decide whether to make him adorable or terrifying.

“It’s free,” I murmured, avoiding his golden eyes.

The shadows latched onto me instantly. Like a parasite retreating from a threat.

They buzzed—but this time, it wasn’t just fear. It was alarm. I felt them tremble against my back, crawl up my neck, slide down my wrists. They reacted like he was fire and I was a paper castle.

The big Cullen—the one who looked like a domesticated bear—grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “Perfect. I get bored cooking alone.”

I watched him from the corner of my eye. The shadows hissed in silence, clinging to my spine like they wanted to shove me out of the room. He hadn’t done anything to me. Not yet. But to them, it was like standing half a meter from a flare.

He grabbed an apron, turned it over in his hands, and offered me another like we were lifelong teammates. I took it without a word.

Uncomfortable silence. Not for him. For me.

A few kids nearby, who’d been whispering about the latest gossip, froze. The girls exchanged glances, pretending to be more interested in the recipe than in us. The usual school circus.

The teacher, a woman with permanently furrowed brows, approached just as Emmett asked: “Do you know how to cook?” —as I flipped through the day’s recipe: something with sauce, too many vegetables, and an oven that sounded like it might explode.

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.

I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t tell him I liked it. That I cooked almost every day. That it was one of the few things I could control without the shadows getting in the way. That when I chopped garlic or kneaded dough, the noise of the world faded into something bearable.

No. He didn’t need to know that.

“Great,” he laughed. “I don’t. Let’s make history. Or cause a school emergency. Whichever comes first. I’m Emmett.”

I just raised an eyebrow, but something in his tone threw me off. He wasn’t faking kindness—not in the way most people did, with that polished, polite distance. He was... clumsy. Deliberately clumsy.

He pulled out a frying pan, a jar of oil, and a bottle of something I didn’t recognize. I turned away for half a second to wash my hands. And just as I turned back—Splash.

The liquid tomato sauce? oil? both?—splattered directly onto my shirt. Red. Sticky. Boiling.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, sounding genuinely surprised. Too surprised.

A heavy silence fell over the class. A few students held their breath. Others let out a low “oops.” A girl next to me sighed like she’d just witnessed a scene from a melodrama.

The teacher rushed over, eyes on my shirt and abdomen. “Vhisa, are you okay? That sauce was hot—you should go to the infirmary.”

“No... it’s not that hot,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. A lie. It burned like hell.

The shadows surged toward the blur, buzzing furiously. One coiled tightly around my arm, ready to pull me back. Another wrapped around my neck like a living scarf.

Emmett dropped the pan and raised both hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—really! I... I’m terrible with jars. Happens all the time.”

Liar. But his face looked so absurdly remorseful that I hesitated. Just for a second.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, even though it wasn’t.

A boy in the back snorted. “Clumsy with jars” sounded like a euphemism for “walking disaster.”

The teacher gave me a stern look. “If it hurts, you should clean up and change.”

Emmett jumped in. “Rosalie has an extra shirt in her locker. Your size, if I’m not mistaken. I can grab it for you.”

I stared at him. Too convenient. Too specific. The shadows pressed tighter. A whisper rose in my ears, like a warning in a language older than words. My shoulders were burning. But if I’d learned anything, it was this: never let them see you flinch.

“Take me,” I said, expressionless.

He smiled again, but there was a flicker in his golden eyes—like he’d just been given the green light for something he’d been waiting for.

***

The hallway was empty. Or at least, it looked that way.

The overhead lights flickered, like they knew something I didn’t. The shadows whispered along my back, curled around my ankles, brushed the nape of my neck. They didn’t like walking beside him. They didn’t like that he’d touched my arm to “help me out of the classroom faster.” They didn’t like any of this. Honestly, neither did I.

“It wasn’t on purpose, I swear,” Emmett said as we walked. “I’ve got big hands. Small bottles. They don’t get along.”

“Sure,” I said, not looking at him.

The shadows hissed. The stain on my shirt had gone cold, but the burn lingered. So did the discomfort. The fabric clung to my torso like a screaming red sign: vulnerable. It reeked of hot tomatoes, cheap vinegar, and the poorly washed metal of the tray. Every step made the shirt stick tighter to my skin, like it was trying to remind me of the accident on loop.

Emmett stopped in front of a locker and opened it without a combination. Because, of course, he knew which one it was. Of course, he had permission.

And of course, Rosalie was already there, leaning against the wall like she’d been waiting for hours.

I saw her before she spoke. Still. Impeccable. Hair cascading like sharpened gold. Lips pressed tight. Eyes locked on me like I was a poorly solved equation.

“Did you throw sauce on her?” she asked, without moving.

Emmett shrugged, equal parts guilty and amused. “Culinary accident. I swear.”

Rosalie didn’t believe him. And she didn’t believe me either, when I said nothing.

“Why’d you bring her here?”

“Because you had an extra shirt. Remember? You said you left it in case you ever got messy in the lab.”

“That was for me,” she said, like she was talking about a sacred relic.

“And now it’s for her,” Emmett replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rosalie looked at me. Slowly. Like she was scanning every millimeter of my face, deciding whether I was worth hating or just ignoring.

I didn’t blink. Didn’t move. I wasn’t going to give them anything.

“It’s on the top shelf,” she said at last, eyes still locked on mine. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, unsure if I meant it.

Rosalie didn’t answer. She turned on her heel and walked away, her steps so precise they felt choreographed. She left behind a trail of perfume—white flowers, something powdery, clean. Disturbing in its perfection.

The shadows loosened slightly. Not because they trusted Emmett. But because at least one threat was retreating.

“It fits you,” he said with a grin, handing me the folded shirt.

The fabric was soft. Too soft. Almost liquid cotton, cold to the touch. It smelled like Rosalie—her flawless perfume, her control. No stains. No wrinkles. Not a trace of humanity.

And the shadows hated it. They stirred at the back of my neck, tightened at my elbows, curled in the creases of my fingers. Just touching the shirt seemed to irritate them. They didn’t want me to wear it. They didn’t want anything of hers against my skin. They didn’t want anything of theirs on me.

“Is she always this... hospitable?” I asked, biting back the sarcasm.

“Only with people who make her curious,” he said casually. “Or people she thinks are dangerous.”

I looked at him. “And which one am I?”

Emmett smiled. “She hasn’t decided yet.”

… 

The restroom was empty.

The lights blinked coldly overhead—the kind that seemed designed to trigger a migraine, or worse. I walked to the mirror, set the blouse down on the sink, and looked at my reflection. What stared back was an uncomfortable version of myself: pale face, lips pressed tight, a reddish stain across my stomach like a war wound.

I peeled off my soiled shirt with a grimace. The fabric clung to my skin, coming away with a damp, unpleasant sound.

The burning was still there. Not just from shame—physical, too. The sauce had soaked through. A reddish residue lingered near my ribs, like a silly but persistent burn.

I turned on the tap.

Cold water hit my skin and I gasped—not from the temperature, but from the relief. I washed the area gently, fingertips pressing lightly until the sticky sensation was gone.

Shadows hovered nearby. They moved like held breaths, drifting near mirrors and corners, never quite touching.

Until I reached for Rosalie’s blouse. Then they screamed.

Not with sound, but with motion. They surged, slamming against the bathroom walls like waves of ink, retreating into the ceiling’s edges, into the mirror’s frame. A buzzing began to pulse behind my eyes, as if the shadows were trying to push me back.

They didn’t want that on my body.

They didn’t want me to mix with them.

They didn’t want that garment to cover me—as if it belonged to me.

I clenched my jaw. “It’s just a shirt,” I muttered. But even I didn’t believe it.

I looked in the mirror. The reflection gave back something clean, almost new. But it wasn’t me. Not really.

And then I saw it: The scar.

It peeked out, faint but undeniable, running diagonally from my left collarbone down across my side—ruining any illusion of normalcy. It stood out more now, against skin that looked too flawless. As if that mark was the only honest thing left. A line dividing what I pretended to be from what I really was.

I swallowed.

I didn’t touch it.

I couldn’t.

Not while wearing Cullen’s clothes. The shadows vibrated. Not with rejection this time, but something closer to recognition. A silent acknowledgment. As if they were saying: That is yours.

And they were right. 

When I stepped out of the bathroom, Emmett was still there. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

I just glanced down, tugging at the collar of the blouse, trying to pull it up a little. As if that would hide it. As if that scar wasn’t part of me anymore.

The shadows felt it too. They tensed around me, thickening the air. The hallway felt wrapped in a mist only I could breathe.

“Did you survive?” he asked.

“More or less.” I didn’t know if he meant the scar or the change of clothes—but I answered anyway.

“It looks good on you.” Emmett looked at me with those unsettling golden eyes.

“I know.” I deadpanned.

Then, without a word, he untied the sweat jacket from around his waist and held it out to me. He didn’t look at me—just extended his arm, like he didn’t want the gesture to carry more weight than it had to.

The shadows reacted instantly. They recoiled, rising like black flames from the floor, only to retreat as if they’d touched something toxic. They didn’t like it. They could smell it. They knew where it came from. Who it came from. And that was enough to make him a threat.

But I took it anyway.

The shadows didn’t scream, but the air buzzed in my ears with rejection. My fingertips burned when they touched the fabric, like it held static or some foreign metal I wasn’t meant to carry.

I slipped it on over the blouse. I didn’t zip it up—I didn’t want it to look like I needed it. But it was enough. The wide collar and oversized fit—too big, because Emmett was basically a walking wall—draped over my shoulders and covered just what needed covering.

The scar disappeared beneath that foreign cloth. The shadows didn’t calm. They stayed tense, reluctant, like they wanted to shake it off. They didn’t like me wearing anything from the Cullens.

But they didn’t want anyone else to see it either.

The old shirt—the one stained with sauce—was balled up in my hand, still damp, still uncomfortable. A ghost of the classroom scene.

We walked down the hallway in silence.

The shadows didn’t leave me. They clung to my legs, wary and restless, like wounded dogs ready to bite. They didn’t accept the jacket. They didn’t accept any of this. But they stayed close.

Not for him. 

For me. 

Chapter Text

By the time Emmett walked me back to my locker, the rumors about what happened in Cooking Class had already spread across the school. The bell rang, and students streamed from their classrooms toward the cafeteria, some sneaking discreet glances at us, others shamelessly staring.

I crammed my stained shirt into my backpack as fast as I could and slung it over my shoulder, the cold metal biting at my fingertips in the process.

Emmett lingered beside me, leaning casually against the next locker with a wide grin stretched across his lips—like we were lifelong friends just catching up.

The shadows were still tangled around my legs, tense, as if they wanted to anchor me to that hallway. Their annoying hum crawled up my head so hard I could almost feel the headache brewing.

“Thanks for letting me borrow your jacket—and Rosalie’s blouse,” I whispered, uncomfortable, desperate to get away.

“It’s okay. I’m really sorry about your shirt,” Emmett said, flashing that nice-guy smile that usually did the trick.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get the stain out completely…” I muttered, adjusting the strap of my backpack without looking at him.

Before I could scheme and run, a clear voice called out from the end of the hallway.

 “Vhisa!”

Angela approached confidently, her high ponytail swaying, that kind smile seemingly unbreakable. Once close enough, she glanced briefly at Emmett before turning her attention to me.

“Wanna come for lunch with me and my friends?” she asked—a little unexpected, especially after yesterday’s fiasco. I thought she wouldn’t speak to me again.

I hesitated, but I didn’t want to seem rude twice. Her eyes held that quiet insistence, that everlasting patience, and it worked—I nodded.

“Yeah, sure,” I agreed, though my voice sounded weaker than I wanted.

Emmett raised his hands in dramatic surrender.

 “See you later, Angela.” He bowed as if tipping an imaginary hat, then turned to me. “Hope you enjoy your lunch with the royals, Miss Mysterious.”

Then he left, smirking as he walked against the stream of teenagers heading to the cafeteria, turning down another hallway. I watched him go, carefree, not seeming to have anyone else to meet.

Angela was obviously curious, but she didn’t push. Instead, she changed the subject.

“So… do you like the teachers already? I heard you’re in Mrs. Hollen’s cooking class. She’s kind—and she lives just a street away from my house…” Angela spoke relentlessly as we made our way to the cafeteria.

---

The cafeteria was crowded, full of the noise of running conversations and trays clinking. I felt the gazes following me as I walked with Angela. I immediately noticed the silence at the empty table at the end of the room: the Cullens weren’t there—not even one of those haunting golden glances. The shadows, as if they sensed their absence, finally left my feet, drifting freely among the people and tables, studying them like specimens in a lab.

We sat near the windows, at a table already occupied by two boys and two girls—probably the same ones Angela mentioned on the way in. All of them looked at me as if they’d decided to foster a wild animal from the zoo for a day.

“Hi,” I said, shyly.

“¡Vhisa!” one of the girls exclaimed. Her red-brown puffy hair spilled over her shoulder, and her voice was exaggeratedly cheerful, laced with an unwanted closeness. “We were dying to meet you! I’m Jessica, and she’s Lauren.” She tilted her head toward the dark-haired girl beside her.

For a fleeting moment, Lauren reminded me of Samantha. My stomach twisted unpleasantly.

Lauren spoke with a sweet voice and a venomous smile. “Oh yes—especially because the rumors today are wild as ever.”

Angela shot them a warning glance, but that only seemed to make them more eager.

“What rumors?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

Jessica made a dramatic gesture with her hands.

 “Well, everyone is talking about Emmett’s incident.”

“The one with the tomato sauce?” I asked.

Lauren leaned over the table, lowering her voice as if sharing a forbidden secret.

 “Let’s say the official version now is that Emmett spilled the sauce on you on purpose—and to avoid suspension, he gave you his jacket. Or maybe…” Her lips curled into a mocking smile. “…because he likes you, and that was his way to ‘get your attention.’” She let out a short, derisive laugh. At least we agreed it was stupid.

“Or maybe because you’re like… some sort of mysterious and violent girl…” Jessica added, amusement poorly concealed behind her words.

I frowned, pressing my lips into a dry grimace. “For real?”

“You know how small towns are,” Angela said, swatting their arms. “People love to make up stories.”

“Talking about stories! I’ve heard one that’s really interesting.” Lauren clapped her hands, pulling the boys’ attention away from their whispered bet.

“My mom heard something about your former school—a private school for rich kids and a horrible incident…” She stretched the pause, savoring the way every gaze at the table locked on me. I wondered if Caelum would get mad if I smashed one of my classmates’ faces into a food tray on my second day at this high school.

I took a deep breath, loosening my grip on my tray. It wasn’t worth it. Rumors changed every day. They always did.

“Well, it could be just a silly rumor,” Lauren continued, her voice dripping with false innocence. “But tell us— is it true that you stabbed your boyfriend with a plastic spoon?”

Her tone was playful, as if she just told a smart joke, instead of checking in for a good slap, I wanted to throw up to the word “boyfriend” and my stomach twisted into a knot. “No.”

My left eye twitched, and the shadows, noting my sudden mood shift, they began to writhe with the sound of bones breaking and twitching, they crawled under the table, hitting sharply one of its legs. The table vibrated hard and one of the boys’s trays almost knocking his drink off.

A murmur spread through the air. I froze myself. I hadn't wanted to–that hadn't happened since…

I squeezed my eyes, counting silently and taking a deep breath that surely made me look crazy, forcing the shadows to gather themselves like a retracting whip. My heart was hammering in my chest and I felt on the verge of losing control that I couldn't allow myself. Not here. Not now.

I stood without saying anything else. I took my backpack, forcing a small smile to Angela and spoke with the softest voice I could produce. “Thank you for Inviting me… but I think I’ll have lunch by myself from now on.”

As I walked away, the shadows crawled behind me, leaving an unsettling whisper in their wake. The echoes of the students’ voices seemed to quiver, like sound itself was holding its breath.

Outside, the cold air hit me in full force as I crossed the back door of the school. I wasn’t thinking about where to go—I just walked, letting the noise of the cafeteria and hallways fade behind me. The wet pavement turned to gravel, and before I even noticed, I was near the forest’s tree line.

I stopped, my backpack sliding off one shoulder. The relief I’d been craving never came. Instead, the pressure in my chest grew heavier. My breathing turned shallow—quick and uneven, like the world itself had its hands around my throat.

The shadows slithered around my legs, tense and excited. Their buzzing climbed up my spine and spread through my head, fogging my thoughts. Every time I tried to take a deep breath, they vibrated harder, escalating my anguish, clearly trying to make me collapse.

I curled in on myself, hugging my belly. My heart hammered faster and faster, and I felt like I might pass out. In front of me, the forest seemed to spin and shrink all at once.

“No… stop,” I whispered, but my voice cracked, trembling pathetically.

The shadows didn’t stop. They tangled around my ankles, slowing my steps, making me feel trapped—like they were trying to bury me alive. I gasped, suffocating. The only sounds were the buzzing, my ragged breathing, and the creeping certainty that if I didn’t ground myself, I’d lose control in front of anyone who might see me.

“I SAID STOP!” My scream tore out of me, raw and broken, as my open palms slammed against the trunk of a tree.

The impact made my hands burn. The bark scraped my skin, leaving tiny cuts that bled in thin, stinging lines. The shadows recoiled, twitching like a whip against the ground. Then everything went silent—so silent my ears buzzed, and for a moment, I was back in the isolation of the psychiatric hospital.

I dropped to my knees, my forehead nearly touching the wet earth. My breathing grew shallower still. The air came in, but it wasn’t enough. I was shaking. I wanted to cry, but there were no tears left—just a cold emptiness that made me feel hollow.

When I finally managed to stand, my knees ached from pressing into the damp ground. I shook out my hands, now full of tiny splinters, and forced myself to breathe deeply, even though the air still tasted like rusty iron.

I wasn’t going back to school. Not after that scene. And definitely not after leaving without asking for a pass.

I tightened the straps of my backpack and took the narrow road that led to Caelum’s house. The pavement was still wet from the morning drizzle, and each step echoed louder than it should, like the world was listening.

The silence didn’t last.

As if fate had decided that if I was going to have a mental breakdown, the weather should match, a light but freezing drizzle began to fall—coating my skin, soaking through my clothes, and draping every inch of this miserable town in cold.

Behind me, the sound of an engine crept slowly, like it didn’t want to reach me too soon.

I tensed, casting a quick glance over my shoulder. A car was crawling along the empty road, following me.

The shadows reacted before I did, snaking across the asphalt like they could sense the intrusion. My throat tightened.

The vehicle slowed, then stopped beside me.

The driver’s window rolled down, revealing a wide, overconfident smile.

“Are you lost, mate?” Emmett asked, leaning a massive arm on the window frame.

Beside him, Rosalie looked at me with a much colder expression. Her gaze flicked to my bleeding hands, then quickly back to my face. Her eyes were darker now—no longer golden, but a deep, unreadable brown.

I stayed still, backpack hanging awkwardly from one shoulder, pulse racing.

“What were you doing out here?” Emmett added, tilting his head. “Classes haven’t finished yet.”

The shadows wrapped around my ankles again, waiting.

“I could ask the same thing,” I replied, voice trembling slightly as a gust of wind cut through me, chilling me to the bone.

“Touché, then…” Emmett chuckled. “Want a ride? There’s room. Alice and Jasper left a while ago.”

He gestured to the empty seats in the back.

I pressed my lips into a flat line and shook my head as the rain kept falling, the shadows beginning to flicker again.

“No, thanks. I’ll go alone.”

Rosalie raised an eyebrow, her voice soft but edged.

 “Walking in the rain?”

I didn’t know what to say.

The silence stretched, awkward and heavy, until Emmett cleared his throat and spoke with a voice so gentle it almost didn’t match his size—his eyes wide, almost pleading.

“Come on, Vhisa, please? You’re going to get sick. And besides, my mom will kill me if she finds out I let a classmate walk home alone in the rain.”

He pouted dramatically, gripping the steering wheel like it might help his case.

Rosalie rolled her eyes at his performance and, without waiting for my answer, stepped out of the car. Her heels clicked against the wet pavement as she walked around to my side.

Fuck! Even drenched, she looked stunning, of course she did.

She opened the back door in front of me—a clear invitation, impossible to refuse.

And against my better judgment, I got in.

The soft seat soaked instantly beneath me, the shadows twisting wildly in the confined space I now shared with the Cullens. Rosalie returned to her seat, and Emmett started driving.

The ride was quiet. Not peaceful—charged. The kind of silence that buzzed just beneath the surface, broken only by the steady patter of rain on the roof. I stared out the window, fingers clenched around my backpack, the shadows curling like they wanted to escape through the fogged glass.

Then Rosalie reached forward and opened the glove compartment with a sharp metallic click that sounded far too loud in the tension. From it, she pulled out a first aid kit—neatly rolled bandages and a bottle of clear liquid I recognized instantly by the smell: antiseptic.

I turned to her, frowning. But before I could speak, she extended her hand toward me, waiting.

I hesitated. It was strange. Unexpected. But in the end, I gave in, slowly offering her my injured hands.

Her cold fingers wrapped firmly around mine as she began to clean the blood away. The disinfectant-soaked cotton burned more than the cuts themselves. Rosalie didn’t flinch. Her features were carved in icy concentration as she tossed the bloodied pads to the floor and wrapped the bandage around my hand, adjusting it until it was perfect. Then she took the other, repeating the process—methodical, impeccable.

I watched her in silence, all too aware of how strange this closeness was.

The shadows, however, were anything but quiet. They thrashed against the floor of the car, clawing at the air as if trying to push Rosalie away from me. Their agitation pulsed through me, a warning, a protest. But I didn’t move.

Rosalie’s touch was clinical, but not unkind. Her hands were steady, her focus unwavering. And despite the chaos inside me, despite the shadows screaming for distance, I let her tend to me.