Oliver didn't remember walking home.
One moment he was sitting in the courtyard, trying to steady his breathing.
The next he was standing in front of his house, hand on the doorknob, unsure how long he'd been there.
The fading afternoon sun hung low in the sky, and it pressed against his skin like a warning.
He swallowed.
He felt… off.
Not dizzy. Not sick.
Just wrong.
Like his body was a puzzle someone had scrambled and forced back together in the dark.
He pushed the door open.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. Usually the old wood creaked at least once when he came in, but now even the floor seemed hesitant to react to him—as if it sensed he wasn't the same.
Oliver kicked off his shoes and walked down the hallway. Every step echoed faintly, as though the house had grown deeper, wider, stranger. His ears twitched at the smallest sounds—the refrigerator humming, water dripping in the bathroom sink, the soft thud of his heartbeat in his chest.
It all felt unbearably loud.
He braced himself on the counter.
"This is… this is getting worse," he whispered.
His hands shook. His reflection in the microwave door caught his eye—pale skin, faint shadows under his eyes, and that strange silver shimmer circling his pupils when the light hit them just right.
He splashed cold water on his face.
It didn't help.
If anything, the cold felt comforting.
Welcoming.
Like it understood him in a way warmth never would again.
He leaned on the sink, gripping the edges.
"What did she do to me…"
He didn't want to think about her.
But the moment he did, the memory returned with ruthless clarity: moonlight on pale skin, a voice like velvet and steel, her breath brushing his ear.
"You'll understand… when the sun dies."
Oliver shuddered violently.
He stumbled to his room and collapsed onto his bed. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the dull ache in his chest pulse with each breath.
The house felt wrong.
The world felt wrong.
He felt wrong.
And beneath the confusion and fear, something else lurked.
A hunger.
It started as a faint gnawing in the back of his throat, something he'd been ignoring all day. But now, with the sun sinking lower, it grew sharper.
More insistent.
He tried to swallow it down.
It didn't budge.
He rubbed his chest, trying to ease the tightness. "No. No, no, no…"
A knock rattled his doorframe.
He jolted upright.
"Oliver?"
His mom's voice. "Dinner's ready."
His stomach twisted.
Dinner.
Food.
Warm food.
He didn't want it.
The very idea made his throat constrict.
But he forced himself to stand.
He needed to act normal.
He walked to the kitchen, trying to steady his breathing. His mom placed a plate in front of him—chicken, rice, vegetables. The aroma used to make him hungry.
Now?
He felt nothing.
He picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of chicken, and lifted it to his mouth. The moment he bit down, nausea slammed through him.
There was no taste. No satisfaction.
Just… emptiness.
Like eating ash.
He gagged and quickly covered it with a cough.
"You okay?" his mom asked, frowning.
"Yeah," he lied. "Just tired."
She watched him for a moment—too long—but eventually nodded and returned to rinsing a pan.
Oliver stared at the food, throat burning.
His heartbeat echoed in his ears.
This isn't what you want.
He pushed the plate away.
He wanted something else.
Something human instinct should've rejected.
Something he didn't dare name.
He stood, muttering something about homework, and escaped back to his room. He shut the door, locked it, and leaned against it, breathing hard.
His chest rose and fell in strained desperation.
He felt like he was drowning in a body that wasn't his.
He grabbed his phone, checking the time.
6:48 PM.
The sun would set in less than an hour.
And he could feel it.
Deep in his bones.
Like gravity pulling at him, urging him to move, to run, to hide, to—
A cold shiver crawled across his spine.
The voice came soft as a breath behind him:
"Night is nearly here, Oliver…"
He spun sharply.
No one was there.
But the shadows in the corner looked thicker than they should've been—almost breathing.
His throat tightened. "Stop… stop it…"
The air rippled.
Not visibly, not physically, but he felt it—her presence. Like she was brushing her fingers along the back of his neck.
A whisper.
A memory.
A calling.
He stumbled backward until he hit the wall, fists clenched.
"Leave me alone!"
Silence.
Then—
A soft laugh.
Not out loud, but in his mind.
A sound both beautiful and terrifying.
"You belong to the night. You always have… You simply didn't know it yet."
His breath caught.
"No," he whispered. "I'm not— I'm not like you."
The voice darkened, honey turning to steel.
"You are becoming. And the sun will not protect you for much longer."
A bolt of pain stabbed through his head. He clutched his temples, teeth grinding together. His vision blurred, colors sharpening in painful contrast.
He collapsed to his knees.
His breathing turned ragged.
His skin felt too tight.
His senses too sharp.
His heartbeat too loud.
The hunger clawed up his throat.
"No— stop— stop—!" He pressed his forehead to the carpet, trying to hold himself together. His chest trembled violently. "I'm human. I'm human!"
The whisper returned, soft enough to break him.
"You were."
And then—
Darkness.
Not fainting.
Not sleep.
Just… darkness.
Heavy and quiet and absolute.
And inside it—
a pair of crimson eyes opened.
Oliver gasped awake.
His room was dark now. The window showed only the faintest remnants of sunset. The world felt… still.
Too still.
The pain was gone.
The nausea gone.
The pressure gone.
But the hunger?
It had evolved.
It wasn't clawing anymore.
It was demanding.
He stood slowly, legs steady in a way that felt unnatural. His vision sharpened in the dark, every shape perfectly clear.
The shadows didn't hide anything from him now.
He stepped toward his window and looked at the horizon. The sun had vanished, leaving the sky bruised purple.
When the last sliver of light disappeared—
His heart stopped beating for two full seconds.
He felt it.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
Two long, cold, silent seconds.
Then—
thump.
His heart started again.
Slower.
Stronger.
Different.
Oliver staggered backward, gripping his chest. "No—no, please—"
But something inside him pulsed with anticipation.
A presence.
Her presence.
The air behind him chilled.
He didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
He knew she was there.
Or a part of her.
Watching.
Waiting.
"Night has claimed you."
Her voice slithered through the room like silk.
Oliver lifted his trembling gaze toward the mirror on his wall.
His reflection stared back.
His eyes—
They weren't normal.
The silver ring had sharpened, bright enough to catch light in the darkness.
And beneath his lip—
Just barely—
A glimpse of something sharper than teeth.
His breath shook.
"What… what am I becoming?"
The shadows behind him rippled, forming the silhouette of a woman—pale, elegant, ancient.
She whispered, voice colder than moonlight:
"Mine."
Oliver stumbled back, fear and hunger twisting violently inside him.
The transformation had begun.
And night was only getting started.