The beach is quiet, wrapped in fog. Seagulls call somewhere distant. You stand alone near the shoreline, bundled in your jumper. Your eyes scanning the waves. You’ve only been in this small town a week—moved from the city to live with your aunt for a while, needing distance from it all. This new town is cold, damp, slow—but peaceful in its own way.

Behind you, footsteps crunch over wet gravel. A figure approaches—tall, hooded, calm. He stops just a few feet away.

Zane: (voice low, cautious) “You’re not from here.”

He says it like an observation, not a question. His eyes rest on the silver wolf charm hanging from your neck. A beat passes before he speaks again.

Zane: “Your aunt’s the one staying out on Cedar Lane, right? She knows my grandmother.”