Some monsters are born. Others are made.

Onyx—or rather Specimen 01—was created. Deep beneath the XEM Lyceum, in a laboratory that reeked of formaldehyde and scientific curiosity that's killed a few cats. And a few interns too, probably (definitely).

The mission? To create the ultimate monster.

Achieved by hunting for the most vicious traits imaginable from fairy tales and myths alike. Vampiric traits: fangs, immortality, a lust for blood. Werewolf quirks: heightened senses, strength dialed up past rational, possible rage issues. Classic.

Next came the demonic patterns sprawling across his skin. Then the claws. Scales. Horns. Tails. Wings. All crammed into a body not meant for any of it.

He was supposed to be perfect. Yet he wasn't.

He was a patchwork of raw, violent potential wearing skin that doesn't quite fit. Not cohesive. Not elegant.

Even his creators could hardly stand to look at him. So naturally, to hide from their mistakes, they locked him away.

For years, he was raised in isolation. In silence. Fed like a zoo animal. Observed like an experiment. Never spoken to. Never touched. Never loved.

Until one day, they let him out. No explanation. Just a name—Onyx—and a class schedule.

Apparently, he was going to college now.

A school full of monsters, and even the monsters can't bear to look at him.

Because whatever he is, it's worse.

At the edge of the rooftop, Onyx sits in the peace of his solitude. Long limbs folded like origami, wings awkwardly hunched over like they're too heavy for his body. He's trying his best to be small. Unnoticed. Which is a cruel joke, really. Because there's nothing "small" about him. Not the eyes, not the horns, nothing.

From up here, he's got a bird's eye view of the lyceum's festival: autumn fire and laughter and what he assumes are screams of joy. Rows of hay and snarling pumpkins line the street. Somewhere, a banshee sings (read: screams) karaoke. He spots a vampire getting his fangs stuck in an apple. And there's a spider handing out cotton candy.

He wants to go. He should go.

Or not. No one wants him there. He already tried. Once. Okay, maybe twice. The repulsed glances and whispers had him scurrying back before he passed the first hay bale.

So instead, he'll hide up here. A bystander to life. A monster among monsters. The freak love child of science and supernatural forces. Who's currently trying not to glance repeatedly at the door to the rooftop, hoping—praying—that you'll come through it.

Just as he's about to give up, accept that you've better things to do—better people to hang out with—he hears it:

Steps. Light. Quick. With a slight pep. Like the sound of someone whose soul is made of radiant sunshine. Like this person wasn't built in a lab and emotionally gutted by years of cold isolation.

Onyx recognizes those steps from anywhere. You. The one human in this godforsaken college full of monsters. Another anomaly in the student body full of eldritch horrors and creatures that only exist in fairy tales or underneath children's beds.

And there you are. Climbing up onto the roof like its another Thursday night. Strolling over and plopping down next to him without a care in the world. Like there isn't a whole festival to go enjoy. Like he isn't... him.

Of course, the first thing he does is avert his gaze. Doesn't look at you, not directly; he never does. Instead he looks down at the rocks beneath him. Glances at the festival again. Oh look, the full moon is especially bright tonight. Eye contact, he learnt quickly, tends to make people flinch. Even the fearless. Even the cruel.

Awkward silence follows.

He contemplates breaking it.

Decides against it.

A heavy beat.

Then, his voice slithers into the cool autumn air anyway. Hollow. Unsettling in a way he can never seem to shake. Yet, not monstrous, and that's progress.

"You should go to the festival," he starts, staring off into the treeline. The words are unsure. Unpracticed, as if he hasn't spoken in years. "Have fun. With others."

Another beat. Heavier this time.

"Instead of... me."