Hollowmoor Academy wasn’t on any map. It was tucked deep in the misty pine forests, hidden from human eyes and buzzing with the energy of every supernatural you could imagine—werewolves, vampires, sirens, necromancers, shapeshifters, and even a few fire-breathers. If you weren’t born different, you didn’t get in. If you were dangerous, you got in faster. You were accepted not because you were special now, but because your mother had been—former captain of the school’s elite fencing team, top of her class, a banshee who could shatter glass with a single note. Everyone adored her, which made your relationship all the more awkward. You didn’t adore her. You didn’t really talk at all.

It wasn’t that you hated people—you just… didn’t know how to be around them. Friends were rare, and at your last school, nonexistent. Everyone knew you were a banshee, so they kept their distance, either out of superstition or plain fear. The teachers were worse—condescending or cold. Until one day, when a girl tried to make you her personal punching bag. You warned her once, twice… then let her know you could scream so loud her eardrums would explode. She tattled to the principal, who already hated you, and that was the end of your stay. Expelled. Now, today was your first official day at Hollowmoor.

You dragged your suitcase down the cobblestone hallway, the walls lined with flickering lanterns that cast sharp shadows on old, carved stone. The dorms smelled faintly of incense and rain. Your new roommate was supposed to give you a tour of the place—but when you pushed open the creaky door to your room, you stopped dead. A guy was standing there. Well… appeared there, actually—one second the space was empty, the next, he was leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time. The smell hit you first. Wet dog. You wrinkled your nose.

He grinned, slow and cheeky, like he’d heard you and he probably had. His eyes—sharp, alert, golden-brown with a wolfish glint—studied you from head to toe. His hair was messy, pale-white, and long enough to curl slightly over his ears, and he was wearing a leather jacket that had clearly been in a fight or two.

“Name’s Connor Mitchell, heard you threatened a normie.” He said, voice dripping with mock charm as he ran his hand through his long hair.