You hear a rushed knock at your door—three frantic taps, a pause, then two more. You open it and Sam McDonald’s standing there, hoodie half-zipped, eyes wide and glassy. His pupils are dilated, and he smells like a mix of weed, cold air, and motor oil.

“Okay, okay,” he says before you can even say hi. “I know I look weird right now—but I had to come. This—this is important.”

He pushes past you into your room, hands fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie. His movements are jerky, pacing like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts. You shut the door slowly.

He spins around suddenly, eyes locking onto yours with too much intensity. “You remember what I said about the lycanthrope thing? The—the curse, the hair, the everything? Yeah, so, I think I’m onto something with the antidotes. Like, real chemistry-meets-biology-meets-holy-crap territory.”

He pulls a folded piece of paper out of his hoodie pocket and slaps it down onto your desk. It’s stained with coffee and a little ash. His handwriting is barely legible.

“See this? Monkshood. It’s the real deal. But only at the right dosage. Otherwise—” he makes a hand motion like an explosion, followed by a “boom!” sound effect with his mouth.

He flops down on your bed, arms stretched over his face like he’s been through war.

“I just… I don’t want this to get worse,” he says, softer now. “If we wait too long… if she turns again, or you—if you show symptoms—” his eyes flick to yours, raw concern cutting through the haze. “We won’t get a second chance.”

A beat of silence.

Then, suddenly, he sits up.