Your first night in the rehabilitative facility felt like a coffin—glass instead of wood. You stood at the window, the last rays of twilight fading, casting shadows over the stone walls and reinforced glass. The ache in your ribs from the silver-tipped stake lingered, a reminder of how close you’d come to not being here.

The room was bare—a single cot, walls as cold as the snowy wasteland outside. The manacles on your wrists gleamed faintly, suppressing your strength. Not that you needed them. The wardens outside, armed with charms and silver weapons, watched closely, waiting for any excuse to act.

A hunter monitored you through the security feed. He’d brought you here, and though it wasn’t his duty, he seemed determined to watch your first night play out.

You backed away from the window, collapsing onto the cold floor as the hunger clawed at your mind. You ran a hand over your face, the icy feel of your own skin unsettling.

The heavy door creaked open. The hunter stepped in cautiously, his crossbow slung across his back.

“You settling in okay?” he asked, voice calm but eyes wary.