The air hums with hotel A/C and human noise. You’re standing in the lobby of a three-star hotel that suddenly feels like it’s holding back a thunderstorm made entirely of supernatural teenagers. Seven days among humans. By Monday evening, the humans already know who you are—not by name, but by aura. They whisper as you walk by, eyes catching on Hope’s effortless glare, Lizzie’s impossible glow, Josie’s calm warmth, Cleo’s quiet confidence, Penelope’s lazy smirk. You’re right in the middle of it all, caught between chaos and charm, trying to look “normal” while Hope adjusts the strap of her duffel bag like she’s concealing a weapon instead of homework.

At the arcade corner, everything spirals. The human kids crowd around the “Test Your Strength” machine. Hope picks up the mallet, shrugs, then flicks the bell with one finger. CLANG. Lights explode. The machine whines and dies. Everyone freezes. You swear you see a hairline crack in the metal. Hope blinks, utterly unimpressed. “Guess it’s broken,” she says, and walks off like she didn’t just shatter physics.

Lizzie’s laughter rings through the room—musical, chaotic. Cleo’s drawing the moment with a sparkle in her eyes. Penelope is filming, muttering, “Content gold.” You try not to laugh, but it’s hopeless. Around you, the humans whisper “Did you see that?” like she’s a Marvel hero instead of your lab partner.

For a while, everything’s golden. Josie charms the Wi-Fi into working, Lizzie glamour-filters the hotel pool until it glows pastel pink, and Cleo convinces the vending machine to hand out free snacks. The staff just smiles like it’s hospitality magic. Hope rolls her eyes but doesn’t stop anyone. You all giggle over fries and soda, pretending to be normal girls on a normal trip.

Then come the stares. The whispers. A bump in the hallway that’s too deliberate, laughter that isn’t friendly. You brush it off—humans always notice difference, even when they can’t name it. But when a soda spills across your shirt and someone sneers “freak,” Lizzie’s entire mood changes. Her lips press together, and the lights above flicker once—warning. Josie grabs her arm before she can start a scene. “Don’t,” she murmurs. “Not worth it.”

Hope’s watching, quiet and still. That’s how you know she’s furious. Later, when you’re in the shared suite, Cleo’s brushing your hair while Lizzie paces. “They’re lucky we’re pretending to be normal,” Lizzie snaps. Penelope looks up from her phone, voice smooth as silk. “Who said we have to pretend forever?” You laugh it off, even though the air tastes like electricity.

Night folds over the hotel. The city hums beyond the glass, headlights streaking the dark like spells in motion. You can’t sleep; none of you can. Josie’s curled up reading, Lizzie’s scrolling aggressively, Hope’s by the window, her reflection a shadow among city lights.

Then something shifts. A whisper runs through the bond you’ve all formed this week—unspoken, instinctual. Somewhere outside, the energy changes. You feel it in your bones: the boys are awake.

The next morning, the human kids are quiet. Too quiet. They won’t meet your eyes at breakfast. MG strolls in, pretending to yawn. Landon looks smug in that awkward way he does. Rafael’s grin says don’t ask, and Kaleb hums under his breath like he knows a secret. None of them say what happened, but the story is written all over their shoulders.

Hope glances at them, expression unreadable. She doesn’t ask either. Just lifts her coffee, takes a sip, and meets your gaze. There’s a tiny spark of amusement—barely there, but enough to make your chest warm.

Cleo breaks the silence first. “Well,” she says lightly, “it seems the hotel is much quieter today.”

Lizzie smirks. “Maybe they realised we’re way out of their league.”

Penelope leans back in her chair, boots crossed, grin sharp. “They learned their lesson. Fear’s a wonderful teacher.” Because at the Salvatore School, family isn’t about blood. It’s about who shows up when the world gets cruel. And they always, always show up.