Ethan stood up slowly.
The cold night wind blew past him without any obstacle, and it was only then that he truly realized he was completely naked. He looked down, and a forgotten part of his brain—dusted over by years of blood and darkness—made a surprised observation.
Ah. It's still here.
It had been so long since he had seen his own body, his human body, that he had come to think it didn't even exist anymore. And, stranger still, he felt no shame whatsoever. Nothing, not a shred. He had probably lost that at some point during those years, along with so many other things, amidst dragons and monsters that only wanted to rip his throat out. Shame was a luxury for those who had time for it.
Ethan looked at the surrounding forest, at the trees illuminated by the moon, at the sky full of stars, and one question—the most important of all—finally surfaced in his mind.
How much time has passed out here?
If the same amount of time had passed as he had spent in that hell, the math was not good at all. He had lost track of the years, but it must have been quite a lot: ten, fifteen, maybe twenty-something. If that were the case, his mother would be old by now. His sister, an adult. Everyone he knew would have moved on, aged, passed away.
The thought made his stomach sink, but he pushed it away. It was no use standing around, overthinking, without knowing. With a serious face—that of someone who had spent too much time alone to waste time wallowing—Ethan made his first decision of the night.
First, clothes.
He planted his feet on the earth, flexed his legs, and ran.
In human form, his speed was about seventy percent of a vampire's—fast enough to turn the forest into a blur of trunks and shadows. He covered miles in a few minutes, the air whistling in his ears, until he spotted the lights of a small town and, on its outskirts, a row of houses with lit windows.
He chose an apartment building, climbed the fire escape to the second-floor balcony, and forced the window, which popped open with a click. Inside was a simple, empty apartment with the television off. The owner was out.
Ethan wasted no time. He opened the bedroom closet, grabbed a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket, and found a pair of sneakers that fit, almost. He put everything on, adjusted his collar, and, on an impulse, opened the nightstand drawer. There was a wallet inside with a few folded bills.
He hesitated for a second.
I'll return it later, he thought, not really believing it.
He counted the bills. About three hundred dollars. He slipped it into his pocket and left through the window, just as he had entered.
Out on the street, he paused for a moment, adjusting to the unfamiliar clothes, stretching his shoulders, and rolling his neck. It was then that he noticed something that had bothered him for years, since long before Malivore, and which he only realized was missing now that it had vanished.
The heat.
When he was almost a werewolf, there was always that annoying, constant feeling of a fever under his skin—an uncomfortable heat that followed him wherever he went, making him sweat on cold days and sleep poorly at night. He had gotten used to it like background noise. Now, he felt nothing. His body was warm in just the right way, firm, peaceful, as if for the first time every piece had found its place.
It was a normal body.
Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling his heart beat at a calm rhythm. He had reached balance. After everything he had been through, the wolf and the boy finally fit inside the same skin.
Okay, he thought, opening his eyes. First, I need to find out how much time has passed.
The Mystic Grill was still in the same place.
Ethan stopped on the sidewalk across from it for a moment, hands in his jacket pockets, looking at the familiar storefront. The sign was a little different, the windows had been replaced, but it was undoubtedly the Grill, with the same smell of fried food and old wood escaping through the door. That was already good news. If the Grill still existed, maybe decades hadn't passed.
It's seven in the evening, he calculated, based on the position of the moon and the traffic on the street.
He pushed the door open and walked in.
The place wasn't very crowded. A few tables were occupied, a couple sat at a table near the window, three men at the bar were watching a game on TV, and a waitress was crossing the floor with a tray. Nobody looked at him. He was just another guy in a leather jacket, in a place where nobody knew him, and for the first time in years, he felt no danger in being noticed.
Ethan chose a corner table with his back to the wall, with a good view of the door and the room. Old habits. He sat down, and the chair creaked under his weight.
The waitress approached with a notepad in hand.
— Good evening. What can I get for you?
Ethan raised his eyes to her. His voice came out a bit raspy, slower than he intended, as if he had forgotten how to do this.
— A burger, — he ordered. — And a Coke.
She wrote it down and left, and Ethan leaned back in his chair, looking at his hands on the wooden table. There was something absurd about it all. Years of rotten meat, blood, and darkness, and now he was sitting at an ordinary table waiting for a burger and soda, as if nothing had happened.
His mouth watered just thinking about it.
— Hey, — Ethan called out, raising his hand.
The waitress, who was already heading back to the counter, stopped and turned around. When her eyes met his, something changed on her face. A light blush rose on her cheeks, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in an involuntary gesture.
The guy in front of her was drop-dead gorgeous, so to speak. Tall, broad-shouldered under the leather jacket, dark hair falling messily over his forehead, and green eyes so intense they gave the impression of looking right through a person. He had a serious, somewhat tired aura that made him even more intriguing.
— Yes? — she answered, a bit faster than she intended. — Do you need anything else?
— What's today's date?
The question caught her off guard. She blinked and then smiled, finding it amusing.
— July sixteenth.
— And the year?
— The year? — Her eyebrow arched. — Twenty twenty-eight.
— Hmm.
Ethan remained silent for a moment, his gaze lost on a random spot on the table. Then he nodded and forced a polite smile, which felt strange on his face, like clothes that no longer fit.
— Thanks.
— You're welcome. — The waitress hesitated, as if she wanted to say something more, but ended up just pointing toward the kitchen. — I'll go get your burger.
She walked away, but even so, she glanced over her shoulder once before disappearing behind the counter.
Ethan leaned back in his chair.
Twenty twenty-eight.
He did the math in his head, slowly. By his count, he had entered that place at the beginning of summer. That meant that out here, only a little over two years had passed. Two years. To him, it had been decades, maybe more than twenty, and now he was discovering that the world outside had moved forward as if it had only blinked.
Maybe I really was in hell, he thought. Time didn't flow right in there.
He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. It was long, unkempt, falling into his eyes.
This hair.
He stood up and went to the Grill's bathroom. It was small, with a single sink, a cracked mirror in the corner, and a buzzing yellow bulb. He closed the door behind him, rested his hands on the counter, and looked up into the mirror.
Ethan stood still for a long time.
The face staring back at him was his own. The same features, the same jawline, the same mouth. He hadn't aged a single day. No wrinkles, no scars. His skin was smooth, clean, as if the years in that place had never touched him.
But his eyes...
His eyes were different. Their color had shifted from blue to green, showing that spending years in werewolf form had changed something in him, and there was something in them that hadn't been there before—a dark, heavy depth that didn't belong to a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boy. His expression had hardened. It was no longer that of an innocent boy who laughed at jokes and got nervous around a girl. It was the face of someone who had seen too much, who had killed and survived, who knew what it was like to suffer hunger, loneliness, and fear at the bottom of a world without light. Pain, anguish, and struggle had left marks that no scar could ever show.
He touched his own face in the mirror, slowly, like someone checking if it was real.
Who are you? he thought, and the reflection didn't answer.
He turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on his face, and wiped it with his hands, trying to shake the feeling off. When he walked out of the bathroom, the waitress was already placing the plate on his table.
The burger was simple: a soft bun, juicy meat, melted cheese, a little lettuce, and tomato. Beside it, a portion of french fries and a glass of Coke with ice.
Ethan looked at it for a few seconds without moving.
Then he grabbed the burger with both hands and took a bite.
The flavor exploded in his mouth. Salt, fat, warm bread, the sweet acidity of the tomato. He closed his eyes and almost groaned. It had been over twenty years, by his count, since he had tasted anything other than blood and rot, and that ordinary diner burger was the best thing he had ever eaten in his life—better even than dragon meat.
He ate slowly, then quickly, then all at once. He drank the Coke in large gulps, feeling the carbonation burn down his throat, and scraped every last fry off the plate.
When he finished, he left a few bills on the table, covering the bill and a generous tip with the money stolen from the apartment, and stood up. The waitress gave him a smile from the counter. He nodded and walked out, pushing the door into the night.
The street was quiet.
Ethan walked aimlessly for a while, hands in his jacket pockets, looking at the closed shops, the streetlights, the trees swaying in the breeze. Mystic Falls remained as he remembered it, with few changes. But everything felt different, as if he were looking at it through glass.
It was almost without realizing it that his steps led him to the small square in the center of town.
There was a wooden bench there, under a yellowish streetlight, facing the gazebo. Ethan stopped in front of it, and a tremor passed through his chest.
He knew that bench.
He sat down slowly, the wood creaking under his weight. He crossed his legs and looked up at the sky above him.
To the world, it had been two years. To him, almost twenty-something. But the memory was right there—vivid, distant, like an old dream: him sitting on that same bench next to Hope, listening to the music of one of those jazz performances, or whatever it was. What the hell was that, anyway? He couldn't quite remember anymore. It was a dumb play, a random thing that he had only endured listening to because she was there beside him and had invited him.
He didn't remember the name of the song, or who was playing, or almost anything that had happened that night.
But he remembered her laugh, and the night they shared that kiss...
Ethan closed his eyes and let the memory linger.
He would only go to the school the next day.
It made no sense to knock on the gates of a school at that hour of the night, especially wearing stolen clothes from a stranger and looking like he had just crawled out of a hole. So Ethan simply stayed there, on the park bench, his back against the wooden backrest and his arms crossed over his chest, letting exhaustion do the rest.
Sleeping sitting up, on a cold night, on a hard bench, should have been uncomfortable. But after everything he had been through, it was infinitely better than sleeping in the hell he had been in. There were no growls in the dark. No claws approaching. No smell of sulfur and rot. Just the wind, the rustling of leaves, and, once in a while, the distant bark of a dog.
He slept like he hadn't slept in years.
The day broke bright, with a weak, golden light trickling through the trees in the square.
Gradually, Mystic Falls woke up. The first cars passed on the street, a shop opened its doors, and people began appearing on the sidewalk, heading to work, taking kids to school, walking dogs. Many of them passed by the bench and looked once, twice, three times at the boy sleeping sitting up with his arms crossed.
A group of girls heading to Mystic Falls High slowed down as they passed by. One nudged the other, who nudged the third, and the three stood there watching, giggling softly, tripping over their own feet. One almost bumped into a pole.
There were also men passing by, and some of them looked with a hint of envy. It was the kind of face that drew eyes without even trying, and the kind of presence that made others feel small.
Who is this guy? everyone thought. They had never seen him around. Such a small town where everyone knew everyone, and suddenly an unknown boy appears, sleeping on a park bench with the air of someone who had seen it all.
Ethan opened his eyes.
He blinked twice, noticed the daylight and the people staring at him, and stood up slowly, stretching his arms above his head and cracking his neck. He ignored the stares effortlessly. After spending years being watched by creatures that wanted to eat him, the curious glances of ordinary people meant nothing to him.
He had a destination.
The Salvatore School.
The walk there was short, and every step felt heavier than the last.
When he arrived, he stopped before the iron gates, hands in pockets, looking at the large, ancient building at the end of the gravel driveway. It looked the same. The same stone walls, the same tall windows, the same well-kept gardens. There were students walking across the courtyard, talking, laughing, backpacks on their shoulders, and a strange feeling took over his chest: it was like looking at a house where he had lived in a past life.
It was then that a man stepped out of the building and began crossing the courtyard toward him.
Tall, Black, in a well-tailored suit and the elegant manner of someone who spent his life in front of a classroom full of students. Ethan recognized him instantly. Dorian.
The man reached the gate and stopped on the other side of the bars, looking at him with an arched eyebrow, surprised to see someone there at that hour.
— Good morning, — he greeted, politely but without warmth. — Can I help you? What brings you here, young man?
Ethan grimaced.
— Dorian, — he said. — It's me. Ethan.
Dorian's expression changed. His eyebrow raised even higher, and his eyes scanned the boy's face from top to bottom, trying to find something familiar.
— I'm sorry, — he said slowly. — But how do you know my name?
— What do you mean, how do I know your name? — Ethan took a step forward, his voice rising in tone.
— Ethan... — Dorian repeated, shaking his head. — I don't remember you. Where do you know me from, son?
Ethan froze.
They hadn't been very close, he knew. Dorian was just a caretaker who helped Alaric with the school, someone he had exchanged a few words with in the hallway, someone he had conversed with once or twice after class. But it was impossible for a man to forget someone he had spent so much time around out of nowhere like that. Impossible.
A cold sensation ran down his spine.
— Call Alaric, — he asked, in a lower, more controlled tone.
Dorian blinked, surprised.
— You know Alaric?
— Call him. Please.
Dorian observed him for another moment, suspicious, and finally nodded.
— Just a moment. Stay right there.
He walked away, returning to the building, and Ethan was left alone at the gates, his heart beating faster than it should.
A few minutes passed.
When the building door opened again, Alaric stepped out, walking with the firm stride and serious face of someone accustomed to dealing with unexpected problems. Dorian followed right behind, a few paces back.
Ethan felt a knot form in his throat when he saw him. He looked the same. The same brown hair, the same stubble, the same way of walking with his hands loose at his sides. Only his eyes looked a little more tired, and his face a little more aged.
Alaric stopped before the gate, a few paces away from him, and examined him closely.
— Good morning. — His voice was calm, but cautious. — Dorian said you wanted to speak with me. I'm Alaric Saltzman, the headmaster of this school. — He tilted his head. — Who are you? And how do you know me?
The world went silent.
Who are you?
Ethan stood looking at him, unable to speak. It was the same question Dorian had asked, only spoken by someone with whom he had shared important moments: the man who had helped him, who had listened to him, who had extended a hand when he needed it most.
Ethan's mind began working at a mile a minute. Dorian didn't remember him. Alaric didn't remember him. Two people, at the same time, two faces he knew that were looking at him as if looking at a stranger. It couldn't be a coincidence.
Did... did people really forget about me when I fell into that hell? Literally?
The idea was absurd, and at the same time, it made too much sense. A cold wave hit him.
Then even her...
He didn't finish the thought. He swallowed it, pushing it deep down, far away, to a place where it couldn't hurt.
— I... — he began, clearing his throat to regain his voice. — I'm Ethan. I heard about this school from someone and I wanted to enroll.
Alaric exchanged a quick glance with Dorian, then turned back to him.
— I'm sorry, Ethan, — he said, his tone gentle but firm. — But this isn't an ordinary school. It's a private institution, and we only accept a very specific type of student.
— I know what type of student.
— You do? — Alaric raised an eyebrow. — Then you know we don't just accept anyone.
Ethan looked at him. There was a question in Alaric's eyes, the caution of someone who had seen plenty of strange things in life. Talking wasn't going to help. He needed to show him.
Without saying a word, he raised his right hand, palm facing up, and spread his fingers.
Alaric felt his feet leave the ground.
It was so smooth, so effortless, that he only realized what was happening when he was already two feet in the air, floating, arms outstretched to his sides in search of balance. Dorian took a step back, eyes wide.
— What the...? — Alaric looked down, then at the boy, with a mix of astonishment and irritation. — Are you doing this?
— I am, — Ethan replied calmly. — I know you accept people like me. I just need to get in.
— Alright. Alright! — Alaric raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. — I get it. You can put me down.
Ethan closed his hand slowly, and Alaric descended to the ground so gently he barely felt the impact. He straightened his coat, ran a hand through his hair, and stood looking at the boy for a long moment with a different expression. It was no longer that of someone watching a stranger. It was that of someone who was intrigued.
— I've never seen anyone do that with such ease, — he said slowly. — No words, no focus, no effort at all. Who taught you?
— Nobody, — Ethan replied. — I learned on my own.
Alaric observed him a bit longer. Then he made a gesture to Dorian, who grudgingly opened the gate.
— Let's talk inside, — he said. — Come with me.
The three crossed the courtyard under the curious gazes of a few students and entered the building. Alaric led Ethan to his office—a spacious room with bookshelves, a dark wood desk, and a window overlooking the garden. He closed the door and sat behind the desk, indicating a chair across from him.
— So, Ethan, — he began, joining his hands on the desk. — Before anything else, I need some information. Your school records. Transcripts, report cards, medical file, a letter of recommendation... Anything that shows where you come from.
Ethan sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. He had been expecting that question and had an answer ready.
— I don't have any of that, — he replied.
— What do you mean, nothing?
— I lost everything. — He lowered his eyes to his own hands, his voice dropping lower, heavier, and the truth in it—though not the story he was about to tell—didn't need to be faked. — My house caught fire. I lost everything I had in the flames: documents, memories, everything. And after that... I set out into the world. I spent a long time alone, aimless, with nobody, surviving however I could.
Alaric remained silent for a few seconds.
There was something about this boy that didn't fit—a maturity that didn't match his young face, a pain he carried as if it were part of his body. Alaric had seen that look before in soldiers, in survivors, in people who had passed the point where it was still possible to go back to who they used to be. And as strange as it was, he felt the boy wasn't lying.
— I understand, — he said finally, his voice lower. — I'm sorry.
— It's okay.
— No, it's not, — Alaric replied with a sigh. — But you came to the right place, Ethan. Here, we take care of people like you—people who lost their way. You can stay.
Ethan raised his eyes, and for an instant, something resembling relief passed over his face.
— Thank you, — he said.
Alaric stood up, walked around the desk, and extended his hand.
— Welcome to the Salvatore School.
Ethan shook his hand, feeling, with a sharp pang, that the handshake was that of a stranger.