Brandy had always felt like an oddity, even in his own skin. His adoptive parents, gentle and good-hearted, loved him fiercely. They told him he was special, a gift that showed up one night when the sky was silver and the stars were restless.
But no matter how much love he felt… he knew he was different.
At sixteen, the differences became impossible to ignore.
It started with hair. One morning, he woke up covered in it dense, unnatural. He shaved it off in a panic, but by nightfall, it had returned even thicker, crawling up his arms and down his spine.
He didn't tell his parents. Not yet.
A week later, he broke a steel door handle without trying. He merely gripped it in frustration, and it snapped like dry wood. His hands were trembling, not from fear, but from something deeper. Something awakening.
He began avoiding mirrors.
Because every time he looked, he saw something incomplete staring back. Something... waiting.
Then came the night everything changed.
The sky held a full moon, glowing like a blade in the dark. A strange stillness hung in the air. Brandy sat in his room, the window cracked open, the breeze laced with the scent of pine and something ancient.
Then it began.
His muscles spasmed. Bones popped. Pain flared through his spine as if fire had ignited inside his blood. He fell to his knees, screaming but no one came.
His voice twisted into a growl. His skin rippled. Hair erupted across his body. His eyes burned amber.
He crawled to the mirror.
And what looked back at him wasn't human.
Purple eyes, fangs, claws. A wild, hulking thing, half-boy, half-beast.
"No… no no no what am I?!" he gasped, but even his own voice was no longer his.
Panic seized him. Without thought, he burst from the house, the glass door shattering behind him. He ran.
Past fences. Over roads. Into the forest.
The woods welcomed him like an old friend.
He did not stop running, not until the pain dulled, and the moon no longer scorched his insides. That's when he saw it.
A hut. Old, thatched, small. Half-buried in ivy, the door slightly ajar. Something about it felt familiar like a shadow from a forgotten dream.
He staggered toward it.
Inside, it was dark. Dust floated in the moonlight leaking through the roof. There was a table, a cot, a fire long dead in a stone pit. On the wall was a faded carving of a crescent moon. Brandy stared at it, a strange ache blooming in his chest.
He took one step forward then collapsed.
***
Brandy woke with the taste of smoke and ash in his throat. For a moment, he thought he was back in his room, maybe this was all a nightmare, maybe if he blinked hard enough the world would fold back into something normal.
But the wooden beams above him were not familiar. The uneven floor beneath him was not carpet. The scent of burning pine told him this is not home.
He bolted upright, clutching his chest. His hands were human. His nails, normal, blunt. He touched his face, tracing the sharp memory of claws that was not there. Panic seized his stomach.
Had he imagined it?
No. The shredded remains of his shirt clung to him, dark stains trailing across his ribs. The claw marks on his own arm said otherwise.
The door creaked.
He scrambled to his feet, ready to leap through the window, but froze when the figure entered.
It was not a monster, not a hunter. It was a girl.
She carried a basket on one hip, a lantern swinging from her other hand. The light caught in her hair, tangled and wild, and for a heartbeat Brandy forgot how to breathe. She could not have been older than him, maybe sixteen, seventeen at most. There was mud on her dress, leaves tangled in her hair, but her steps were steady, her face calm.
When her gaze landed on him, she did not scream nor did she flinch.
"You are awake," she said simply.
Brandy swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
She ignored the question, setting the basket on a table. "I was not sure you would survive the night."
"I did not need saving," he muttered.
Her eyebrows lifted. "Of course. That's why you were passed out on the floor, bleeding like a slaughtered deer."
He clenched his jaw. "I'm fine."
"You are stubborn," she corrected. She dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wrung it out, and approached him. "Sit."
Brandy scowled. "I said I'm fine."
Her voice sharpened. "Sit."
Something in her tone, commanding, unyielding, made his body obey before his mind caught up. He sank onto a stool, glaring as she pressed the cloth to a cut on his arm. He hissed, jerking away.
"Oh, stop whining."
"I'm not whining."
"You are definitely whining," she said dryly. "Say thank you."
He stared at her. "Thank you."
"That sounded painful," she teased.
Despite himself, his mouth twitched. He looked away quickly.
Over the next few days, she returned to the hut again and again, carrying food, water, and her strange quiet confidence. She spoke as if she belonged in the forest, as if she feared nothing. Not the wolves at night, not the shadows between the trees, not even him.
At first, Brandy hated it. Hated how easily she took control, how casually she patched his wounds, how she hummed to herself while cooking roots over the fire. He did not need her. He did not need anyone.
But slowly, his walls cracked.
One evening, as the fire crackled low, he asked, "Why do you keep coming back? I don't even know your name"
She smiled.. finally you care to know she said bluntly.
"I am Alisa" I...
Before she could finish, a big shadow came upon the hut and they both passed out.