The apartment is silent.
Alana stands in the center of her living room, keys still clutched in her hand, rainwater dripping from her coat onto the hardwood floor. The streetlights outside cast pale rectangles across the white walls, but she doesn't turn on the lamp.
She can't move.
Her phone burns in her pocket. Heavy. Demanding.
She pulls it out. Stares at the screen.
*"I never stopped loving you. I never stopped fighting for you. Meet me tonight. Please. - A"*
Her thumb hovers over the message.
*Delete.*
She swipes left. Taps the red button.
Message gone. Clean. Simple.
She drops the phone onto the coffee table. Walks to the kitchen. Opens the fridge.
Empty. A bottle of white wine, half-finished from weeks ago. A container of leftover takeout that should have been thrown out days ago. A wilted head of lettuce.
She closes the fridge. Leans against the cold steel door.
*Werewolf.*
*Poison.*
*Murder.*
The words pulse in her head. Alexander's voice echoes in her memory.
*"This poison caused your miscarriage. It wasn't an accident."*
She presses her palms against her eyes. Tries to push it all away.
The rain. Focus on the rain.
It hammers against the windows. A constant, rhythmic assault. Seattle in November. Grey. Wet. Cold.
She used to love the rain. Used to stand on the balcony of their apartment—the apartment she shared with Alexander—and let it soak through her clothes. He'd stand behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.
*"It's cleansing," he'd say. "Washing away the old. Making room for the new."*
She shakes the memory away. Grabs the wine bottle. Doesn't bother with a glass—just drinks straight from the rim.
The wine is sour. Too old. She doesn't care.
She drinks until the bottle is empty. Until her head buzzes and her limbs feel loose.
Then she walks to the bedroom. Collapses onto the white duvet. Doesn't bother taking off her shoes.
Sleep comes fast.
And with it, the nightmare.
---
*Blood.*
*So much blood.*
She's on the bathroom floor. The tiles are cold against her cheek. Her hands are pressed between her thighs, trying to stop the flow, but it keeps coming. Warm. Sticky. Copper-scented.
*Pain.*
*Blinding, tearing, world-ending pain.*
She tries to scream, but her throat is raw. All she can manage is a whimper.
*"Alexander?"*
*Her voice is a ghost. A whisper. A prayer.*
*But he doesn't come.*
*The bathroom door is open. The apartment is silent. He's not there. No one is there.*
*Just her. And the blood. And the tiny, perfect thing that slips from her body into the water pooling on the tiles.*
*A baby.*
*Her baby.*
*Small and still and silent.*
*She reaches for it. Hands shaking. Tears streaming.*
*"Please," she begs. "Please, please, please."*
*But the baby doesn't cry.*
*It never will.*
---
Alana wakes with a gasp.
Her body jerks upright. Her hand flies to her abdomen, pressing against the scar hidden beneath her shirt.
The room is dark. The rain has stopped. Silence presses in from all sides.
She's soaked in sweat. Her heart slams against her ribs. Her throat is tight, like she's been screaming.
She stumbles out of bed. Runs to the bathroom. Falls to her knees in front of the toilet.
She retches. Nothing comes out but bile and sour wine.
She flushes. Leans against the cold porcelain tub. Tries to catch her breath.
*Five years.*
*Five years and the nightmare still feels like yesterday.*
She stands on shaky legs. Turns on the faucet. Splashes cold water on her face.
Then she looks in the mirror.
The woman staring back is unrecognizable.
Dark hair, tangled and damp from sweat. Grey eyes, red-rimmed and hollow. Skin pale as paper. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut. She looks like a ghost. A corpse. A woman who died five years ago and forgot to stop breathing.
Her hands tremble as she lifts the hem of her shirt.
The scar is there. Low on her abdomen. A jagged line where the doctors cut her open to save her life—and failed to save her womb.
She traces the scar with her fingertips. The skin is raised. Sensitive.
*Murder.*
*Alexander's voice echoes in her mind.*
*"This poison caused your miscarriage. It wasn't an accident."*
She presses harder. Feeling the tissue beneath. The emptiness where life used to grow.
*They killed my baby.*
*They took my chance to be a mother.*
A tear slips down her cheek. Then another. Then another.
She grips the edge of the sink. Knuckles white.
"Why now?" she whispers to her reflection. "Why come back after five years? Why tell me this now?"
The reflection doesn't answer.
But something flickers in her eyes. Something dark. Something wild.
For a fraction of a second, her grey eyes seem to flash. To shift. Like a storm cloud passing over the sun.
She blinks. It's gone.
She shakes her head. Turns away from the mirror.
The wine. The nightmare. The exhaustion. It's making her imagine things.
She walks back to the living room. Her phone is still on the coffee table, screen glowing with a notification.
She picks it up.
Twenty-three new messages.
All from the unknown number. All the same.
*"Please."*
*"Please."*
*"Please."*
*"I know you're reading this."*
*"I know you're scared."*
*"I know you hate me."*
*"But I need you to listen."*
*"I need you to understand."*
*"Please."*
*"Please."*
*"Please."*
*"I'm not going to stop. Not until you hear me out."*
*"I owe you the truth. All of it."*
*"Please, Lan. Just give me a chance."*
She scrolls through them. Her thumb moves mechanically. Her mind is numb.
*Twenty-three messages. Twenty-three "pleases."*
*Five years of silence. And now this. Desperation. Begging.*
She drops the phone. Walks to the window. Presses her forehead against the cold glass.
The city spreads out below her. Lights twinkling in the darkness. Cars moving like blood cells through the arteries of the streets. A million lives. A million stories.
None of them hers.
She thinks about the folder. The lab reports. The name circled in red.
*Aconitum napellus.*
*Wolfsbane.*
She thinks about Alexander's words.
*"Werewolf."*
*"Not fully human."*
It's insane. Impossible. The stuff of movies and nightmares and old legends.
But the lab reports were real. The medical data was real.
And the scar on her abdomen—the scar from a miscarriage that shouldn't have happened—that was real too.
She turns. Picks up the phone.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard.
She should block him. Delete his number. Walk away.
But she can't.
Because if he's telling the truth—if even a fraction of what he said is true—then everything she knows about her life is a lie.
And she needs to know.
She types one word.
*"Where?"*
The response comes instantly. As if he's been sitting by his phone, waiting for her.
*"Café Léo. 4th and Pike. 8 PM. Come alone."*
She checks the time. 6:47 PM.
One hour and thirteen minutes.
She walks to the bathroom. Turns on the shower. Steps under the scalding water.
She scrubs her skin until it's red. Scrubs away the sweat, the nightmare, the feeling of blood that isn't there.
She dries off. Pulls on jeans and a black sweater. Runs a brush through her hair. Applies minimal makeup—enough to hide the dark circles, not enough to look like she's trying.
She looks in the mirror again.
*Dr. Alana Blackwood. Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery.*
*Not a victim. Not a ghost. Not a broken woman.*
*A survivor.*
She grabs her coat. Her keys. Her phone.
Walks out into the night.
---
Café Léo is small. Warm. Tucked between a bookstore and a pawn shop on a quiet corner of Capitol Hill.
The windows are fogged with condensation. Inside, fairy lights twinkle over wooden tables. The smell of espresso and fresh pastries fills the air.
Alana stands outside. Rain has started again—a light drizzle that mists her hair. She hesitates.
*Last chance. Walk away. Forget him.*
She opens the door.
A bell chimes. A few patrons glance up—then go back to their laptops, their coffee, their conversations.
She scans the room.
There.
In the back corner. A booth partially hidden by a potted fern.
Alexander sits facing the door. His eyes find her immediately. He stands.
But he's not alone.
Alana freezes.
A woman sits across from him. Older. Elegant. Silver hair pulled back in a chignon. A cashmere coat draped over her shoulders. She's thin—painfully thin—but her posture is regal. Her cheekbones are sharp. Her eyes—
Her eyes are gold.
The same gold as Alexander's.
The woman turns. Looks at Alana.
And smiles.
It's a warm smile. Gentle. Kind. The smile of a mother welcoming a child home.
But there's something else in it too. Sadness. Regret. Guilt.
The woman raises a hand. Waves.
Alana's feet are rooted to the floor.
Alexander speaks first. "Alana. Thank you for coming."
She ignores him. Her eyes are fixed on the older woman.
The woman reaches out. Her voice is soft. Cultured. Smooth.
"Alana." She extends a hand. "I'm Elena. Alexander's mother."
Alana stares at her.
*Elena.*
*The woman from the wedding. The woman standing beside Marcus with cold, calculating eyes.*
But this woman is different. Frailer. Softer. Her skin is pale, almost translucent. Her wrist bones jut out sharply. She holds her side, as if protecting something fragile.
Sick. She looks sick.
Elena's smile falters. "I've waited five years to meet you."
Alana doesn't take the extended hand. She slides into the booth. Alexander sits beside his mother, his eyes never leaving Alana's face.
For a long moment, no one speaks.
The café noises fade into the background. The hiss of the espresso machine. The murmur of conversations. The tap of rain against the windows.
Alana looks at Elena. Really looks.
The older woman's eyes are hollow. Haunted. The eyes of someone who has seen too much. Lost too much.
"I don't understand," Alana says finally. "Why are you here?"
Elena glances at Alexander. He gives a small nod.
"To tell you the truth," Elena says. "All of it. Before it's too late."