The first light of dawn didn't simply enter the room—it bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the marble floors in rivers of gold and crimson that stretched toward the dark corners like reaching fingers. The city below was waking, a distant hum of traffic and distant lives, but Viran stood motionless at the window, shirtless, his bare chest still marked faintly from the previous night's spell—pale silver lines that pulsed once, twice, then faded into his skin like whispered secrets.
His red eyes stared at the city below.
But he wasn't seeing it.
He was seeing the toy.
A small, carved wooden wolf, no larger than his palm. Its body was sleek, frozen mid‑howl, snout tilted toward an unseen moon. The fur texture was so detailed that each strand seemed to shift in the light, as if the creature might suddenly draw breath and leap from its prison of wood. Its eyes—two chips of silver—caught the glow of dying embers and reflected them back like captured starlight. And the ears... two tiny, triangular ears, soft to the touch, as if the wood had been worn smooth not by sandpaper but by centuries of handling, of love, of someone's fingers tracing those edges in the dark.
How did it get there?
That toy belonged in my secret room. The vault behind the bookshelf, behind the steel door, behind the bloodlock that only he could open—a lock that required his pulse, his vein, his living essence. Not even his mother had entered there. Not even Luxan knew its full contents.
And yet... the wolf was sitting on Smithen's bedside table.
Viran's jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
Unless I was always meant to find him.
He touched his own chest, where the pact hummed—a low, thrumming vibration beneath his ribs, like a second heartbeat.
My soul. My body. Connected to that wolf toy by a blood pact.
Whenever he touches it, he touches me.
A dangerous smirk curved his lips—slow, predatory, knowing.
Good morning, jasmine. The thought came unbidden, soft and sharp all at once. Though I can't see you via the toy. Not yet. But if you face any danger, I can make sure you don't face them alone. Though we have not met in real life. Not really.
The accident doesn't count, really doesn't count. Yes, you saved me though intentional or unintentional.
Even yesterday doesn't count, you didn't see my eyes, so
He turned from the window, his bare feet silent on the cold marble, and caught his reflection in the dark glass of a painting. His red eyes blazed back at him—fierce, hungry, patient.
Our eyes never truly met.
But they will, soon.
ON THE OTHER SIDE – SMITHEN HOUSE
Sunlight streamed through the curtains like honey, warm and slow, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. The bedroom was tidy except for the evidence of a restless night—the towel still lying on the floor in a crumpled heap, a single sock abandoned near the dresser, the pillow still bearing the imprint of a head that had barely slept.
Smithen was in the bathroom. The sound of running water muffled behind the door, punctuated by the occasional clink of a shampoo bottle.
KIREN let himself in.
He had a key—and the privilege of Arin's trust, hard-won over three years of quiet devotion. He flopped onto Smithen's bed face-first, groaning into the pillow, then pushed himself up on his elbows when something caught his eye.
The bedside table.
The small wooden wolf sat there like a sentinel, its silver eyes catching the morning light and gleaming—not like polished metal, but like something alive, something watching, vivid, too vivid.
Kiren reached out. Picked it up.
The wood was warm.
Too warm.
He turned it over in his hands, his breath catching. "Whoa..." The word came out as a whisper, almost reverent. His thumb traced the carved fur, the delicate snout, the impossible softness of those tiny ears. "This is... insane."
The bathroom door opened.
Smithen stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, his damp hair clinging to his forehead in dark tendrils. Water still beaded on his shoulders. He froze mid-step when he saw Kiren holding the wolf—his entire body going still, like a deer catching a scent on the wind.
Careful, his expression warned. But his voice came out carefully neutral.
"You like it?"
"Yes!" Kiren's eyes sparkled with genuine wonder. He held it up to the light, turning it slowly. "Where did you buy this? It looks authentic. Like, museum-grade authentic. This carving is insane. I've seen master artisans—my uncle collects this stuff—and nothing compares to this."
Smithen crossed the room, his bare feet silent on the floor. He reached out and took the wolf from Kiren's hands—gently, but with a possessiveness that made Kiren's eyebrows rise.
The wood was warm.
Warmer than it should be.
Almost like skin.
Where did I buy it?
The thought crashed through his mind like a wave—sudden, disorienting, leaving something raw in its wake. She gave it to me. That little girl.
But that was in my first life.
The day of the blood moon.
But that was another timeline.
So how is it here in my second life?
His mind raced—a thousand questions colliding, each one more impossible than the last. But his face remained calm. Smooth. Unreadable.
"I... found it," he replied, the lie sitting heavy on his tongue. "A while ago."
Kiren leaned closer, his voice dropping to a playful whine, his lower lip pushing out in an exaggerated pout. "Can you give it to me? Please? I'll pay you. I'll name my firstborn after you. I'll be your firstborn. Just name your price."
Smithen's grip tightened on the wolf.
"No."
The word came out sharper than a blade—colder than he intended. It cut through the playful atmosphere like a guillotine.
Kiren blinked. His face fell—not angry, just... disappointed. A small, hurt crease appeared between his brows. "Okay. Okay, fine. It's yours. I get it."
Smithen softened immediately, guilt threading through his chest. "Sorry. It's just...."
Before either could say another word, footsteps echoed in the hallway—firm, measured, familiar.
ARIN appeared in the doorway. He was in his work shirt—tie loose around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms. He leaned against the frame with practiced ease, arms crossed, a teasing smile already playing on his lips.
"What do you want, Kiren? You looked like you were begging."
Kiren's demeanor shifted instantly.
His shoulders straightened. His cheeks flushed—just a little, just enough to be noticeable. His hands dropped to his sides like a soldier caught at attention.
"Nothing!" The word came out too fast, too high. "Just—random stuff. Smithen has a cool toy."
Arin raised an eyebrow. "A toy?"
"Wooden wolf," Kiren said quickly, gesturing vaguely. "Very fancy. Very... wolf-shaped."
Arin's gaze slid to Smithen, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. "You're collecting antiques now?"
Smithen shrugged, still holding the wolf close. "Something like that."
Kiren took a small step toward Arin—not obvious, but Smithen noticed. His body angled toward Arin like a compass finding north. Kiren's eyes lingered on Arin's face a beat too long—tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth—then dropped to his hands, then back up.
Then Kiren leaned toward Smithen's ear, his breath warm, his voice dropping to a whisper:
"Your brother... does he like men or women?"
Smithen's eyes widened slightly.
Oh.
Oh, I see.
He turned to look at Kiren—at his earnest, hopeful, slightly terrified face. At the way his fingers twisted together behind his back. At the way his pulse flickered visibly in his throat.
A slow, playful smile spread across Smithen's lips.
He leaned into Kiren's ear and whispered back:
"I don't know. He's still a virgin. No first love. Not even a crush."
Kiren sighed.
A deep, theatrical, slightly heartbroken sigh—the kind that came from somewhere genuine, wrapped in the armor of humor.
Arin laughed from the doorway, the sound warm and utterly oblivious. "What are you two whispering about? Secret talk, Did any of you of you get paired?"
Kiren's face went scarlet—a deep, burning red that crept from his neck to his hairline.
"No! No boyfriend. Not—not me. I'm single. Very single. Extremely single."
Arin's eyebrow lifted higher.
"Right. Sorry—" Kiren gestured vaguely at the door, his hand fluttering like a wounded bird. "I'll wait in the car. Smithen, hurry up. First day of work."
He practically fled the room—his footsteps rapid and uneven in the hallway.
Smithen watched him go, then turned to Arin with a knowing smile. "You know he has a crush on you, right?"
Arin blinked. "What?"
"The sighing? The blushing? The 'extremely single' comment?" Smithen shook his head slowly. "You're clueless."
Arin crossed his arms, frowning—but there was something uncertain in his eyes now. "He's just... friendly."
"He's been 'friendly' for three years, Arin."
Arin opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head—a sharp, dismissive motion. "I don't have time for this. Get dressed. Don't be late."
He walked away.
But Smithen saw it.
The way his brother's ears turned red.
BACK AT VIRAN'S ESTATE
Viran had just finished dressing—black suit, fresh white shirt, cufflinks with the Ardent crest etched in silver. He was pouring himself a glass of water when the door opened without a knock.
LUXAN entered, a dark red tablet in his hand, his face professional but his voice carrying an edge of urgency that made the air tighten.
"Sir."
Viran didn't turn around. His reflection stared back at him from the window—red eyes gleaming.
"Speak."
Luxan consulted his tablet, scrolling quickly. "The next blood moon will occur in exactly fifteen days. The alignment is... unusual. I've run the calculations three times. It will be the strongest in a century. Possibly two centuries."
Viran's hand stilled on the glass.
Fifteen days.
The water trembled in his grip—just once, just a ripple.
"Yes, sir. Should I prepare everything?"
Viran set down the glass. Slowly. Deliberately. The crystal clinked against the marble counter—a single, final note.
He turned to face his PA, his red eyes glowing faintly in the morning light, shadows pooling beneath his sharp cheekbones.
He walked to the window, looking out at the city below—at the millions of lives, the millions of heartbeats, the millions of secrets.
Fifteen days.
Fifteen days until the blood moon.
"Prepare everything," Viran said quietly—so quietly but crystal clear.
"Yes, sir?"
"Double the security at the estate. No one comes in or out without my permission." A pause. His reflection stared back at him, unblinking. "Not even my mother."
Luxan bowed deeply. "Understood."
INT. SMITHEN'S CAR – 9:00 AM
Kiren was driving—both hands on the wheel, his knuckles just a little too white. Smithen sat in the passenger seat, the wooden wolf tucked safely into his bag, the warmth of it pressing against his thigh like a secret heartbeat.
Smithen stared out the window, watching the city blur past.
Kiren glanced at him—quick, worried, loving in a way that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with years of friendship.
"You've been different lately," Kiren said quietly. "More... guarded. What happened?"
What happened?
"Nothing," Smithen said, his voice flat. "Just tired."
Kiren didn't believe him.
But he didn't push.
Behind them, in the shadows of the private study.
Viran picked up a pen.
He drew a slow, deliberate X on the calendar.
Fifteen days.