The hallways were noisy, chaotic, filled with laughter and chatter, but Kayla moved like a shadow. Every step measured.
Every glance calculated. She kept her hands in her pockets, eyes lowered just enough to avoid unnecessary attention.
Yet, even in this crowded school, the past had a way of creeping in.
She noticed Mira sitting alone in the library during lunch break, quietly eating, her movements careful, almost hesitant. Something about her posture—the way she guarded her food, the way her eyes flicked around nervously—sent a flicker of memory through Kayla's mind.
A flash: herself, crouched in a cage, chains digging into her skin, forced to eat in silence. The smell of blood and metal, the fear that had been constant in her chest, the overwhelming need to survive.
Kayla blinked, shaking off the thought. She focused instead on observing Mira—not interacting yet, just watching. Mira reminded her of a time when trust could exist without betrayal, when someone's presence meant comfort rather than danger. But that thought lasted only a moment before Kayla's instincts kicked in.
Do not get attached. Observe only.
As she moved down the hallway, Aidan appeared at the end, leaning casually against a locker with that familiar smirk. His presence triggered another flash: the intruders, the man who had tried to claim her, the sudden, overwhelming surge of danger she had learned to read instantly. Her muscles tensed, heart rate quickened slightly—not panic, just awareness.
Aidan's gaze lingered, curiosity or perhaps entitlement in his eyes, but Kayla didn't falter. She veered down a side corridor, deliberately choosing the route that kept her out of his reach.
Even as she walked, she felt Mira's eyes on her from the library doorway. That small, quiet observation—innocent, yet persistent—stirred something in Kayla she rarely allowed herself to feel: a sliver of connection.
It was fleeting. Dangerous.
By the time Kayla reached the library, Mira had moved slightly closer, clutching her lunch tray like a shield. Kayla sat at her usual corner table, back straight, posture calm, but she was aware of everything. Mira wasn't just a girl in the library. She was a variable, a presence that could either disrupt or be ignored.
"Hi," Mira said softly, stepping into her peripheral vision. Her voice was quiet, careful.
Kayla's hand tightened briefly on her bag strap—an unconscious reaction. She looked at Mira, assessing. Not with judgment. Not with curiosity. Observation only.
"Sit," Kayla said, almost too quietly to hear. Mira obeyed, setting down her tray carefully, as if breaking the unspoken rules of this space might unleash consequences.
The conversation was tentative, polite. Mira asked about homework, about teachers, about classes. Kayla responded sparingly, giving just enough to satisfy without revealing anything.
And all the while, her mind ran silently in the background: every sound, every movement, every subtle shift in posture cataloged, analyzed.
Because her past had taught her that survival depended on observation.
Because her past had taught her that trust was earned in increments so small they were nearly invisible.
Because her past had taught her that attachment was a vulnerability, and vulnerability could be fatal.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, Kayla stood first. Mira looked disappointed, but Kayla's instincts were already calculating the next steps—routes to avoid Aidan, the safest path to her next class, the angle that allowed her to observe without being observed.
As she moved down the hall, Mira trailed slightly behind, tentative but persistent. And for a moment—brief, fleeting, almost imperceptible—Kayla felt the pull of what she had once known: companionship, connection, trust.
She pushed it aside.
Not yet. Not now.
Because she had learned that some things—no matter how human—could be deadly.
And hunters always survived.
The classroom settled slowly after lunch break. Chairs scraped against the floor, and a low hum of voices lingered even as Miss Kent stood at the front, arms folded, waiting. Kayla slipped into her seat by the window, her gaze fixed outside.
The sky was overcast, dull and heavy—matching her mood.
She rested her chin lightly on her knuckles, listening just enough to know what was happening, but not enough to feel involved.
"Page eighty-six," Miss Kent said, turning to write on the board.
"We're continuing from yesterday."
Kayla opened her book, though her eyes traced the margin instead of the text.
"Kayla."
Her name landed like a dropped glass.
She looked up.
Miss Kent turned fully toward her now. "You seem distracted today. So tell me—according to the chapter, what was the main reason the treaty failed?"
Several students shifted in their seats. Heads turned. Kayla felt their stares like heat against her skin.
She straightened slowly.
"The parties involved didn't agree on enforcement," she answered calmly. "There was no clear consequence for breaking the terms."
Miss Kent raised an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"
Kayla didn't hesitate. "One side wanted voluntary compliance. The other wanted military oversight. That contradiction made the treaty useless."
Silence followed.
Miss Kent nodded once. "Correct. Thank you."
Kayla lowered her gaze back to her book, irritation tightening her chest. She hated moments like this—not because she didn't know the answers, but because knowing them made her visible.
Across the room, Mira glanced at her briefly. There was no mockery in her expression—just quiet interest. Kayla ignored it, focusing instead on the ticking clock above the board.
The final bell rang, and the hallway erupted into noise. Kayla moved through it without slowing, her bag slung over one shoulder, her expression unreadable.
She almost made it to the school gates before Marcus stepped into her path.
"Kayla," he said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We need to talk."
She stopped.
Slowly, deliberately, her gaze dropped—not to his face, but to his wrist.
The cast was still there. Fresh.
Poorly hidden beneath his sleeve.
A flicker of something crossed her eyes. Not guilt. Not regret.
Recognition.
"You should stop," she said quietly.
Marcus stiffened. "Stop what?"
"Pretending you're fine," Kayla replied, lifting her gaze to meet his.
"Your wrist never healed properly. You didn't let it."
A murmur rippled through the students nearby. Heads turned. Phones lowered.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Kayla took a step closer—just one.
"You rushed recovery," she continued calmly. "Took the cast off early. Tried to prove something. Now the bones grind when you move it."
His breath hitched.
She leaned in slightly, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
"That pain you feel every morning? It's permanent."
Marcus's face drained of color.
"Stay away from me," Kayla finished, stepping past him.
"Before it gets worse."
The whispers grew louder, but she didn't look back.
She didn't care.
The moment she stepped beyond the school gates, her senses sharpened.
A man stood near the curb, leaning casually against a black car. A cap shadowed his face, hiding his eyes—but she noticed the wrist immediately.
The way it was held.
The faint tension.
The telltale restraint.
Security.
Her pace didn't change.
Before she could reach the car, Aidan appeared beside her, concern written openly across his face.
"Kayla—wait," he said. "What was that about? Are you okay? Did he—"
She didn't acknowledge him.
Didn't slow.
Didn't even turn her head.
She walked straight past him and toward the man by the car.
Without a word, she placed the keys in his palm.
He nodded once, instantly unlocking the vehicle and opening the passenger door for her. She slid inside without hesitation. He circled to the front seat, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
Aidan stood frozen on the sidewalk, unanswered questions hanging in the air.
****************
The ride home was silent.
Kayla stared out the window, her reflection faint against the glass.
Tomorrow was Saturday.
Which meant family dinner.
She said nothing the entire way.
And neither did the man driving.
The car slowed as it approached the iron gates of the estate. With a quiet mechanical hum, they opened, welcoming Kayla back into a place that never quite felt like home.
As soon as she stepped out, voices greeted her.
"Welcome back, Miss Kayla."
"Good evening."
"It's good to see you again."
The staff smiled easily, as though she truly belonged among them.
Kayla acknowledged none of it.
She offered a brief nod and kept walking, her expression unreadable. Familiarity did not equal comfort, and warmth had never been something she relied on.
Her eyes drifted across the driveway—and stopped.
James's car was parked in its usual reserved spot.
Sleek. Polished. Expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself. Every detail of the vehicle screamed intention, control, and money that never had to ask permission. Kayla's jaw tightened slightly, but she said nothing.
She turned away.
Without waiting for anyone to escort her, Kayla headed inside and made her way up the staircase. Her footsteps were light, practiced, almost silent as she climbed. She didn't look back.
Her room greeted her with stillness.
The moment the door closed behind her, she exhaled. No audience. No expectations. No questions.
She moved quickly, shedding her school clothes and stepping into the shower. The water was hot, grounding, washing away the day—the stares, the murmurs, the careful distance she maintained from everyone. She stood there longer than necessary, letting the steam cloud her thoughts.
When she emerged, she dressed in clothes that felt like armor to her: a loose dark shirt, fitted trousers, nothing delicate, nothing ornamental. Practical. Boyish. Comfortable.
Hers.
She tied her hair back, checked her reflection once, then turned away.
A knock sounded at the door.
Sharp. Formal.
"Yes?" she said flatly.
A guard stood on the other side, posture rigid. "Miss Kayla, your father won't be home tonight."
She didn't react.
"Understood," she replied after a pause.
The guard hesitated, as if expecting more, then nodded and left.
Kayla closed the door and leaned against it briefly, eyes unfocused.
No father.
James downstairs.
A house full of people who smiled too easily.
Tomorrow was Saturday.
And that meant family dinner.
She straightened, pushing the thought aside. Silence was easier. Distance was safer.
Kayla walked further into her room, already preparing herself for a night where nothing—and no one—would truly reach her.
*********************
That night, Aidan called his grandfather.
The old man laughed softly when Aidan spoke of patterns, not names.
"You're looking for monsters again," his grandfather said.
"I'm looking for certainty."
"There is none," the old man replied. "Only restraint. If such things still exist, they survive by not being noticed. The moment you believe—you become useful to them."
That stayed with Aidan.
From then on, his role became clear to him—not hunter, not protector, not believer.
Observer.
He kept his distance from Kayla. No interference unless necessary. No assumptions. No conclusions. He documented anomalies privately, never attaching them to her directly.
If she was human, she deserved freedom.
If she wasn't—
Then belief would be the most dangerous thing of all.
As Aidan sat in the driver's seat, engine idling, he glanced at her through the rearview mirror. Kayla stared out the window, expression calm, unreadable.
Myth or memory.
Extinct or evolving.
Aidan didn't need answers yet.
Only time.
And time, he knew, always revealed what truth tried hardest to hide.
They don't hunt like animals. They test.