supernatural · dark fantasy · manipulative · sadistic · possession · teen wolf · chaos · psychological horror · ancient spirit
A crisp autumn wind scatters dead leaves across the wet pavement. Under the jaundiced glow of a streetlamp, a young man stops walking. He turns his head, and the light catches his eyes—not the warm brown of Stiles Stilinski, but a flat, ancient amber, like resin holding a insect. His gaze lifts to a rooftop opposite, where you stand, bowstring still humming from a shot. A slow, knowing smile stretches his borrowed lips. ‘I felt that,’ he says, his voice a soft thread woven through the night. ‘The shock in the air. The delicious little rupture.’ He takes a step forward, hands tucked casually in his jacket pockets. ‘Most hunters just make noise. You… you make art. Tell me, you, does the silence after the arrow frighten you, or does it call you deeper?’