[Supernatural : The 3rd Winchester Brother ] Chapter 6 - 10

[Comment if you found any inconsistency or about the story decision or suggestion]

Chapter 6: The Watcher

Two days later, Adam was back on his feet.

Not fully, not comfortably—but faster than anyone expected. The fever broke overnight. The bruises faded too quickly. Cuts that should've needed stitches were almost gone.

Kate called it a miracle.

John called it something else.

Adam watched his father from the corner of his eye as he moved around the kitchen, reaching for a glass from the top shelf. His muscles protested, but not as much as they should have. The wound on his leg that had been inflamed and angry just forty-eight hours ago now looked weeks old. He'd checked it that morning, peeling back the bandage to find pink, healing skin where festering infection had been.

John noticed too. Adam could feel his father's eyes tracking him, cataloging every movement, every wince that came too late, every stretch that shouldn't have been possible yet. John Winchester hadn't survived twenty years of hunting by missing details.

"Hungry?" Kate asked, sliding a plate of pancakes across the counter. She'd called in sick for her shift, something she never did. The worry lines around her eyes had eased, but not disappeared.

"Starving," Adam admitted, piling three pancakes onto his plate. Then two more. Then another.

John raised an eyebrow as Adam drowned the stack in syrup. "Quite an appetite."

Adam shrugged, mouth already full. "Growing boy."

"Mmm." John sipped his coffee, expression neutral but eyes sharp. "You're recovering well."

It wasn't a question, but Adam answered anyway. "Yeah. Feels better today."

"The cut on your leg—how's that looking?"

Adam hesitated, fork halfway to his mouth. "Fine. Healing up."

"Mind if I take a look at it later? Just to make sure there's no infection?"

The real question hung in the air: How are you healing so damn fast?

"Sure," Adam said, focusing on his pancakes.

Kate moved between them, refilling John's coffee with forced cheerfulness. "The doctor said he just needed rest and antibiotics. Kids bounce back fast."

"This fast?" John's tone was casual, but his eyes never left Adam. "That's some recovery."

"Just got lucky, I guess," Adam said with a shrug.

John's mouth quirked. "Lucky's not the word I'd use."

Kate shot John a warning look. "Well, whatever you want to call it, I'm just grateful he's better."

The rest of breakfast passed in uncomfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of forks against plates and Kate's too-bright attempts at conversation. Adam watched his parents orbit each other with careful distance—Kate's lingering resentment, John's quiet assessment. They were strangers sharing blood and history and nothing else.

As soon as Kate left the room to fold laundry, John leaned forward.

"What really happened out there?" he asked, voice low.

Adam kept his expression neutral. "Fell down a ravine. Hit my head. Got lost."

"In the woods. At night. During a full moon." John wasn't asking. "With a silver letter opener."

Adam's heart stuttered, but he maintained eye contact. "How'd you know about—"

"I found it when we brought you in. Hidden in your jacket lining." John's eyes narrowed. "Pretty unusual equipment for a twelve-year-old."

"Thirteen next month," Adam corrected automatically.

"Doesn't answer my question."

Adam pushed his plate away, appetite suddenly gone. "I found it lying around and figure it would be of use."

"For what, exactly?"

"Anything."

John studied him with the intensity of a man who'd stared down monsters and lived to tell about it. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." Adam stood up, ignoring the twinge in his side. "Thanks for breakfast."

He felt John's eyes on his back as he left the kitchen, the weight of unasked questions pressing against his shoulders.

That afternoon, Kate left for her shift at the hospital, reluctant but unable to miss another day. Adam retreated to his room, pretending to read while listening to John move through the house.

John Winchester was a hunter in every sense of the word—patient, methodical, thorough. And right now, Adam was his quarry.

The soft creak of floorboards told Adam when John entered his room. He'd left his backpack conspicuously on the desk chair, a calculated risk. Better to let John find the surface-level oddities than dig deeper for the real secrets.

Adam strained to hear what his father was doing. The rustle of papers. The zip of his backpack being opened. The soft thud of books being removed and replaced.

It wouldn't take long for John to move beyond the decoys.

Adam counted minutes, waiting. The house fell silent. Then footsteps approached his door.

He quickly picked up a comic book, feigning absorption as John appeared in the doorway.

"Find anything interesting?" Adam asked without looking up.

John leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Should I have?"

"Depends what you were looking for."

The corner of John's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Smart kid."

"So they tell me." Adam turned a page he hadn't actually read.

John didn't move, didn't speak. The silence stretched between them, a test of nerves that Adam refused to lose. Finally, his father shifted his weight.

"You wanna tell me why you've got a salt ring under your mattress?"

Adam barely flinched. "For bugs."

John smirked. "Silver knife hidden under the loose board. Latin exorcism notes on your desk."

"Homework," Adam said. "We had to translate church texts for extra credit."

John raised an eyebrow. "And the drawing of ‘creatures’ in your sock drawer?"

Adam turned a page slowly. "I like monsters."

They locked eyes for a beat too long.

John broke first, surprisingly. He pushed off the doorframe with a sigh. "You know, this would be easier if you just told me the truth."

"Would it?" Adam set the comic down. "What's your truth, then? You show up after—what, twelve years?—and suddenly you're worried about what I keep in my sock drawer?"

Something flashed in John's eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. It was gone before Adam could be sure.

"I didn't want you to follow in my footstep," John said quietly. "Your mother would never allow it, I will never allow it."

"Would it have made a difference?" Adam couldn't keep the edge from his voice.

John's jaw tightened. "It's complicated."

"It always is." Adam looked away. "Look, thanks for coming when Mom called. Really. But I'm fine now. You can go back to... whatever it is you do."

"Hunting," John said, the word hanging in the air between them.

Adam's head snapped up.

"That's what I do," John continued. "I hunt things. Bad things. Things that hurt people." He studied Adam's face. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Adam swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" John moved into the room, closing the door behind him. "The salt lines. The silver. The Latin. That's not random, Adam. That's hunter knowledge." He paused. "That's my world. And somehow, you're in it."

Adam's mind raced. Deny everything? Admit some of it? He hadn't planned for this confrontation—not yet. Not before he was ready.

John didn't press. He could've pushed, broken the kid's cover. But he saw something familiar in Adam's face—something hard and quiet and tired.

So he let it go.

For now.

"You ever wanna talk about this stuff," John said, voice low, "you come to me. Don't go chasing things you don't understand."

Adam nodded, still not looking at him. "Sure…."

John stood there a moment longer, then turned away.

Adam listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall, then let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands were shaking.

John Winchester was nothing like the TV Show. This John was sharper, more focused. More dangerous.

And he was staying. Adam could tell by the way John had settled in, the way he was systematically searching the house. He'd stay a few more days at least. Keep an eye on things. See what else slipped through the cracks.

The kid was hiding something. But whatever it was… it wasn't evil John thought

Just dangerous.

That night, after Kate had gone to bed, Adam found John sitting on the back porch, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring out at the darkness beyond the yard.

Adam hesitated in the doorway, then stepped outside. The night air was cool against his skin.

"Can't sleep?" John asked without turning.

"Not really." Adam sat on the other end of the porch step, keeping his distance.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crickets and the occasional distant car.

"What was it?" Adam finally asked. "That got you into hunting."

John took a slow sip of whiskey. "You know I can't tell if you're fishing for information or if you already know and are testing me."

"Maybe both."

John's laugh was short and without humor. "Definitely my kid." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "It was a demon. Killed your... killed my wife. Your half-brother Sam and Dean's mother."

Adam nodded, not surprised but still feeling the weight of the confirmation.

"I've been tracking it ever since," John continued. "Yellow-eyed bastard. Left a trail of families just like mine—mothers pinned to ceilings, burning alive. Nursery fires."

"Did you ever find it?" Adam asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

"Not yet." John's knuckles whitened around his glass. "But I will."

Another silence fell between them, more comfortable than the last.

"What about you?" John asked. "What got you into... whatever this is you're into?"

Adam stared at his hands. "Just... had some weird dreams. Started researching. One thing led to another."

"Dreams." John's voice was careful, too neutral. "What kind of dreams?"

"Just... monsters. Demons. Stuff like that." Adam shrugged, trying to look casual. "Probably just read too many horror comics."

"Probably." John didn't sound convinced. "These dreams... they ever come true?"

Adam's head snapped up. "What?"

"Premonitions. Visions. Things you dream that happen later." John was watching him intently now. "It happens sometimes. To certain people."

"No," Adam said quickly. Too quickly. "Nothing like that."

John studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. That's good."

But the way he said it made Adam's skin prickle.

"What would it mean?" Adam asked. "If someone did have dreams like that?"

John drained his glass. "Nothing good, usually." He stood up, his movement suddenly fluid and final. "Get some sleep, Adam. We'll talk more tomorrow."

Adam watched him disappear into the house, feeling like he'd just passed some test he hadn't known he was taking.

Or maybe failed it. With John Winchester, it was hard to tell.

Either way, Adam knew the conversation wasn't over. It was just beginning. John Winchester had found another mystery in his already mysterious life, and he wouldn't leave until he'd solved it.

The question was: what would he do with the answer when he found it?

Chapter 7: Secrets

John left on a cold morning, engine rumbling low as his truck disappeared down the street. He didn't say goodbye like a father. Just a nod, a look, and a line Adam couldn't forget:

"Take care of your mom. And yourself."

Adam stood on the porch long after the truck was gone, the silence heavier than the snow in the air. Frost crunched beneath his sneakers as he shifted his weight, watching his breath cloud and dissipate in the morning chill.

Five days. That's how long John had stayed. Five days of careful conversations, pointed questions, and silent assessments. Five days of Adam walking a tightrope between truth and lies.

And through it all, Kate watching them both with wary eyes, her own secrets wrapped tight around her heart.

The truck was just a speck on the horizon now, black against the pale winter sky. Adam knew he should feel relieved. The inspection was over. The immediate danger of exposure passed.

So why did it feel like a missed opportunity?

He hadn't told him.

Not about the future. Not about his past memories. Not about what was coming.

He couldn't.

It wasn't just that John wouldn't believe him—or that he'd probably drag Adam into the hunt full-time, too soon. It was bigger than that.

Azazel was still out there, watching. Manipulating. And Chuck… Chuck was writing.

If Adam tipped the scales too hard, too fast, someone—or something—would notice. The wrong word, the wrong move, and he could bring down hell sooner than it was meant to come.

So he kept the truth buried deep in his chest, locked behind instinct and fear and strategy.

The screen door creaked open behind him. Kate stepped out, her scrubs visible beneath her open coat, car keys dangling from her fingers.

"He's gone?" she asked, though she could clearly see the empty street.

Adam nodded. "Yeah."

Kate's hand settled on his shoulder, a gentle weight. "Are you okay?"

Such a simple question. Such a complicated answer.

"Fine," Adam said, the lie smooth on his tongue after years of practice.

Kate studied his face, searching for something. Whatever she found—or didn't find—made her sigh softly. "He left his number. Said to call if... if anything strange happens again."

"I don't think we'll need it," Adam said.

"Probably not." Kate's smile didn't reach her eyes. "But I saved it anyway."

They stood in silence for a moment, mother and son, each carrying burdens the other couldn't fully see.

"I'm late for my shift," Kate finally said, keys jingling as she adjusted her grip. "There's chicken pot pie in the freezer. Don't forget your homework."

"I won't."

She hesitated, then leaned down to kiss the top of his head—something she hadn't done in a while, not since Adam had complained he was too old for it. Today, he didn't pull away.

"I love you," she said, and it sounded like a plea. Like she was asking him to stay the boy she remembered, not the stranger he was becoming.

"Love you too, Mom."

Adam watched her drive away, the mom-shaped hole in his chest aching more than usual. She deserved better than this—better than a son who lied to her face every day, who put them both in danger with his secret life.

But the alternative was worse. The scene of her death—of the ghouls wearing her face, of her blood on the floor—still haunted his nightmares. Sometimes he woke up screaming, sure that he could smell her burning flesh.

No. This was better. The lies were a small price for her safety.

Adam turned away from the empty street and went inside, locking the door behind him. He had work to do.

Adam's recovery was almost complete by the end of the week. The pain had dulled to a memory, but the edge of failure still sat in his bones.

He moved through his room, checking and rechecking his supplies. Salt. Iron filings. The silver knife Roy had given him. A journal filled with notes about every creature he could remember from his "other life"—and new ones he'd learned about from Carrigan's journal and Roy's lessons.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

He'd frozen. He'd almost died. He would have died if Roy hadn't shown up.

The rugaru's face still flashed behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep—those burning eyes, that too-wide mouth, the strange recognition as it had growled, "It's youuuu."

What had it seen? What had it recognized in him?

And then there was the fever—the way his body had burned from the inside out, healing faster than it should have. John had noticed. How could he not? The man tracked monsters for a living. He knew when something wasn't normal.

Adam was healing too fast to be human. And the dreams were getting worse.

He needed help.

Adam lifted the loose floorboard in his closet, revealing a small, fireproof box. Inside was the prepaid phone he'd bought with cash at a gas station two towns over. No one knew about it—not Kate, not John, not even Dr. Reed.

He flipped it open, the plastic warm in his palm, and dialed the number Roy had scrawled on a gas station receipt before disappearing.

It rang once.

Then again.

Then—"Yeah?"

"Hey. It's Adam."

A pause. Adam could hear background noise—the clatter of dishes, muffled voices. Roy was in a diner, maybe.

Then: "Didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

Adam swallowed. "I'm ready," he said. "I know I screwed up. I know I have a lot to learn. But I'm not quitting."

Another pause. Longer this time. Adam heard a door close, the background noise fading. Roy had stepped outside for privacy.

"You sure about that, kid?"

Adam didn't hesitate. "I almost died. I need to know how not to let that happen again. I want to be ready next time."

"Next time," Roy repeated, his voice flat. "You planning on making monster hunting a hobby?"

"It's not a hobby."

"Then what is it?"

Adam closed his eyes, searching for words that wouldn't sound completely insane. "It's... necessary."

Silence. Then a sigh that carried years of exhaustion.

"...All right."

Roy's voice softened just a little.

"I'll be in Windom next week. We'll start with the basics. Real training, this time. No more solo runs, understood?"

"Yeah," Adam said. "Understood."

"Good. And kid—don't lie to me again. I don't have time to bury another hunter."

Click.

Adam set the phone down and exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders. He tucked the phone back into its hiding place, replaced the floorboard, and stood up.

Outside, snow had begun to fall, delicate flakes catching on his window. The world looked clean and new and deceptively peaceful. Adam knew better.

Somewhere out there, demons were making deals. Angels were watching. Monsters were hunting.

And in a small town in Minnesota, a boy with past live memories was preparing for war.

Chapter 8: Blood and Bone

Roy didn't believe in going easy.

"Again," he barked, tossing a rubber training knife at Adam.

Adam caught it—midair, without looking. His hand just seemed to know where the blade would be, fingers closing around the handle with perfect timing.

Roy stared. "You been sneaking Adderall or something?"

Adam shrugged. "Just focused."

But it wasn't just focus. Something deeper was happening, something that made Adam's skin prickle with unease even as his body performed beyond his expectations.

It had been a week since their training started in earnest. They met out at a half-collapsed barn outside Windom, far enough from town for noise and mistakes. The weathered structure leaned slightly to one side, red paint peeling like sunburned skin, but the foundation was solid. Inside, Roy had set up a makeshift training ground—mats for sparring, targets for knife throwing, a blackboard for lore lessons.

Roy drilled him daily—combat, weapons handling, monster lore, field dressing wounds. The works.

"A cut artery doesn't give you time to Google," Roy explained, watching Adam practice a tourniquet on a mannequin leg. "You've got three minutes, maybe less, before your partner bleeds out. So you'd better get it right the first time."

Adam nodded, tightening the makeshift tourniquet with practiced efficiency.

"Faster," Roy ordered. "Your friend's going into shock. His heart's racing, pumping blood faster. Clock's ticking down."

Adam's hands moved with sudden, fluid precision. The tourniquet was secure in seconds.

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you learn that?"

"You just showed me," Adam replied, avoiding eye contact.

"I showed you the basics. That—" Roy gestured to Adam's handiwork, "—that's field medic level. Military training."

Adam didn't have an answer for that.

And every day, Adam was faster.

Not just improving—leaping forward. He could run farther than he used to. He lifted heavy gear with less effort. Bruises vanished overnight. He didn't just learn moves—his body absorbed them, moved like it already knew.

On Tuesday, Roy taught him a complex knife disarm. By Wednesday, Adam could execute it flawlessly, adding his own modifications that made the technique even more effective.

"Most people train for months to get that right," Roy said, rubbing his wrist where Adam had twisted the blade away. "You got it in a day."

"Quick learner?" Adam offered weakly.

Roy's eyes narrowed. "Uh-huh."

During one sparring match, Adam knocked him down hard enough to leave a dent in the dirt.

Roy coughed, winded, then let out a dry laugh. "Jesus, kid. You sure you're not a damn werewolf?"

Adam stiffened. "I don't think so."

"Silver doesn't burn you," Roy acknowledged, climbing to his feet with a grunt. "But that doesn't mean you're not... something."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.

That evening, as dusk settled over the barn, painting shadows in long, purple streaks across the floor, Roy approached with a small kit. Inside were vials, needles, a small book with worn edges.

"What's that?" Adam asked, though he already suspected.

"Hunter's test kit." Roy laid out the items methodically. "Nothing invasive. Just checking a few boxes."

"You think I'm a monster." It wasn't a question.

Roy's weathered face softened slightly. "Kid, in this line of work, you don't take chances. Not with your life, not with others'." He gestured to the makeshift cot they used for first aid practice. "Sit."

Adam did, watching warily as Roy assembled his tools.

"I'm going to check for a few things," Roy explained, pulling on latex gloves. "Standard protocol when someone shows... unusual abilities."

"I don't have abilities," Adam protested. "I'm just...learning fast."

"Inhumanly fast," Roy corrected. "Now hold still."

Roy did a quick check that night. No bite marks. No sulfur traces. No signs of infection, possession, or mutation. Holy water didn't burn. Silver didn't irritate his skin. A small cut healed normally—quickly, but not instantaneously.

Just a healthy, too-healthy, twelve-year-old kid with instincts sharper than they should be.

"You're not turning," Roy said, eyeing him suspiciously as he packed away his kit. "But something's up. Puberty doesn't hit like this."

Adam laughed it off, but inside he wasn't so sure.

Something was off. His reflexes were unnatural. His strength was growing faster than made sense. He healed like he'd been through some mild version of the super soldier serum.

And the thing that really bugged him?

This wasn't in the show. None of the Winchesters had powers like this. Not Sam, not Dean. Not even him.

So where the hell was it coming from?

"Your form is good," Roy admitted as they wrapped up for the day. "But you're overthinking. In a real fight, there's no time to analyze. You react or you die."

Adam nodded, toweling sweat from his face. The setting sun cast long shadows through the barn's broken slats, striping the dirt floor with gold and black.

"How long have you been hunting?" Adam asked, changing the subject.

Roy's face closed slightly, the way it always did when personal questions arose. "Long enough."

"But how did you start to trully focus on hunting..." Adam trailed off, seeing the warning in Roy's eyes.

"We're not here to talk about me," Roy said flatly. "We're here to make sure you don't end up dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Right." Adam stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. "Just curious."

Roy sighed, his expression softening a fraction. "Look, kid. Everyone has their reasons for getting into this life. Most of them involve blood and heartbreak. The specifics don't really matter."

"They matter to me."

Roy studied him for a long moment. "You're obsessed with origins. With how things start." He shouldered his duffel bag. "Sometimes it's more important to focus on how things end."

Adam thought about that as they walked to Roy's truck.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked as Roy unlocked the door.

"Can't. Got a lead on a potential vamp nest two counties over." Roy tossed his bag into the passenger seat. "Might be gone a few days."

Adam felt a surge of excitement. "I could help. I'm ready for—"

"No." Roy's tone left no room for argument. "You're not ready for a real hunt. Not yet."

"But I—"

"Kid," Roy cut him off, "you're fast. You're strong. But you're still green. And vamps don't care how quick you catch a rubber knife." He climbed into the truck, then leaned out the window. "Keep practicing the basics. I'll check in when I get back."

Adam watched the truck disappear down the rural road, frustration burning in his chest. He was ready. He could feel it in his bones—this new strength, this strange certainty that hummed beneath his skin like electricity.

That night, back home, Adam waited until his mom left for her night shift. The moment the door clicked shut, he headed for the hallway closet.

Inside was a shoebox labeled "Family Photos" in his mom's handwriting.

He'd looked through them before. Birthday parties, baby pictures, old black-and-white photos from before Kate moved to Windom. But he'd never paid much attention to the oldest ones, the sepia-toned images of relatives he'd never met.

But now, he was looking with a new lens—searching for clues.

Adam sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, spreading the photos out in chronological order. His mother as a child, gap-toothed and smiling. His grandparents on their wedding day. Great-uncles and distant cousins at family reunions.

Normal. Mundane. Nothing that hinted at anything supernatural.

Until he reached deeper into the box.

Near the bottom, he found it: a faded photo, stiff and old, with curled corners.

A woman in early 20 stood beside a weathered man. Her posture was sharp, chin high, eyes cold and focused. She stared straight at the camera like she knew something it didn't. There was something... predatory in her stillness.

The man beside her looked ordinary enough—plain suit, neatly trimmed beard, the slightly uncomfortable expression of someone unused to being photographed. But the woman... there was something in her eyes that made Adam's skin prickle.

Recognition, of a sort. Not of her face, but of that look. He'd seen it before, in his own reflection when he prepared for a hunt. In Roy's eyes when he scanned a perimeter. In John Winchester's gaze when he thought no one was watching.

It was the look of someone who had seen the darkness and learned to navigate it.

On the back, in fading ink: " Elizabeth Milligan with the beasts of Black Forest, 1924."

Adam squinted at the background.

On the wall behind the couple hung a row of mounted animal heads. At first glance, hunting trophies.

But something wasn't right. The teeth were too long. One had six eyes. Another had no visible mouth. None of the heads matched any real species Adam knew from the TV Show.

"Beasts of Black Forest," he muttered. "What the hell were you hunting?"

The Black Forest was in Germany. Old folklore central. Witches, monsters, shapeshifters. Had his great-grandmother been... a hunter?

Or something else?

Adam dug deeper into the box, searching for more photos of Elizabeth. He found three more—one of her alone, standing beside a massive black dog that looked more wolf than domestic pet. Another with a group of stern-faced men and women, all carrying rifles and wearing what looked like ceremonial medallions. The last showed her older, silver-streaked hair pulled back severely, holding an infant that must have been Adam's grandmother.

In every photo, that same predatory stillness. That same knowing gaze.

And in the group photo, partially visible on her wrist, a tattoo or mark that Adam couldn't quite make out.

Adam went to his desk and pulled out his journal, flipping to a blank page. He sketched what he could see of the mark—a circular design with what might have been a claw or talon at its center.

He'd never seen it before in any of his research or memories. It wasn't one of the typical hunter symbols he remembered from his "other life." It wasn't demonic or angelic, as far as he could tell.

It was something else entirely.

Adam sat back, the photo trembling slightly in his hand.

He thought he'd known the rules of the game. The bloodline. The enemies. The fate.

But maybe he'd only known half the story.

Winchester blood ran through his veins—that much he knew. Men of Letter blood later on Hunter blood, marked by tragedy and sacrifice.

But what if that wasn't all? What if his mother's lineage carried its own secrets, its own inheritance?

Adam carefully returned the photos to their box, except for the one of Elizabeth with the mounted beasts. That one he slipped into his journal, a clue to a mystery he hadn't known existed until now.

The rugaru had recognized something in him. "It's youuuu," it had said, with a strange mix of fear and recognition.

Now Adam was beginning to wonder if it had seen something even he hadn't known was there.

Something in his blood. Something in his bones.

Chapter 9: Crossroads

By thirteen, Adam Milligan had fought four monsters, stitched his own arm twice, and maintained a B+ average in middle school.

Balancing the three worlds—school, hunting, and normality—was like juggling knives. Blindfolded. On fire.

"Mr. Milligan, are you with us?"

Adam blinked, his attention snapping back to Mrs. Delaney's algebra class. Twenty-five pairs of eyes turned toward him, his classmates grateful for any distraction from quadratic equations.

"Sorry," he mumbled, straightening in his seat. "Could you repeat the question?"

Mrs. Delaney's lips thinned with disapproval. "I asked you to solve for x in the equation on the board."

Adam glanced up at the whiteboard, his tired brain taking a moment to process the numbers and variables. Three hours of sleep after a night tracking a shapeshifter through the industrial district wasn't ideal preparation for 8 AM math.

"Uh, x equals seven," he said after a quick mental calculation.

Mrs. Delaney's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's correct. Though I'd appreciate seeing your work next time."

As she returned to the lesson, Tommy Wilson leaned over from the next desk. "Dude, you okay? You've got that thousand-yard stare again."

Adam forced a smile. "Just tired. Video games."

The lie came easily now. Video games. Extra studying. Helping mom with chores. All perfectly normal excuses for the dark circles under his eyes, the occasional unexplained absences, the bandage peeking out from under his sleeve.

None of his classmates would guess he'd spent last night salting and burning the remains of a dead drifter who'd been killing cats and leaving them arranged in specific patterns around town—signs of a budding necromancer, according to Roy.

He'd been training with Roy for a year now. The old hunter had stopped calling him "kid" and started calling him "partner"—usually with sarcasm, but sometimes with respect. Adam had gone on a handful of small hunts: a poltergeist near Stillwater, a black dog on a farm outside Brainerd, a minor demon infestation in Duluth that Roy handled while Adam kept the salt lines solid.

He wasn't green anymore. Not veteran either. Something in between.

But that didn't make the juggling easier.

Weekdays were school, study, and pretending he didn't know how to make holy water. Evenings were training or research. Weekends were weapons drills, lore deep-dives, or short field runs with Roy—depending on what smelled weird in the news that week.

And somehow, in between it all, Professor Eleanor Reed still expected perfectly written essays and critical folklore analysis.

"This is disappointing, Adam," she said, sliding his latest paper across her desk. Red ink marked up the margins—not with corrections, but with questions. You referenced this binding ritual in your last paper. Why the inconsistency? This contradicts established Babylonian mythology—is this from another source?

"Sorry," Adam said, the word worn smooth from overuse. "I've been busy."

"So I see." Reed studied him over her glasses, eyes sharp. "Your mother mentioned you've been spending time with a family friend. Roy, was it?"

Adam tensed. "Mom told you about Roy?"

"We ran into each other at the hospital when I had my physical. She seemed... concerned about how much time you spend with him."

"Roy's teaching me... survival skills. Camping stuff." Adam shifted in his seat. "It's not a big deal."

"Camping stuff," Reed repeated, clearly skeptical. "And that explains why your analysis of Norse berserker legends suddenly includes details that aren't in any of our reference texts?"

Adam looked away. "I did some independent research."

"Clearly." Reed leaned forward. "Adam, when we started these sessions three years ago, you were a curious ten-year-old with an unusual interest in mythology. Now you're writing like... like someone with field experience."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." Reed tapped his paper. "This isn't academic analysis anymore. This is practical application. You're writing about these myths like they're instruction manuals."

Adam said nothing, heart hammering in his chest.

Reed sighed, removing her glasses. "I'm worried about you. Your mother is worried about you. Whatever you're involved in—"

"I'm fine," Adam cut her off, standing abruptly. "I appreciate your concern, Professor, but I'm just a kid who likes weird stories. Nothing more."

Reed watched him gather his books, her expression unreadable. "The paper is due revised by next week," she said finally. "Try to remember you're writing for academia, not a hunter's handbook."

Adam froze for a split second before nodding and hurrying out.

She was starting to get suspicious.

Adam tried to keep up appearances. He still attended their weekly study sessions, acted curious about "myths" like he didn't already have half of them categorized in his hunter's journal.

But Reed was too sharp.

She noticed the new scars. The exhaustion. The subtle shift from interested student to something else.

"You're different," she remarked one afternoon as they walked across campus after their session. "More... guarded."

Adam shrugged. "Just growing up, I guess."

"No," Reed shook her head. "It's more than that. You move differently. You're constantly scanning your surroundings. You flinch at sudden noises." She stopped walking, turning to face him. "These aren't the behaviors of a typical thirteen-year-old."

"Maybe I'm not typical," Adam replied, trying for a casual tone.

"That much is obvious." Reed's voice softened. "Adam, if you're in some kind of trouble—"

"I'm not." He forced a smile. "Really. Everything's fine."

But it wasn't fine, and they both knew it.

And then he missed two meetings in a row. Gave a bad excuse the third time. Showed up limping the fourth.

"Basketball injury," he claimed when Reed pointed out his uneven gait.

"You don't play basketball," she countered.

"Started recently."

Reed's patience was visibly wearing thin. "Adam, I've known you for three years. In that time, you've never once mentioned an interest in team sports. Now suddenly you're playing basketball so intensely you've injured yourself?"

Adam could feel his carefully constructed world starting to crack. The lies were piling up, contradicting each other, becoming harder to maintain.

Roy had warned him about this. "Compartmentalizing only works if the compartments stay separate," he'd said. "Once they start leaking into each other, the whole system fails."

And now the leak had started.

So she followed him.

It was a Tuesday evening when she trailed Adam out to an abandoned lumber yard on the edge of town. She kept her distance, phone clutched tightly in her coat pocket, ready to call someone—though she wasn't sure who. The cops? Animal control? The CDC?

Adam had told his mom he was studying at the library. Instead, he'd slipped out the back exit and headed straight for the industrial area, moving with purpose, checking over his shoulder occasionally but never spotting Reed in her sensible sedan, keeping three cars between them.

At the lumber yard, Roy was already waiting, leaning against his truck, a duffel bag at his feet. Even from a distance, Reed could see it wasn't filled with camping gear.

What she saw defied all explanation.

In the fading light, Adam and the grizzled man—Roy—stood facing down something inhuman. Pale skin, stretched limbs, glowing eyes. It hissed as it crept forward, only to be blasted back by a jar of salt and oil that exploded in a flash of fire at Adam's feet.

Reed froze behind a stack of pallets, wide-eyed. Adam moved with precision, knife drawn, calm in the chaos. Roy took a shot. The creature howled. Disintegrated.

Ash floated through the air.

And then Adam turned—and saw her.

Their eyes locked across the yard. Adam's face drained of color.

"Shit," Roy muttered, following Adam's gaze. "We've got company."

Reed stepped out from her hiding place, legs trembling but head high. "Adam Milligan," she called, her voice surprisingly steady, "you have some explaining to do."

The confrontation was fast and awkward.

"What the hell was that?" Reed demanded, dragging Adam behind the yard's chain-link fence, out of sight.

Adam's voice was quiet. "You shouldn't be here."

"I followed you. Because you were lying to me. And now I know why."

Roy strolled over, wiping monster goop off his jacket with no real urgency. "Friend of yours?"

"Professor Eleanor Reed," Adam muttered. "Folklore scholar. Probably furious."

Reed folded her arms. "And who are you?"

"Roy Keller. Occasional babysitter. Full-time monster hunter."

Roy held out a hand. Reed didn't shake it.

She turned back to Adam, eyes fierce. "You're thirteen. What the hell are you doing fighting... whatever that was?"

"Revenant," Roy supplied helpfully. "Nasty bastards. This one was eating stray dogs before moving on to the homeless population."

"Not helping, Roy," Adam hissed.

Reed ignored them both, her academic mind clearly racing to process what she'd witnessed. "A revenant? As in a returned corpse? Animated by residual consciousness?"

Roy blinked, surprised. "Well... yeah. Exactly that."

"Fascinating," Reed murmured, then seemed to remember her anger. "And completely beside the point! Adam, answer my question."

Adam didn't answer right away. "Protecting people. Learning. Preparing."

Roy shrugged. "He's not wrong."

Reed glared at him. "And you thought it was a good idea to train a child to stab things in the woods?"

Roy lit a cigarette. "He was doing it before I met him. I just made sure he didn't die doing it."

Adam shot Roy a grateful look. At least he hadn't told Reed about the rugaru incident.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Reed demanded. "That a twelve-year-old was hunting monsters alone before you came along?"

"I was almost thirteen," Adam muttered.

"Not helping your case," Reed snapped.

The silence stretched.

Then Reed said, quieter, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Adam looked away. "Because once you know… you can't un-know."

Reed turned her gaze to the scorched ground where the creature had died. She was breathing hard, eyes tracking the ash like it might move again.

"I've spent my life studying stories," she murmured. "And now I find out they were real all along?"

"They're not just real," Adam said. "They're dangerous. And they're getting worse."

"Worse how?" Reed asked, her academic curiosity visibly battling with her shock.

"More numerous," Roy answered, grinding out his cigarette. "More aggressive. Moving into populated areas where they used to avoid humans."

"Something's stirring them up," Adam added. "Pushing them out of their usual territories."

Reed seemed to be processing this, her initial panic giving way to analytical thinking. "And you two are, what? Some kind of monster exterminators?"

"Hunters," Roy corrected. "We're hunters."

"You're a grown man and a thirteen-year-old boy."

"Age doesn't matter much to a revenant," Roy pointed out. "Dead is dead."

Reed pressed her fingers to her temples. "This is insane. I should be calling the police, or child services, or—"

"And tell them what?" Adam interrupted. "That you saw a walking corpse get taken down by a kid and a drifter? They'll have you committed."

"He's right," Roy added. "This isn't something the authorities can handle. Most don't even believe."

"So what, then?" Reed demanded. "I just forget what I saw? Go back to teaching folklore as if I don't know it's all real?"

Adam shook his head. "You can't forget. That's what I'm saying. Once you know, everything changes."

She didn't answer.

Not for a long time.

Reed paced back and forth along the fence line, her breath fogging in the cool evening air. Adam could almost see her mind working—categorizing information, comparing what she'd witnessed to the legends she'd studied her whole career, reconciling academic theory with violent reality.

Finally, she stopped. Her expression had settled into something determined.

"I need to see your research," she said firmly.

Adam and Roy exchanged glances.

"My research?" Adam asked.

"Yes. Your notes, your sources, whatever you've compiled on these... creatures. If what you're saying is true, then my entire field of study has been dancing around reality without acknowledging it." She straightened her shoulders. "I want to know what's real and what isn't."

Roy laughed, a short, surprised sound. "Lady, most people run screaming when they find out monsters exist. You want to catalog them?"

"I'm a scholar," Reed replied stiffly. "Knowledge is how we combat fear. And apparently, it's how we combat monsters too."

Then: "What do you need from me?"

Adam blinked. "What?"

Reed stepped forward, steady now. "If you're doing this—with or without me—then I'm in. But I expect full transparency. No more lies."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're ready for that kind of crazy?"

"I'm a tenured professor," she said flatly. "I've seen worse."

Adam couldn't help it—he smiled.

Later that night, in Reed's campus office, Adam laid out his journal. The pages were filled with detailed notes, sketches, and observations—far beyond what any thirteen-year-old should know about death and monsters.

"This is... extensive," Reed murmured, carefully turning the pages. "Some of this correlates with obscure texts I've only seen in university archives. How did you—"

"It's complicated," Adam interrupted. "But everything in there is accurate. Or as accurate as I can make it."

Reed paused at a page labeled "Winchester Family History."

"Winchester? As in the rifle?"

Adam tensed. "As in my father's family. John Winchester."

"Your father is a hunter too?"

"Yeah." Adam hesitated. "But he doesn't know I'm involved. And I'd like to keep it that way."

Reed studied him. "Does your mother know what you're doing?"

"No. And she can't find out."

"Adam—"

"She'd be in danger," he cut her off. "Knowledge is protection in some ways, but it's also a target. The less she knows, the safer she is."

Reed didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. Instead, she turned back to the journal, lingering on a page about a creature called a rugaru.

"This is your first encounter, isn't it? The one that brought you into this world?"

Adam nodded, surprised by her insight. "How did you know?"

"The entry is more detailed, more emotional." She tapped a paragraph where the handwriting was less steady. "This wasn't research. This was experience."

Adam looked away. "It nearly killed me. Roy saved my life."

"And now you hunt together." Reed closed the journal, her expression solemn. "Adam, I can't in good conscience encourage a thirteen-year-old to fight monsters. But I also can't pretend I don't see what's happening." She sighed. "So here's my proposal: I'll help with research, provide access to rare texts, maybe even alibis when needed. But I want regular check-ins, and I want veto power if I think something is too dangerous."

"That's not how hunting works," Adam protested. "Sometimes you don't have time to check in. Sometimes danger isn't optional."

"Then Roy calls me," Reed insisted. "Someone adult needs to know where you are and what you're facing. That's non-negotiable."

Adam glanced at Roy, who had been silently observing from the corner.

"She's not wrong," the older hunter admitted. "Having backup—even just someone who knows where to send help—isn't a bad idea."

Adam considered this, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But you have to promise not to try to stop me. This isn't a hobby I can drop. It's..." He struggled to find the words. "It's something I have to do."

Reed studied him, seeing beyond the teenage exterior to something older, harder. "Because of what happened with the rugaru?"

"Because of what's coming," Adam said quietly.

Reed and Roy both looked at him sharply.

"What do you mean, 'what's coming'?" Roy asked.

Adam had said too much. He backtracked quickly. "Just... there's always another monster, right? Always something else to hunt."

Roy's eyes narrowed, but he didn't press the issue.

Reed seemed to sense the tension. "Well, whatever comes, you now have an expert in folklore on your side." She held out her hand. "Partners?"

Adam took it, relief washing through him. "Partners."

As they shook hands, Adam felt something shift—another piece falling into place in the strange puzzle his life had become.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe changing the story meant changing the players too.

"So," Reed said, settling behind her desk with a notepad, "tell me more about revenants. The medieval texts describe them as being bound to specific locations, but the one tonight seemed quite mobile."

Adam glanced at Roy, who nodded his approval.

"Well," Adam began, slipping easily into the role of teacher rather than student, "traditional lore gets some things right, but practical experience shows..."

And for the first time in months, Adam felt the weight on his shoulders lighten just a little. He wasn't alone anymore—not completely. The circles of his life were overlapping, and for once, it didn't feel like his world was collapsing.

It felt like it was expanding.

Chapter 10: First Blood

Another year had passed. More small hunts. More scars. He'd grown taller, leaner, stronger. His reflexes were sharp now, instinctive. He could load and fire a shotgun in seconds, recite exorcisms without hesitation, identify most North American monsters by their tracks alone.

He still didn't know why his body healed the way it did, or why he moved like he'd been training for decades instead of two years—but he'd stopped questioning it. The work demanded too much to dwell on mysteries he couldn't solve yet.

Training with Roy had evolved from basic defense to advanced hunting tactics. They spent less time on how to survive an attack and more on how to prevent one—how to track, how to anticipate, how to kill efficiently.

"Hesitation gets you dead," Roy would say, watching Adam practice knife strikes on a makeshift dummy. "Or worse, gets someone else dead."

Professor Reed added her own form of training—the academic side of hunting. Her office had become a secondary base of operations, walls lined with ancient texts, folklore collections, and historical accounts that she now read with new eyes.

"Knowledge is as important as weapons," she insisted, pushing another book toward Adam. "You need to understand what you're fighting, not just how to kill it."

Between them, they were molding Adam into something formidable. Something dangerous.

Something he wasn't sure he was meant to be.

John came by sometimes.

A birthday. A holiday. A "just passing through." They'd talk, sometimes even laugh. But John never stayed long. And Adam never told him the truth.

His most recent visit had been for Adam's fourteenth birthday. John had brought a new baseball glove—store-bought, still stiff with newness. They'd played catch in the backyard, an awkward ritual of forced normalcy.

"You're getting strong," John had remarked, catching Adam's throw with a raised eyebrow. "Playing sports at school?"

"Just stay in shape," Adam had replied with a shrug. "Run a lot."

John had studied him with that hunter's gaze—the one that missed nothing. His eyes had lingered on the small scar on Adam's forearm (werewolf, three months ago), the calluses on his palms (knife training), the way he automatically scanned the tree line (situational awareness, drilled into him by Roy).

Maybe John suspected. Maybe he saw the calluses on Adam's hands, the look in his eyes, the knowledge that shouldn't be there. But he never asked. Never dug. Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe pretending Adam was still a normal kid was the only peace John had left.

Adam let him have it.

Sometimes Adam wondered what would happen if he told John the truth. If he laid out his journal, his weapons, his scars. Would John be proud? Angry? Would he drag Adam into his world completely, or try to pull him out?

Adam wasn't ready to find out. Not yet. Not until he understood more about what was coming.

The hunt that changed everything came in late fall.

The leaves had turned, painting the Minnesota landscape in fierce oranges and reds. The air had that crisp, clean quality that made breath visible in the mornings and promised snow before Thanksgiving.

Adam was at Reed's office reviewing banishing rituals when Roy called.

"Cattle mutilations near St. Cloud," Roy said without preamble. "Got a contact at the sheriff's department. They're treating it like a cult thing."

"Any signs of ritual?" Reed asked, having picked up the extension.

"No pentacles, no altars. Just clean kills, specific organs removed. Very precise."

Adam frowned. "Could be anything. Skinwalker, wendigo, even a ghoul with specific tastes."

"There's more," Roy continued. "A farmer claimed his son saw something 'wearing a man's skin wrong.' Said it looked human at first glance, but moved 'all wrong,' like the joints were backwards."

Reed was already pulling books from her shelves. "Classic skinwalker description. The Navajo legends describe them as able to don animal or human skins, but imperfectly. The disguise is never quite right."

Adam checked his watch. "Mom's working a double shift tonight. I can be ready in an hour."

"Pick you up at your place," Roy said. "Doc, you in or out on this one?"

Reed hesitated. She'd gone on a few research outings with them, but rarely anything that might involve direct confrontation. Her role was primarily support, not combat.

"I'm in," she said finally. "If it's a genuine skinwalker, I want to see it. For research purposes," she added quickly.

"Your funeral," Roy muttered, then hung up.

Adam raised an eyebrow at Reed. "You sure about this? Skinwalkers are dangerous. Fast, strong, unpredictable."

"Which is why you might need an extra set of eyes," she replied, already gathering her notes. "Besides, I've been studying Native American hunting rituals. I might know something useful."

Adam didn't argue. Over the past year, Reed had proven herself more valuable than he'd expected. Her academic knowledge often filled gaps in Roy's practical experience, and vice versa. Together, they'd built a research-hunting operation that was surprisingly effective.

They reached St. Cloud by nightfall.

Roy had checked it out and called in Adam and Professor Reed once he'd confirmed suspicious activity.

"Could be a skinwalker," Roy muttered, loading his shotgun as they prepared to leave the motel. "Or something worse pretending to be one."

"What's worse than a skinwalker?" Reed asked, checking her flashlight batteries.

Roy and Adam exchanged glances.

"Trust me, Doc," Roy said flatly. "There's always something worse."

Adam checked his gear one last time. Silver knife, iron blade, holy water, salt rounds for the shotgun Roy had modified for his smaller frame. Basic hunter kit.

He'd been through this routine dozens of times now. The preparation, the hunt, the confrontation, the cleanup. It was almost normal.

Almost.

They tracked it to an old granary just outside town. The building stood skeletal against the night sky, weathered wood and rusted metal barely holding together after decades of neglect. Perfect hiding place for something that didn't want to be found.

"Stay close," Roy whispered as they approached. "These things are fast. If it charges, aim for the heart or brain. Silver works best."

Reed nodded, clutching her flashlight like a lifeline. She wasn't a hunter, not really, but she'd insisted on coming. Adam admired her courage, even as he worried about her safety.

The granary's interior was a maze of shadows and dust. Moonlight filtered through broken slats in the walls, painting stripes across the concrete floor. The air smelled of rot and something else—something metallic and organic that made Adam's stomach clench.

Blood. Fresh blood.

Roy signaled for them to split up—Adam taking the ground floor's east side, Roy the west, Reed checking the small office area by the entrance.

Adam moved silently, feet placed with practiced care. His senses felt heightened, the way they always did during a hunt. Every sound crisp, every shadow distinct. His hand rested on the silver knife at his belt, ready.

The first sign came from above—a soft scraping, like nails on wood. Then a thump that sent dust raining from the ceiling.

Reed's voice crackled through the walkie-talkie at his hip: "I think it's in the upper loft. I can hear—"

A crash interrupted her. Then silence.

"Reed?" Adam whispered urgently into the radio. "Reed, come in."

Nothing.

Adam moved quickly toward the metal staircase leading to the upper level. Roy was already coming from the other direction, shotgun raised.

"Stay behind me," Roy ordered.

"No time," Adam replied, already taking the stairs two at a time.

The upper loft was darker, the moonlight barely penetrating. Adam flicked on his flashlight, sweeping the beam across empty grain containers and abandoned equipment.

"Reed?" he called softly.

A whimper came from the far corner. Adam's light found her, pressed against the wall, eyes wide with terror. Between her and the stairs stood a figure—human in shape, but moving with a jerky, unnatural gait.

It turned toward the light, and Adam's breath caught. It looked like a man—middle-aged, weathered face, flannel shirt—but something was fundamentally wrong. The skin seemed too tight in some places, too loose in others. The eyes reflected the light like an animal's.

"Adam," Reed's voice shook. "It's fast. Be careful."

The skinwalker tilted its head, studying Adam with predatory interest. Its mouth opened in what might have been a smile on a human face, revealing teeth too sharp for comfort.

"Young," it said, its voice a raspy imitation of human speech. "Tender."

Roy's footsteps sounded on the stairs behind Adam.

The creature's head snapped toward the new sound, and it snarled. In that moment of distraction, Reed tried to move along the wall toward Adam.

The floorboards creaked beneath her feet.

The skinwalker whirled, impossibly fast, and lunged at Reed. The rotted floor beneath them groaned, then gave way with a sickening crack. Reed screamed as she and the creature plummeted partially through the opening, catching herself on a support beam.

The skinwalker wasn't fazed. It scrambled up from the broken floor and reached for Reed's legs, trying to drag her down.

Adam had been on hunts before. He'd seen things. Fought things. Killed creatures that weren't human.

But this one was.

Or at least—it used to be.

It moved like a skinwalker, but it talked like a man. Trapped Reed in the upper loft, tore through the floor like paper trying to get to her. Adam reached her first, shoving her out of the way as the thing lunged.

Time slowed down. The creature's momentum carried it forward, its face twisted with inhuman hunger. Reed's panicked breathing filled Adam's ears. Roy was shouting something from the stairway.

Adam's hand found the silver knife at his belt. Pure instinct. Pure reaction.

He stabbed it in the chest.

And it died screaming.

Not hissing. Not evaporating. Screaming.

The blade slid in easy. Too easy.

It bled like a person. Collapsed like a person. Looked up at him, eyes wide, confused. Human.

The creature's—the man's—mouth worked silently, blood bubbling between his lips. The animal reflection faded from his eyes, leaving behind something terrifyingly human. Confusion. Pain. Fear.

Adam froze. Time slowed. He could hear Reed breathing behind him, shallow and fast. The wind through broken beams. His heart pounding in his ears.

He looked down at the body. Then at the knife in his hand.

And then he dropped it.

The silver blade clattered on the wooden floor, blood glistening black in the dim light. The man's chest rose and fell one last time, then stilled.

"Adam." Roy's voice came from very far away. "Adam, you okay?"

Adam couldn't answer. His throat had closed up. His hands were shaking violently now, spattered with cooling blood.

Reed was there suddenly, pulling him back from the body, her arm around his shoulders. "It's okay," she was saying, though her voice trembled. "You saved me. It would have killed me."

But Adam couldn't tear his eyes away from the man's face. In death, he looked ordinary. Just a middle-aged man with weathered skin and a week's growth of beard. Someone's neighbor. Someone's friend. Maybe someone's father.

"Was it—" Adam's voice cracked. "Was it really a skinwalker? Are we sure?"

Roy knelt beside the body, examining it with clinical detachment. "Silver reaction," he noted, pointing to the faint sizzle where the blade had pierced skin. "Retractable claws. Definitely not human." He looked up at Adam. "You did good, kid. You did what you had to do."

Adam nodded mechanically, but the reassurance felt hollow.

Later, Roy confirmed it had been a skinwalker. DNA on file. Previous kills. "It was dangerous," Roy said. "It would've killed her. Probably you, too."

They gathered at Reed's office afterward, the professor unusually quiet as she cleaned a cut on her arm. Roy nursed a whiskey, his expression grim but satisfied. Case closed. Monster dead. Hunters alive. In his book, that was a win.

Reed didn't argue with Roy's assessment.

But she didn't look at Adam the same after that.

Neither did Adam.

Something had changed the moment that knife slid home. A line crossed that could never be uncrossed. Killing monsters was one thing—they evaporated, exploded, crumbled to ash. Clinical. Clean. Abstract.

And even if there is some that resemble Human, Roy usually gives the last hit.

This had been messy. Human. Real.

Adam had taken a life. Not just a creature's existence—a life.

They buried the body deep in the woods.

No fire this time. No salt. Just dirt, and silence, and a weight Adam would carry for the rest of his life.

The digging helped, in a way. Physical labor, methodical and exhausting. Adam worked without stopping, sweat soaking through his shirt despite the cool night air. Roy offered to take over several times, but Adam refused. This was his responsibility. His burden.

When it was done, when the last shovelful of earth covered the makeshift grave, Adam stood silent for a long moment.

"Should we say something?" Reed asked softly.

Adam shook his head. What could he possibly say? Sorry I killed you? Sorry you were a monster? Sorry I can't feel as bad as I should?

Because that was the truth that gnawed at him. Beyond the shock, beyond the visceral horror of watching someone die by his hand, was a deeper, more disturbing realization: he wasn't as devastated as he should be.

A part of him—the hunter part, the part that had been growing stronger over the past two years—recognized the necessity of what he'd done. Reed was alive because he hadn't hesitated. Others would live because this skinwalker wouldn't hunt again.

The moral calculus was simple. One monster's life versus many innocent ones.

So why did his hands still shake when he thought about it?

He didn't cry. But he couldn't sleep for two nights.

On the third night, he sat on his bed, staring at the silver knife he'd cleaned meticulously. The weapon that had taken a life. His weapon now, in a deeper sense than before.

His phone buzzed. A text from John: Passing through next weekend. Thought we could catch a movie.

Adam stared at the message for a long time.

He still kept the secret from his dad.

John didn't need to know what his son had done.

Didn't need to know that Adam Milligan—fourteen, quiet, careful Adam—had taken a life.

To save someone he cared about.

To stop something evil.

To survive.

That's what he told himself, anyway. That's what Roy and Reed told him too, in their different ways. Roy with his gruff reassurance that it had been necessary, Reed with her quiet support as she helped him process what had happened.

But in the dark of his room, with only his reflection for company, Adam faced the truth.

And the worst part was... he'd do it again.

If faced with the same choice—Reed's life or the skinwalker's—he wouldn't hesitate. Not for a second.

And somehow, that realization was more terrifying than anything he'd hunted.