Rain tapped a listless rhythm against the window of Ethan Blackthorn's studio apartment, the sound drowned out by the hum of his laptop. Neon light from the street below seeped through the blinds, painting his cramped room in streaks of electric blue and sickly green. Posters of old graphic design projects clung to the walls, their edges curling like autumn leaves; testaments to a career that had become more about survival than passion. He slumped over his desk, fingers stiff from hours of tweaking a logo for The Crimson Brew, a new café whose owner had demanded "mystique, but approachable!" Ethan scowled at the screen; a stylized coffee cup with a drop of blood-red liquid falling into it. Mystique achieved, he thought dryly.
His notebook lay open beside the keyboard, filled with half-finished sketches: twisted trees with eyes in their bark, jagged symbols he didn't remember drawing. He'd always dismissed them as stress doodles, but tonight, one caught his eye, a crescent moon cradling a thorned rose. It pulsed faintly, or maybe that was just the migraine building behind his temples. The sketches had started in childhood, after his mother's death. She'd called them "gifts from the moon," though he'd never understood why. Now, they were just another reminder of the creativity he'd traded for rent checks.
A notification chimed. Lila: Still alive?
Ethan smirked. His childhood friend had a sixth sense for when he was drowning in work. He replied; Barely. Coffee?
Lila: Crimson Brew in 20. Don't bail.
He grabbed his coat, its seams fraying at the cuffs, and stepped into the damp October night.
---
The shortest route to the café cut through Veilwalkers' Alley, a narrow passage wedged between a pawnshop and a shuttered theater. Locals avoided it after sundown, swapping stories of shadows that moved on their own and whispers in dead languages. Ethan had never put stock in superstitions, but tonight, the alley felt…hungry.
The lone streetlamp flickered, casting stuttering light over graffiti-strewn walls. His breath fogged in the air, though the chill felt sharper than the weather warranted. Something glinted near his foot; a silver pendant on a broken chain. He picked it up, thumb brushing the engraving: a crescent moon wrapped in vines. A prickle raced up his spine, like static from a live wire. The metal warmed in his palm, and for a moment, he smelled jasmine; his mother's perfume.
"You shouldn't be here."
Ethan whirled. The alley was empty.
"Silly little moth," the voice hissed, now behind him.
He bolted, the pendant clenched in his fist.
---
The café was all exposed brick and faux-vintage charm, its walls adorned with oil paintings of wolves and wilted roses. Lila waved from a corner booth, her auburn hair haloed by the Edison bulb overhead. She raised an eyebrow as he slid in, rainwater dripping from his sleeves.
"You look like a drowned cat," she said, pushing a cappuccino toward him.
"Charming as ever." He sipped the drink, cinnamon and something metallic. The barista, a gaunt man with a spiderweb tattoo creeping up his neck, watched them from behind the counter. Ethan avoided his gaze.
Lila leaned forward. "You're still having those nightmares, aren't you?"
"What? No. Just tired."
"Liar." She tapped her temple. "I've been having them too. A woman with violet eyes, screaming. And there's this…veil. Like smoke, but it burns."
Ethan's mug clattered against the saucer. The pendant in his pocket seared his thigh.
"You're shaking," Lila said softly.
"It's nothing." He forced a laugh. "Since when do you believe in ghost stories?"
"Since they started following me into the daylight."
---
Rain sheeted down as Ethan left the café, the wind snarling like a caged beast. His umbrella inverted with a crack, and he cursed, tossing it into an overflowing gutter. Lightning split the sky, and for a heartbeat, he saw her; a figure perched atop the clock tower, her dress billowing like ink spilled in water.
Just a trick of the light, he told himself.
But the air smelled wrong. Not petrichor, but rust and funeral lilies.
He broke into a run, skidding around corners slick with rain. The city's usual hum had died, replaced by a silence so thick it pressed against his eardrums. A stray cat yowled, its eyes reflecting gold in the dark.
The alley was a dead end.
Ethan spun, chest heaving, as Selene stepped from the shadows. Her beauty was a blade porcelain skin, lips the color of a fresh wound, eyes like twin pools of blood. She moved without sound, her smile a crescent moon.
"You've been marked long before tonight, Ethan Blackthorn," she purred. "The blood never lies."
He scrambled backward, but she was a blur. Cold hands pinned him to the wall, her breath glacial against his throat.
"Wait, please...."
Pain.
White-hot and icy all at once, radiating from his neck as her fangs pierced skin. His vision swam, the world fracturing into shards of light and shadow.
The Vision
Fire. A pyre licking at a woman's feet, her wrists bound by iron cuffs etched with thorns. Her eyes amber and violet locked onto his.
"The Veil bends for you, Duskborn."
The crowd roared, their faces melting into grotesque masks. The woman's scream tore through time itself.
"They fear what they cannot control," her voice echoed. "But you… you will break their chains."
Flames swallowed her, and the pendant in Ethan's hand glowed like a star.
---
Ethan awoke to the scent of decay and beeswax. Cracked plaster ceilings loomed above, chandeliers draped in cobwebs. Selene lounged in a moth-eaten armchair, polishing a dagger with a cloth.
"Welcome to the twilight, little hybrid," she said, nodding to the shattered mirror on the wall.
His reflection stared back; pale skin, sharpened canines, and eyes that flickered between amber and violent violet.
"What happened to me? What…am I?"
Selene's laugh was a razor dragged over silk.
"Hope."