The Werewolves of Nyxryn

Chapter 1-the human realm

The hum of the fluorescent lights inside the coffee shop was the same as always that night— loud enough to grind on my nerves, soft enough that no one else noticed. Another slow night. Another round of customers who seemed to believe I was put on this earth to suffer their existence. I leaned against the counter, trying not to glare too obviously at the man who was taking twenty minutes to decide between two nearly identical lattes. Work was work. Annoying, endless, predictable. Which, honestly, was almost a blessing, because it gave me room to think back on the past day.

This morning had been a sprint — drop my siblings, Malrik and Elira, at school, then head straight to my day shift at the grocery store. Shelves to stock, carts to wrangle, customers to endure. By the time the shift ended, my legs felt like rubber, but I kept moving, because that’s what I did. They didn’t know I had been on my feet for hours already, fighting the urge to commit homicide by syrup pump. They didn’t need to know. That was the point.

Picking up the kids had been the best part of the day. Elira came bouncing out of school, Malrik walking next to her with his hands in his pockets, trying to look cool. The look on Elira’s face when I told them we were going shopping for new shoes… I’d bottle it up if I could.

We’d found a pair on sale — plain black sneakers, sturdy enough to survive her running around the schoolyard all day long. She slipped them on right there in the store and grinned like she had just been handed the crown jewels. Watching her bounce on her toes, testing them out, made the numbers in my head stop spinning for a while. For once, the universe gave us a break.

Of course, the universe never lets good moments last. By the time we got home, Mom was awake — which should’ve been good, but it wasn’t. She was angry, mascara smudged, hair wild, pacing like a storm looking for somewhere to land. I knew the signs the second I saw her: she had run out of liquor inside the house.

The fight wasn’t with us, not really. We were just collateral. She slammed things around, hissed under her breath about how unfair life was, about how nobody respected her. Then, without so much as a glance at her own kids, she stormed out — face caked in makeup, clothes barely there, smelling like perfume she absolutely couldn’t afford. I didn’t need a crystal ball to know what came next. She’d find some man, bat her lashes, and he’d buy her drink after drink until she was too far gone to remember anything except that someone paid attention to her for a few hours. Tomorrow morning, she’d stumble back in, hollow-eyed and smelling like smoke, and collapse on the couch all over again.

It stung, sometimes, remembering the way things had been once. Not long ago — longer than the years my mind wanted to admit — our house had been small and honest and full. We weren’t rich by a long shot. The floors creaked in places, the paint flaked in others, but there was always enough food, always a reason to laugh in the kitchen. My father could make a pan of eggs feel like a feast. He had this habit of humming off-key and pretending to conduct the kettle as if it were an orchestra. We'd eat and talk and laugh, and the world felt like something we could hold.

Then the debts came. Not the slow, fixable sort; something ugly and greedy and fast. Gambling had been a private flame at first — a shrug, a lucky week — and then it was an animal in the house that did not care about our faces. It ate money, then pride, then sleep. The arguments between my parents started small, whispered across the hallway at first, then more ragged and sharp. I watched my father shrink into someone who counted on luck the way people count on breath.

He chose a way out that had broken everything. He took his own life with a gun; that was the honest sentence, and it sat in my mouth like a rock. I didn’t dress it up. I didn’t add metaphors to make it gentler. He killed himself because the debts were too big, because shame was a heavier coat than he could wear, because he could not see a path through. I still replayed the day in bad, jagged snippets: the phone call that made the air go thin, the silence afterward like something had been pulled from the room. After that, the people remaining in this family had kept their shape but had lost the music.

After the funeral, there were letters and phone calls and men in suits with paper eyes who explained that there was nothing left to claim for us. The house, the few savings, gone in the tangle of loans and repayments. My father’s decisions left a ledger with our name on it, and the world, practical and unsentimental, expected someone to pay. I stepped up because I had hands that could work and people who needed shoes. And my mom... well, she dealt with the loss of my father by drowning herself in alcohol, simple as that.

I hated leaving Malrik and Elira in the middle of that mess, but Malrik had caught my eye before I left.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said, voice low but steady.

“I’ll watch her. I’ve got this.”

And he did. But he was seventeen and shouldn’t have to, but he did, just like I had done at sixteen when this madness had begun.

That was the only reason I was standing here behind this counter instead of pacing the apartment like a guard dog.

A woman approached the counter, blabbering her large order one by one as if the world had personally offended her. I plastered on my best fake smile. She huffed when I made her order too slowly for her liking. I pictured throwing the hot coffee over her face and immediately felt better. Of course... she didn't tip me.

My life was split into two: the chaos of home, and the monotony of work. Both grind me down in their own ways. But tonight — after the shoes, after Malrik’s steady look, after Elira’s grin — I let myself hold on to the fact that, for a few hours today, I made things better for them. Even if Mom was out there somewhere, burning herself down all over again.

I finished my shift, stacked the cups, and handed the till off to the register. The town was asleep, and I was not. I could feel the weight of the coming day press against my temples — rent, groceries, bills — but underneath it all, there was a small, stubborn warmth. It was not bravery. It was not heroism. It was the dull, steady ache of responsibility that said: work, so they can sleep.

By the time I finally dragged myself out of the building, the night air felt like wet cement pressing down on me. My whole body was screaming for bed. My eyes burned, heavy-lidded, and my feet felt like I had been walking on hot coals for days. I didn’t even remember clocking out, just the shuffle of my coworkers muttering goodnights and the hollow thud of the back door closed behind me.

I slid into my car, the old engine groaning when I twisted the key. For a second, I just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, forehead resting against the cold vinyl, trying to muster the willpower to move.

Thirteen minutes.

That was it.

Thirteen minutes until I was home, until I could faceplant into my mattress and let Malrik’s promise to watch Elira carry me through. If it were any longer, I might just have slept right here in the parking lot.

I put the car in gear and pulled out, the world outside my windshield smeared by the dull glow of streetlights. The first few minutes were the worst. Every blink stretched too long. My head bobbed forward once, twice, until the panic jolted me awake again. I slammed the window down, and the cold wind hit me like a slap, whipping my hair into my face. It helped for all of twenty seconds.

So I twisted the radio dial until static exploded through the speakers, then settled on a station blasting obnoxious pop beats. Too loud, too fast, the kind of music I would normally turn off in disgust. Tonight, I cranked it up until the bass rattled the mirror. Anything to keep me awake.

The road was almost empty, dark stretches of asphalt cutting between trees that loomed on either side like silent sentinels. My headlights carved out a narrow tunnel ahead of me. Everything else was shadow.

I tried to focus on little things: the faded white lines on the road, the rhythm of the windshield wipers as they squeaked across glass that wasn’t even wet, the stupid lyrics pouring from the radio. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel, my heart thudding in time. Still, I yawned so wide it felt like I was unhinging my jaw. My eyes stung. My body was a mutiny of exhaustion.

I rubbed at my face, glanced down at the radio for half a second—just a second—adjusting the volume before my brain shuts off again.

That’s when it happened.

The world ahead erupted in movement. Something massive and dark surged out of the trees, straight into my headlights. For one frozen moment, my brain couldn’t even comprehend what I was seeing. Too big for a deer. Too fast for a bear. Wrong shape entirely.

“s**t!”

My hands jerked the wheel, but it was already too late.

The impact explodes through the car — a sickening thud followed by the shriek of my tires as I slammed both feet on the brakes. The seatbelt bit into my shoulder, my head whiplashing forward. The car skidded, fishtailing for a terrifying second before lurching to a stop at an angle across the road.

Silence.

Only my heartbeat, hammering in my throat. Only my breathing, ragged and too loud.

The headlights spilled forward, illuminating empty pavement, swaying branches. Something glinted in the beam — dark, wet, smeared across the asphalt.

My hands were welded to the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white. My whole body trembled, every nerve screaming. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t.

I hit something. I knew I hit something. The sound still reverberated in my skull, echoing against my ribs.

But where was it?

I scanned the road, straining to see past the glare of the lights. Nothing. Nobody. No wreckage. No obvious explanation.

A cold weight settled in my chest. It wasn’t a deer. I knew what deer look like. This… this was different. Bigger. Wrong.

For a long moment, I just sat there, frozen, the radio still blaring nonsense I couldn’t process. My mind spun with possibilities, each one worse than the last.

I needed to get out. I needed to see what I hit.

But the thought of opening the door, of stepping out into that dark stretch of road, made my stomach twist. Because whatever I hit… whatever just sprinted across my path… it might still be out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

And I had no idea what the hell it was.