Silver Mane’s pier smells like regret, salt-soaked decay, fish guts, and a tang of rust that claws at my throat. The fog’s a thick shroud, muffling the world, and I shake my spray can, its rattle a defiant heartbeat slicing the quiet.
Midnight’s my sanctuary, when the town’s tech lords snore in their solar-paneled fortresses and the drones, those buzzing spies, loaf on their chargers, too lazy to haunt this forgotten edge.
My boots scrape the warehouse’s splintered planks, each creak a dare to the dark, and I squint through the mist, the pier’s skeleton looming like a beast licking its chops.
I’m Jade Navarro, seventeen, broke as a shattered bottle, and tonight, I’m painting a scream nobody hears.
The wall’s a battered canvas, gray paint peeling like burned skin, bolts weeping rust in bloody streaks. It’s mine, raw and real, no prep-school gloss.
I pop the can’s cap, and neon green hisses out, curling into a wolf’s snarling jaws, fierce as the fury I choke down daily.
My wrist snaps quick, sharp, a blade carving my truth. Mom’s voice dogs me “You’re wasting time, mija. Study, not this foolishness.” Her tired eyes, shadowed from double shifts, stab deeper than I let on.
But numbers don’t sing, don’t drown the whispers at Silver Mane High: scholarship trash, nobody, nothing. This wolf’s my fight, my spit in their faces, a howl they can’t ignore.
I grab black, shading its eyes hazel, like mine, but burning, untamed, no fear of being less. The wind’s a cold fist, yanking my curls free from their knot, and they whip my face, paint-flecked and wild.
Paint fumes sting my nose, sharp as cheap vodka, and my hoodie’s no match for the chill, goosebumps prickling my arms. A gull’s cry splits the dark, shrill and lonely, echoing the ache I shove deep.
Nobody sees Jade, not really. I’m a ghost with a can, haunting walls to feel alive. I snatch the UV paint, my rebel alchemy, pirated from art forums on Mom’s wheezing laptop and layer it over the snout, slow strokes, deliberate. Under blacklight, it’ll blaze like a specter, my secret for a town that forgets me.
I step back, breath hitching, and the wolf stares alive, almost, its jaws daring the world to bite first. My chest tightens, a spark flaring hot, not pride but something close, something dangerous.
I’m not just a kid with paint; I’m a storm brewing, if only I believed it. The air shifts, heavy as a held breath, electric, and my mural moves. Not the wind’s cruel tease no, the neon stretches, jaws widening, dripping light like venom from a fresh wound.
My boots snag a nail, heart slamming like a trapped beast, and the can slips, clattering into the void, a tinny scream swallowed by fog. “What the hell?” I rasp, voice cracking like brittle glass, raw and too loud in the hush.
My phone’s flashlight shakes in my grip, beam jerking wild, catching glints of wet wood and rusted iron. The wolf’s glow pulses, a heartbeat thumping with mine, and my ribs ache, like something’s clawing out, something I don’t know.
I’m frozen, breath fogging fast, and the fog swirls, thicker, a living thing coiling tight. My skin prickles, a hum buzzing, deep bones, blood, a song I’ve never heard but feel in my marrow.
Mom’s warnings flicker “Stay safe, Jade. You don’t know what’s out there.” I thought she meant creeps, drunks, the usual Silver Mane scum. Not this. Not a wall that breathes.
Footsteps crunch, slow and sure, a predator’s tread slicing the mist. My pulse is a war drum, deafening, and I spin, flashlight slashing the dark.
A shadow peels free. Tall, lean, leather jacket creaking like it’s got a grudge. His hair’s a dark snarl, falling over eyes gray as the sea before a squall, sharp enough to cut my breath short.
Tattoos snake up his neck, runes, maybe, or a punk’s cry for chaos, black as secrets against pale skin. He’s no Silver Mane trust-funder, no polished smirk from the halls. He’s danger, raw and real, and he’s here, staring at my wolf like it’s a crime.
“You did this?” His voice is gravel chewed raw, heavy with a weight I don’t get, like he’s carrying ghosts. He nods at the mural, still pulsing, neon bleeding into the fog, and his eyes flick to me, pinning me like a moth to cork.
I square my shoulders, sarcasm my flimsy shield, though my knees tremble under my jeans. “No, I’m just here to soak up the vibes. You the art police?” My words bite, but they wobble, a crack in my bravado, and I hate it. I hate how his stare strips me, sees the scared girl I bury.
My pulse is a riot, but I don’t blink, won’t let him think I’m soft.
He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t flinch, just steps closer, boots scuffing damp wood. “That’s no art. It’s a signal.” The air’s electric now, his scent hitting me, pine sharp as a blade, smoke curling dark, something wild that tugs my gut like a hook.
My flashlight catches his jaw, carved like a cliff’s edge, and he’s too close, leather brushing my sleeve. The hum in my bones swells, a tide pulling me under, and I’m drowning, fighting to stay me.
“Signal for what?” I scoff, but my voice frays, a thread snapping under strain. “A graffiti convention?” The mural’s glow is a drumbeat, and my chest aches, like my ribs are splitting to let something out.
His scent’s stronger, wrapping me tight, and I’m reeling, caught in a current I didn’t ask for.
“Pack,” he says, like it’s carved in stone, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re latent. And you just woke up.” He reaches out.
Accident or dare, I can’t tell and his fingers graze my arm, rough, warm.
A jolt rips through, a vision slamming my skull: gray fur matted with snow, blood steaming red, his eyes, those same gray eyes locked on mine through a howling blizzard. I gasp, jerking back, and the pier tilts, fog swallowing the edges like a hungry maw.
“Get off!” I snap, legs jelly, fists clenched to hide the shake. Latent? Pack? My head’s a tangle of thorns, snagging on Mom’s hushed warnings “You don’t know, Jade. Stay safe.”
Safe’s a lie, and this guy’s the proof, standing there like he owns my nightmare. My wolf mural flares, neon a living pulse, and I’m choking, fear and fury braiding tight.
He steadies me, hand on my elbow, and it fits too right, like a key turning a lock I didn’t know I had. “Kieran,” he says, voice softer but eyes steel, cutting through the haze.
“You’ve got no clue what you’ve done, do you?” There’s a crack in his tone, guilt, maybe, or something heavier, like he’s running from worse than me.
“Done?” I wrench free, fury a spark catching dry grass. “I painted a damn wolf, not a…whatever you’re selling!” My voice is shrill, a kid’s cry, and I hate it, hate how small I feel, paint-stained fingers trembling.
The mural’s alive, a vein throbbing in the dark, and my chest’s splitting, something clawing to break loose, something I’m not ready for.
Kieran’s jaw tightens, his gaze snapping to the fog like it’s got claws. “It’s a call. They’re coming.” He steps back, leather creaking, a shadow ready to bolt, and I catch it, guilt, raw and jagged, flickering in his eyes.
“Run, Jade. Now.” His voice is a plea, not a command, and it hooks me, sharp and deep, but I’m rooted, boots glued to the planks.
“How do you know my….” My phone cuts me off, buzzing like a hornet’s nest. The screen flares, PackSync’s logo pulsing, a claw slashing a moon, an app I don’t own, can’t afford.
My name screams across it: “Jade Navarro, Latent Detected. Silver Mane Pack Alert.” Mom’s barely got data for texts, let alone this.
My breath’s a blade, slicing my lungs, and the fog churns, headlights stabbing through. Two, four, six, like eyes in the dark.
Engines growl, tires chewing gravel, a pack closing in. Kieran’s gone, a wisp swallowed by mist, leaving me with my glowing wolf and a word choking my throat: Pack.
A black SUV screeches up, sleek as sin, and Ethan Voss steps out. Blond hair a halo, smirk a guillotine’s edge, blue eyes glinting wolf under the neon.
“Jade Navarro,” he drawls, voice silk spun with venom, each syllable a hook. “Looks like you’re mine now.”
My mural howls, a cry that splits my world in two.
