Tristan's eyes stared back at him from the mirror, but they were not his own. They were darker, more sinister, with vertical pupils that seemed to pierce through the glass. His skin was deathly pale, stretched taut over razor-sharp cheekbones. His hair was longer, wilder, with subtle streaks of silver strands that seemed to move of their own accord.
He was a monster.
Tristan's mind recoiled in horror, his thoughts consumed by the transformation that had ravaged his body on his 18th birthday. He could not shake the feeling of being a stranger in his own skin, a prisoner of the beast that lurked beneath the surface.
"Tristan, sweetie, come down for breakfast," his mother, Laura, called from downstairs, her voice cheerful but laced with concern and hesitation.
Tristan hesitated, unsure if
