The first sign something was wrong was the sound.
Not a noise—a frequency. A low hum beneath the city’s skin that crawled into Ari’s bones and wouldn’t leave. It followed her from the garage to the elevator, up through the quiet floors of pack housing, into the apartment where the windows glowed with moonlight like open eyes.
She pressed her palm to the glass.
The moon felt closer tonight.
Too close.
“You’re shaking,” Dante said from behind her.
“I’m fine,” she lied automatically—then flinched as heat surged through her spine. Her breath hitched. “Okay. Maybe not fine.”
He moved nearer without touching, presence steady, grounding. “Describe it.”
“It’s like… my skin doesn’t fit,” she said. “Like something keeps knocking from the inside.”
The anchor tugged, uneven now. Where it had
