The Flipside of Him

Some mornings, I wake up and pretend the curse isn't real.

I roll out of bed, stretch my arms, wash the blood off my hands-try not to ask whose it was-and get dressed like a normal man. I unlock the garage by six, fire up the coffee maker, wipe down my tools. Just another mechanic in a nowhere town, fixing busted engines and drinking cold beer with folks who don't ask too many questions.

But some mornings, like this one, the wolf won't let me forget.

The ache in my bones tells me it was a rough night. My knuckles are split, crusted with blood that isn't entirely mine, and my shirt sticks to my back with dried sweat. My jaw is sore, probably from grinding my teeth mid-shift, and there's a dull pressure behind my eyes like something is still pressing against the inside of my skull, trying to claw its way out.

I lean over the open hood of a beat-up '99 Chevy, tools clinking on the metal tray beside me. The old truck smells like burnt oil and mouse droppings. The radiator's shot, the timing belt's off, and something in the transmission is groaning like it's about to confess a crime. I don't mind the work-it keeps my hands busy. Keeps my mind off the rest.

The wolf never really sleeps. He just waits.

Last night was the full moon, and even though I chained myself up like always-silver cuffs around the wrists, iron-lined cage in the basement-I remember breaking free. I remember trees. Running. Snarling. And blood. A lot of it.

I don't know what I did. Or who I did it to.

But I know the wolf fed.

I exhale slowly and try not to think about it.

Outside, the morning air is thick with dew and smoke from someone's fireplace. Birds chirp somewhere beyond the garage, and from the road I can hear the occasional crunch of gravel as someone drives by too slow, watching the woods like they expect something to come walking out.

They're not wrong.

Hollow's Edge isn't a big town. It's the kind of place you miss if you blink, a speck on the map surrounded by forest, legend, and too many missing person reports. The locals pretend everything is fine. They smile, wave, gossip. But deep down, they know something's off. They feel it in their bones.

The town breathes, and the woods breathe with it.

Sometimes, I swear they breathe through me.

I wipe my hands on a rag, check the Chevy's hoses, then reach for the socket wrench just as the front door creaks open. I don't turn around right away. Most folks in Hollow's Edge know better than to come snooping around the garage unannounced-especially the morning after a full moon.

Then I catch the scent.

Smoke. Rain. And something sharp underneath, like crushed herbs and steel.

My stomach tenses.

The wolf wakes up.

"You open?" a woman asks, voice low and steady.

I look up.

And everything stops.

She stands framed by the morning light-tall, lean, wrapped in a weather-beaten leather jacket and dark jeans. Her boots are scuffed, her fingers gloved, and a satchel hangs across her chest like she's been traveling a long time. Her hair is shoulder-length and dark, tousled like wind had dragged its fingers through it. But it's her eyes that get me.

Storm grey. Still. Dangerous.

They don't blink when they meet mine.

I set the wrench down and straighten. "Depends. What are you driving?"

"I'm not here for repairs," she says. "Just passing through. Looking for a place to stay."

"There's a motel near the highway. Another one above the diner, if you don't mind peeling wallpaper."

"I don't mind much." Her voice is smooth, but there's something behind it. Something tired. Heavy. "Quiet town, isn't it?"

I shrug. "Depends what you're listening for."

She smiles at that, just slightly. "And what do you listen for?"

"Trouble."

She doesn't laugh, but I see the corner of her mouth twitch like she wants to. Then she walks in. Not the nervous kind of walk, not someone trying to tiptoe around the town freak. She moves like she owns every inch of ground beneath her feet.

I feel my spine tense.

There's something wrong about her. Not bad. Just... wrong. Like she's wearing a human body, but it doesn't quite fit right. My instincts start rattling like a chain-link fence in a windstorm.

"You got a name?" I ask, carefully.

She nods. "Eira Vale."

"New in town?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Would you believe me if I said I grew up here?"

"No," I say flatly.

"Didn't think so."

She steps forward, stops a few feet from me, and extends a gloved hand.