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Growing up, she had a strange relationship with the night. While other kids dreaded the dark, she felt safest in it. Moonlight calmed her in a way she could never explain, like it was speaking a language only she understood. She bruised easily but healed faster than anyone else. Scratches vanished overnight. Fevers never lasted. Her senses were… sharper. Sounds too far away. Emotions too loud. She learned early to keep her reactions small so no one would ask questions. Her family called her intense. Moody. Sensitive. She called it survival. The truth revealed itself the night everything finally snapped. It was a full moon—the kind that sits heavy in the sky, glowing too bright, too close. She had already felt off all day: restless, aching, skin tight like it didn’t quite fit anymore. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. When night fell, the pull became unbearable, dragging her outside like a tide she couldn’t fight. That’s when it happened. Pain tore through her body—bones shifting, muscles burning, breath ripping out of her chest. Fear turned into instinct. Instinct into something ancient and wild. She doesn’t remember the exact moment she changed—only the smell of earth, the rush of speed, the sound of her own howl ripping through the trees. When she woke the next morning, she was naked in the woods, covered in dirt and scratches… and very much alive. The signs that followed were impossible to ignore. Strength she couldn’t control. Anger that felt too big. A constant hum under her skin, like something waiting. Mirrors felt wrong. The moon felt personal. Dreams became memories that weren’t quite hers—running on four legs, belonging to something older than language. Eventually, she learns the truth: her mother knew.