💬 I Wasn’t Supposed to Share This Yet...

But Remi never does what he’s supposed to, and neither do I.

This isn’t polished. This isn’t promo-perfect. This is chapter one of Book 4.5: A Shifter’s Tale, dropped raw—because I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Book 4.5 isn't simple or easy.

It’s sweat and grief and feral need.
It’s trauma bleeding into tenderness.
It’s the first time Remi lets someone kiss him like they mean it.
And yes—this one's got teeth and heat. You’ve been warned. 💀

Chapter 1: Palimpsest 

(n.) a manuscript or piece of writing material on which the original writing has been effaced or scraped off to make room for later writing but of which traces remain.

He knew something was wrong before he even saw the door to Ivan’s shop.

The alley was too quiet. Not just quiet—hushed, like a breath held too long. Trash crunched under his boots in slow motion, the city around him blurred and flickering with that late-Frostmark light that made everything look like it was underwater. The kind of light that warned animals to dig deeper and not come up.

Remington didn’t dig. He shoved his way through the warped side gate and stepped into the carcass of Uncle Ivan’s garage.

Or what was left of it.

The air hit first—like hot metal soaked in piss. A bastard cocktail of scorched rubber, old motor oil, and weed-sweat rot. Broken glass shifted under his boots with a low, brittle snap. The place looked like it had been shaken by giants. Toolboxes upended. Drawers gaping like open mouths. Rags bled into oil slicks across the floor, and the old office at the back was nothing but shards and silence.

No Ivan. No note. No cash. No new identity. Just the afterimage of a man who’d promised too much and bailed too easy.

Remi stood in the middle of it, fists clenched so tight the bones creaked. His nails dug crescents into his palms. He didn’t feel it. What he felt was the echo. The absence. The leftover thrum of a plan dying in his chest like a bird hitting a window.

“I swear to fucking God, Ivan…” he muttered.

It wasn’t even worth shouting. Ivan wasn’t coming back.

He scanned again, desperate, feral—like maybe if he squinted hard enough, the man would reassemble from the wreckage. But the place wasn’t just trashed. It had been stripped. Cleaned. Deliberate chaos. The kind that didn’t come from rage, but from erasure.

Snow had started falling again—thin, sharp, needle-flake shit that didn’t stick but sliced when it hit skin. It dusted his shoulders, clung to his lashes, vanished on contact with the heat of his breath. He hunched deeper into the hoodie, but the wind still found him, crawling up his sleeves like fingers.

Only one thing remained: a white van, half-eaten by rust and half-swallowed by shadow, wedged between dumpsters like a forgotten tooth. Its front was spider webbed with grime and dead leaves. The rear door hung slightly ajar, like it had tried to get away and lost.

Remi stared at it.

The van was supposed to be functional. Fueled. Stocked. A way out.

It looked like a coffin.

Still. He crossed the garage, shoulder brushing a hanging chain that rattled too loud in the silence, like it knew what he’d come for. Every step across the oil-slicked floor echoed with accusation, boots hitting concrete like fists on a locked door.

When he yanked the van’s driver-side door open, the air hit him like a slap—raw, sharp, chemical. The stench poured out in layers: vinegar first, sour and biting, followed by the heavy stink of old leaves and cobweb-dust, and underneath it all, something else. Fainter. Slicker. Something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end—not in fear, but in memory. That cloying trace of heroin sweat soaked into the van’s bare metal ribs. It lived in the seams of the floor, in the grease-dark bolts. It crept up his nose, curled behind his eyes, twisted low in his gut—not hunger for food, not anymore. Hunger for quiet. For stillness. For that bloom of weightless silence when the blood slows and the noise fades and everything inside him stops screaming.

He blinked hard. Tried not to breathe too deep.

Remi swept the back of the van with one quick, bitter glance—hoping for supplies, even knowing better. Nothing. No crates. No blankets. Just bare ribs of steel and floor seams choked with old leaves. No fuel can. No gear. Just emptiness disguised as a plan.

His last fix had been—shit, how long ago? Eight hours? Ten? He could still feel the static of it curling through his veins, gone cold now, distant as someone else’s dream. His body itched in places he couldn’t reach. His skin felt two sizes too small.

But he didn’t have time to stop.

No food.

No gas can.

Just that smell, and the memory of what he used to be when he was too fucked up to feel anything.

“Motherfucker.”

He climbed in anyway, pushed past the sour leather, and dug around until his fingers caught on something buried deep in the seat foam—a bent key. Wrapped in duct tape. Hidden like guilt.

“Really, Ivan? That’s the best you could do?”

His voice cracked at the end. He pretended it was from the cold.

He slumped into the driver’s seat. The fabric hissed under his weight. He jammed the key in and turned it.

Click. Click. Silence.

“Fuck you.”

He tried again. Click. Grunt. Cough. Dead.

He banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand hard enough to jolt his elbow. His other hand trembled on the gearshift. His chest tightened, breath coming in through his teeth like ice.

One more time.

The key twisted. The van shuddered like it was having a seizure. A puff of black smoke belched out the back. Then, a reluctant cough—then life. Rough, uneven, limping.

Remi sagged forward, forehead resting on the wheel.

The engine idled like a wheeze.

“You fucking piece of shit.”

He looked up.

The windshield was streaked with so much grime it looked like someone had thrown muddy water across it. Through the gaps, Vekin Hook glared back—flat grey, cold blue, and uncaring.

He hadn’t eaten in two days.

His gut curled around itself like it was devouring memory. His hands were shaking harder now—not rage, not yet. Just the edge of something deeper. Hunger. Like echo. Like the body whispering you’re forgetting what it feels like to be whole.

The cold in the van wasn’t just temperature—it was a presence. It soaked into the metal and rose through the floor like breath from a corpse. Remi curled tighter under the hoodie he was wearing, but it didn’t help. His bones ached like old rust, his toes numb even through his boots. Every exhale fogged the windshield a little more, a fading sign of life.

Remi gripped the wheel with both hands. His knuckles had split at some point. He didn’t remember when.

He didn’t look back. Not at the road. Not at the past.

The garage receded behind him, the alley spitting him back out into the cold skeleton of the city. Neon signs blinked above shuttered storefronts like open sores. The pavement gleamed wet and mean. The van rattled with every pothole, the heater squealing out a half-dead breath.

He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t care.

There was no map. No plan. No Ivan. No word about Meeko.

Just the void where people were supposed to be.

Ivan was gone.

And so was his optimism.

The van whined like something dying. A guttural rasp every time he pressed the gas, as if the engine was trying to tell him no. He pressed harder.

Vekin Hook unraveled in his rearview mirror, light by light, block by block—just a smear of broken neon and rust-colored streetlamps sinking into distance.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Just away.

His hands clenched the steering wheel so tight his fingers ached. Every tendon thrummed with exhaustion and something worse—need. Not hunger, though that was a live wire curling through his guts. Not even sleep, though his vision blurred at the edges and the caffeine pills in his system felt like they were stabbing holes in his stomach lining.

This was a need without shape. Just raw edge.

Blood was dried to the side of his temple, flaking against the cold wind pouring through the cracked window. He could feel it tug at strands of his hair, cold and mean, like a phantom reaching through the glass.

His knuckles whitened around the wheel. The words weren’t coming from the van. They were from then. From there. His lungs locked. His vision blurred. The windshield warped under moonlight until it wasn’t a windshield anymore—it was linoleum smeared with blood, cracked tile reflecting moonlight through a busted window, cold plastic zip ties cutting into his wrists.

For a second, he was back in that kitchen.

Bound to a chair. Helpless. Staring across the room at Oksana—his mother, broken and begging, one eye swollen shut, her breath catching on sobs and spit and the word baby spilling out like it meant something. Like it hadn’t always come with pain. Like it could fix what was already coming.

The man with the butterfly knife was still there. Still crouched beside her like it was a game. Like her life was just a warm-up act. Remi could still smell the copper. The bleach. The fear. Could still feel his shoulders dislocating as he fought the restraints, the zip ties tearing deep into flesh already slick with blood. Could still hear her voice just before the end.

“I didn’t protect you when I should have…”

That voice. Real. Clear. Like it had torn free of years of addiction and ash just to say one true thing. One fucking true thing before they took her.

Remi’s jaw clenched until something popped behind his molars.

Not now.

Not on the road.

Not with her blood still soaked into the seams of his memory like it had a right to live there.

He blinked once, hard. The van windshield returned. The cold came rushing in through the cracked window. His grip on the wheel hadn’t loosened—still iron, still aching.

Only he knew what really happened.

No cops. No reports. No body to bury.

Just Remi, a kitchen full of blood, and a warning:

Next time, it’s you. Or the girl.

The cigarette trembled between his lips. His stomach turned.

He popped another caffeine pill dry. Didn’t bother checking how many he’d had. Didn’t care. His throat burned all the way down. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and nearly dropped it twice before the flame held.

The smoke didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

The streets of Vekin Hook gave way to cracked suburbs and then the dead edge of industrial nothing. Long stretches of road with potholes like wounds. Power lines leaning like tired bones. A defunct billboard hanging at an angle, peeling letters spelling out some slogan for a brand no one bought anymore.

The kind of place where the air smelled like metal and dirt and disuse. Where even the stray dogs didn’t bark. Where you could vanish without needing to hide.

Remi couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this far west.

He kept driving.

The van coughed and lurched as he turned onto a side road flanked by skeletal trees. Shadows knifed across the windshield. His eyes burned. The radio was busted and the silence pressed in like hands.

He hit the lakeside turnout without thinking—more instinct than decision. The sign was rusted out. The gravel lot was barely visible through the dark and creeping brush. He drove to the farthest corner, bumper nudging a fallen log, brambles clawing the side panels like they wanted to keep him there.

He killed the engine.

It rattled out one final shuddering groan, then silence swallowed everything.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

He sat there in the dark cab with his heart doing too much, too fast, thumping against his ribs like it was trying to break free. His head buzzed. His stomach twisted. The shadows outside the windshield looked too still.

He couldn’t see the lake, but he could smell it—thick and cold, algae and old fish and something rotting under the surface. It smelled like childhood summers and bruised knees and screaming. Like water soaked in memory.

He hated it.

Remi leaned back in the seat and let his eyes close for just a second.

Just one.

His fingers twitched.

Images bit through the dark—sharp, out of order, cruel.

His mother’s fingers curled around a wine bottle, knuckles pale, rings glinting in the kitchen light. Before the screaming. Before the begging. Before she’d been reduced to nothing but blood and memory on linoleum.

Then Meeko—his little sister, smiling too wide for her face, green-chartreuse eyes full of some joke she hadn’t told yet. The last time he saw her, she was tucking her sketchbook under one arm, laughing about some dumb TikTok and flicking her hair out of her face like she’d always have time to do it again.

She didn’t.

Then Kriia. Clear panic in her face, lips parted to say something—anything—as he crashed through the Moonfire Lounge doors like a wrecking ball in boots and blood. The room had gone dead silent behind the pulsing blue lights and velvet curtains. Her eyes locked on him, wide and demanding. And still he hadn’t said a word.

Just Meeko. Over and over.

He’d shouted the name like it could summon her.

But he never told Kriia what had happened. Never told her about the broken back window, the blood on the sink, the way Meeko’s drawings were still laid out like she’d be back in a minute.

He’d vanished instead. And hours later, the cartel had made sure the silence stuck—dragged him into that kitchen, zip-tied him to a chair, and made him watch.

His mother’s screams still lived behind his teeth.

Her final words clawed through him like rusted nails: “I didn’t protect you when I should have…”

He whispered it before he knew he was speaking.

“Don’t.”

Voice raw. Almost pleading.

Don’t remember. Don’t go back there.

But the memories didn’t listen. They never did.

He was alone.

That was safer.

That had always been safer.

Except it wasn’t safety, not really. It was survival with teeth. It was getting through instead of living. And now even the getting through was threadbare. He could feel the seams in his brain fraying, little threads of lucidity snapping in rhythm with each caffeine spike.

His stomach growled loud and sharp. He doubled over, elbow to the steering wheel, groaning. He hadn’t had real food in—two days? Maybe three. What he remembered was ash in his mouth and half-smoked cigarettes. The salt of old sweat. Water from the bathroom sink in a gas station an hour ago.

He opened the glove box.

Empty. Not even a receipt.

The back of the van had nothing. No clue if it had gas. No plan past this moment. Just motion. Just rage and ruin and the ragged echo of a promise that had died in Ivan’s hands.

Remi’s eyes glowed faint green in the dark. Sickly. Unstable.

He covered them with a hand and leaned his head forward, pressing it to the steering wheel again.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees.

Inside, nothing moved.

He could feel it—the unraveling. Quiet and slow, like a thread tugged loose from inside his ribcage. Each breath cost more. Each thought came brittle and slow.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t sleep.

He just sat there, breath fogging the inside of the windshield, body curled in on itself like something wounded and waiting.

Waiting for what?

He didn’t know.

Just that the world hadn’t ended—but something inside him had.

And no one was coming to ask what broke.

His eyes were duller now. The glow had drained to a sickly flicker—like neon on its last breath.

Caffeine pills pounded in his blood. He was floating somewhere between third and fourth wind, body running on sheer spite. His knuckles were bruised. A crust of dried blood flaked off his temple when he scratched it without thinking.

Keep driving. Don’t stop. Just one more mile. Then one more. And again.

But even Remi’s body had limits.

The van clattered into a gravel lot by a lake, backed by a patch of black trees that looked like the ribs of some ancient god. Mist curled around the edges of the lot like cigarette smoke.

He squinted against the moonlight—too bright. Always too bright now. His vision blurred at the edges.

“Okay,” he muttered, hands trembling as they tapped against the wheel. “Okay.”

A glance around showed too many cars for his taste. Too many people sleeping in metal boxes with nowhere else to go. But the far back corner? Secluded. Overgrown.

Better than a ditch.

He reversed slowly, van clanking like it had arthritis. Backed into the corner closest to the lake, engine coughing like it was its last breath.

Remi sagged forward, resting his forehead against the wheel for a beat too long. The smell of sweat, blood, and stale air filled his lungs.

Then—

A growl. From his stomach. Loud enough to echo.

“Right,” he rasped, lifting his head. “Sure. Let’s just add starvation to the fucking bingo card.”

A long exhale.

Then, under his breath, like a confession:

“Ethel.”

The name hung in the stale air, soft and strange.

He didn’t know why it came out. Didn’t plan it. It just… fit. Stubborn. Cranky. Barely held together with bolts and spite. Yeah. Ethel.

Seemed wrong not to name her, after all they’d been through already.

A rusted relic, sure—but she still moved when he begged her hard enough. That counted for something.

He patted the dashboard once. Almost gentle.

“Don’t make me regret it, old girl.”

The van whined in reply, like even she had opinions.

The wind stung his face like salt across a raw wound as he stepped out of the van, gravel crunching under boot soles like brittle bone. The door creaked, then slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed across the dark, mostly-empty lot.

A gust of wind kicked through the trees, scattering dry snow across the gravel like shards of broken glass. The flakes weren’t soft—they were crusted, sharp-edged, born from sleet and wind chill, slicing sideways as if they had somewhere to be.

He kept low.

Shoulders hunched. Eyes sharp.

Each step toward the dull-lit storefront made his heart tick faster. Too exposed out here. Every overhead lamp hummed with that sick, flickering fluorescent buzz that made his vision blur again.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. Hadn’t felt safe since…

Well.

Ever, probably.

His eyes swept the lot: one sedan with fogged windows, one rusted pickup. A blue and white school bus parked right next to the lake. No movement, but that meant shit. Remi knew the kind of people who knew how to wait. The kind who let you think you’d gotten away.

He reached the door to the store—probably the only gas station for twenty miles. Pulled at the handle.

Locked.

A flicker of red passed across his already-dim vision, rage tightening his jaw.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, voice gravelly, not bothering to keep quiet. “Of course.”

He leaned against the glass for half a breath. Cold bit through his shirt, but his body barely registered discomfort anymore. Hunger roared louder. His stomach felt like it was chewing itself.

That’s when he saw it.

Off to the right, past the dead neon beer sign and cracked ice chest, stood a lone vending machine, humming to itself like it had secrets.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Better than chewing on my own tongue.”

The glass was scratched and fogged, but he could make out the shape of salted chips, a half-melted candy bar, and what might’ve been a bottle of water—or antifreeze. He didn’t care.

Remi jabbed the keypad.

B7. A2.

He fished into his back pocket, pulling out the last folded Oni—creased and worn and all he had left.

“Last of my currency,

and I’m spending it on fucking vending machine calories.

Perfect metaphor for my life, really.”

He fed the note into the slot. The machine sucked it in like it hadn’t eaten either. Then:

THUNK.

A mechanical cough. No movement. No click. No food. Nothing.

Remi blinked.

“Don’t.” His voice dropped to a low, tight whisper. “Don’t you dare.”

Silence.

The machine stayed still. Mocking. Passive.

“Seriously?”

He slammed the flat of his hand against the glass. Nothing moved. The candy bar jiggled an inch, then dropped back like it was just stretching its legs.

“Give me the food.”

He rattled the sides. No response. Kicked it once, heel-first. Another clunk. Still no food.

Remi’s pulse thrummed in his neck. Blood began to gather at the back of his throat—a metallic tang, subtle but rising.

Crimson Surge. He could feel it climbing.

“You think I won’t fucking take you apart bolt by bolt, you chrome-plated piece of—”

He slammed his palm again. Once. Twice. The glass groaned but didn’t break.

Breath sawed through his lungs. Cold air burned his nose.

Still no snack.

By now, Remi was shaking with the kind of irrational, soul-deep fury that had nothing to do with food anymore.

He leaned close, forehead to glass, eyes flaring faintly green in the machine’s buzz-light reflection.

“Steal from me, and I’ll turn you into shrapnel,” he whispered.

Still. No. Movement.

Remi stood there in the dark, fists clenched, blood beading faintly at the edge of one nostril.

The vending machine just sat there, smug and buzzing like it was enjoying the pain. A faint red line glowed across his field of vision—headache or rage, hard to tell.

His fist twitched at his side.

Then—

“Hey!”

A voice. Male. Light tone, casual-like, but with a bit of a lilt—regional. Could’ve been southern. Could’ve been annoying.

Remi jerked toward the voice, eyes brightening instinctively, his posture tensing to a readied coil.

Across the gravel, some guy stood in the spill of dim light from a cheerful looking bus RV, its roof blooming with green—some kind of garden up top, because sure, why the fuck not, apparently plants were allowed to have better real estate than him.

The guy lifted a hand to his mouth to project his voice and kept talking like Remi hadn’t just glared holes through him.

“Store closes at sundown,” he called out, cupping his mouth. “You’re better off fishin’ out on the lake than wastin’ your time with that shitty thing.”

He nodded toward the vending machine like they were old enemies.

Remi just stared.

The stranger—probably a local, probably a fucking druid with that aesthetic—offered no further clarification. Didn’t stick around to chat. Just turned and disappeared into his bus, like he hadn’t just inserted himself into Remi’s steadily unraveling mental health crisis.

Remi stood there, one hand still clenched, the other twitching near the vending machine like it owed him a life.

Blood buzzed in his ears.

His jaw ticked.

“Of course I am,” he muttered, voice pitched low with disgust. The words clawed up his throat like bile.

He stuck his tongue out slightly, grimacing like he could taste the suggestion still hanging in the air.

“Fish. Fucking scales. I’d rather eat razor blades.”

But deep down, he knew.

He couldn’t afford to be picky. Not now. Not when every inch of his body was bruised, burned, and hanging together with threadbare adrenaline.

Didn’t mean he had to like it.

Didn’t mean he had to eat it, either.

With a long, dramatic exhale that made his ribs ache, Remi slouched his shoulders and jammed his hands into his hoodie pocket. Fingers found the soft corners of his ancient phone, cracked screen already bleeding green light as he pulled it out and flicked it to life.

One bar.

Three angry texts. Or maybe they were worried texts. He didn’t know anymore. All from Kriia.

Nothing from Ivan. Still nothing from Meeko.

No missed calls. No SOS.

No proof anyone gave a shit.

His lips parted like he might say something—might laugh or curse or whisper you useless bastard—but nothing came. Just another sigh.

He tucked the phone away. Turned on his heel.

The cold wind nipped at his back like a warning.

By the time he reached his van, the exhaustion had settled into his bones like mold. He grabbed the corroded door handle, gave it a good tug—

Nothing.

“Cool,” he muttered, glaring at the door like it had personally insulted him.

Another pull. Rust ground against metal.

Nothing.

He braced a bloodstained boot against the wheel well, gritted his teeth, and yanked like the vehicle had his pride held hostage.

CRACK. The whole side door jerked open with a violent shriek, wheels snapping free of their rust-caked grooves. The sudden release threw him slightly off-balance.

The sound reverberated across the gravel lot like a gunshot.

Remi winced. Rubbed his temples.

His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

“After the last few days I’ve had,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “I should be able to hibernate in this bitch.”

The metal floor of the van yawned in front of him—unforgiving, corrugated, cold enough to bite. He sat down on the edge of it anyway, legs still stretched out and boots planted firmly in gravel like he might have to get up swinging.

The scent of rust and old oil curled in his nostrils.

He ran a hand through his tangled black hair.

The night was too quiet. Too still.

“I’ll figure out a blanket tomorrow,” he said aloud to no one, voice cracking somewhere between resignation and threat. “Pillow, too. Maybe food that doesn’t come with fins.”

He leaned back against the cold steel wall. His eyelids were too heavy. His eyes flickered faint green before dimming further.

Just rest.

Just for a second.

And then he heard it again.

Footsteps. Soft. Measured.

Someone walking toward him.

This time closer.

Remi stayed where he was—half-sitting in the back of the van, spine hunched, knuckles pale against the metal lip—but his senses went hot. Eyes narrowed. Anima itched just beneath his skin like it was waking up, sniffing the air through him.

He didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft. Measured. Gravel crunching beneath bare feet.

Remi didn’t breathe.

And then came the thump—a weight shifting in the dark, subtle but close, the unmistakable sound of someone stopping right beside him.

His body jerked in instinct—nearly two inches off the floor, muscles coiled, hands ready to shift or strike or bolt.

His breath rattled out in a snarl before he even registered the silhouette.

A man. No weapon. No aggression.

Just a basket, of all things, clutched casually in one hand—like this was some deranged picnic.

The stranger crouched slightly and set it down beside Remi’s boot with deliberate gentleness. Like he was approaching a wounded dog.

“I don’t know you. You don’t know me,” the man said. Voice soft—but not fake. Not performative. “But I know when someone’s in need.”

He gave the basket a nudge forward with his foot. Then stuck out his hand. Not aggressively. Not close enough to be a threat. Just… offered.

Remi stared.

And stared.

And kept staring.

The man’s face was bright. That was the word. Not glowing like Remi’s toxic green eyes, but warm—freckled cheeks crinkled with a wide smile that looked like it belonged somewhere far from here.

His eyes squinted shut as he grinned. His whole face moved like he meant it.

Barefoot. Of course he was. Ripped shorts, loose muscle tank, pale shoulders catching a hint of moonlight.

Who the hell was happy here?

Remi’s eyes flicked to the basket. High-end jerky, water, a heavy black blanket, a pillow in some obnoxious Rasta print. His stomach snarled before he could shut it up, a humiliating growl that vibrated up his ribs.

But the snarl on his lips didn’t fade.

If anything—it sharpened.

His eyes were bloodshot, sunken, burning from too little sleep and too much everything else. The veins in his temples stood out like threads on a frayed seam. The glow in his eyes pulsed—faint, erratic, threatening.

“I’m not in need,” Remi growled, low and cutting like a sharp blade pressed into his throat. “I just haven’t been out this way before.”

His posture shifted hard into defense—slouched into readiness, one shoulder tilted slightly forward like he expected to be swung at.

He glanced down at the hoodie he wore—some forgotten artist’s name across the front, the fabric stretched slightly across his broad chest. His jeans were black, torn at the knee, too short on his long legs. His fingers were fidgeting with the exposed rip before he realized it and stilled them, jaw flexing.

He eyed the outstretched hand. Didn’t move. Didn’t offer his own. Just let his gaze climb—slow, deliberate—from the man’s pale wrist, up his bare arm, past the soft shape of his biceps, and finally to his face.

Those fucking freckles.

That smile.

Like he wasn’t staring down a half-feral stranger who’d just nearly broken a vending machine and probably smelled like blood, sweat, and ash.

Remi didn’t return the smile.

But he didn’t move away either.

His eyes locked onto the other’s. Too bright. Too green.

“…You make a habit of throwing scraps at strays?” Remi said, voice flat and brittle.

“Or am I just tonight’s charity case?”

The man blinked once. Slow. Not startled—just watching, like he was figuring out if Remi was worth the effort.

Still, no fear on his face. No shift in tone. Just a flicker of amusement behind those icy blue eyes—calm, weirdly amused, like he was looking at a particularly grumpy raccoon someone had tried to adopt.

Then the guy rolled his eyes—like he was the one inconvenienced here—and followed it up with a smug, crooked smirk.

“Sure, big guy. I know, very threatening to receive a care package from a twink. My bad.”

The words hit like a slap, delivered in a lightly offended drawl that curled every syllable just enough to be annoying.

Remi’s mouth twitched. Almost a smirk. Almost. But he killed it dead.

The hell was this guy?

And why did his voice feel like sunlight trying to seep under a locked door?

Remi shifted uncomfortably on the van’s edge, one boot dragging across the gravel like he was preparing to launch it at something. His eyes dropped to the basket again—blanket, jerky, pillow—and then flicked away like it had caught fire.

The man didn’t stop.

“Look, whatever. Just don’t hate crime me for trying to be a decent person, alright?”

That one made Remi snort. Sharp. Quiet. Could’ve been mistaken for a cough.

Levi gave him another quick once-over, clearly unimpressed by the bloodshot eyes, the hunched posture, the worn-out hoodie hanging like armor. Then, with a theatrical spin that would’ve been irritating if it weren’t kind of graceful, the stranger turned on his heel to leave.

Remi watched him walk.

Not just because of the view—though yeah, okay, there was a lot of leg happening for someone in jean shorts that barely qualified as clothing. But also because… this guy hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t run. Hadn’t done what most people did when Remi got sharp.

He’s not scared of me.

Or he’s too stupid to be.

Remi couldn’t decide which would’ve pissed him off more.

The guy didn’t even throw the sarcasm over his shoulder. Just walked back toward his bus with that same barefoot ease, like he belonged here, like nothing could touch him. A tiny sun in this moonless shithole.

Remi let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

The blanket still sat by his boot, the Rasta pillow peeking out with zero shame.

For a moment—just a flicker of it—Remi wondered if he should say something. Anything.

But the words didn’t come.

So instead, he reached down.

And picked up the jerky.

He didn’t eat it yet. But he held it like it might mean something.

Like maybe it was the first thing in days that hadn’t been taken by force.

Funny, how quickly kindness could start tasting like poison—something sweet at first, until it burned your throat, left you choking on pride and suspicion. Remi shook the empty jerky bag, glaring at it like it personally insulted his lineage. He ran a thumb along the torn plastic edge, scraping off the last crumbs and licking them from his thumb, savoring them bitterly. Hunger still gnawed, angry and relentless, but at least the edge was dulled enough to let his head clear—if only slightly.

As he tossed the shredded plastic aside, it caught briefly on a metal corner inside the van, fluttering like a mocking banner before settling in the corner among rust flakes and dirt. He reached for the water bottle—also courtesy of Levi’s unsolicited generosity—and twisted off the cap with tense, impatient fingers. He tilted it back, drinking greedily, throat working in harsh, quick swallows until the bottle crumpled inward beneath his grip. A trickle of cold liquid slipped free, tracing a path down his jaw and soaking into the collar of his hoodie.

He coughed sharply, nearly choking, vision flickering at the edges. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the van door, steadying himself with shallow, ragged breaths. The water sloshed uncomfortably in his empty stomach, reminding him just how fragile and how fucked everything was right now.

Remi squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the sharpness of his hunger fading into the duller ache of exhaustion and frustration. He opened them again slowly, blinking against a world gone too bright, too brittle. He needed to move. Needed the sharp burn of nicotine to chase away these clinging ghosts of thought.

The pack of Camels sat wedged in the cracked cup holder, his battered Zippo nestled beside them. He fished out a cigarette with fingers still shaking from hunger, exhaustion—hell, everything—and jammed it between his lips with bitter determination. Flicking the Zippo open, its flame danced alive with a tiny snarl of fire, illuminating the angles of his weary, angular face in a brief orange glow.

The inhale came deep and hard, smoke clawing through his lungs with familiar bitterness. He exhaled slowly, a thin cloud trailing from his mouth like a fading prayer into the cold predawn. His eyes flicked toward the bus across the lot, still there, still vibrant and ridiculous and infuriatingly warm.

“What even are you?,” he muttered softly, voice dripping quiet disdain and reluctant curiosity. What kind of idiot would hand out expensive jerky and blankets to random, starving strangers? The kind who wore shorts that barely covered anything, probably. The kind who was too trusting. Too naive.

The kind who got hurt, eventually.

Remi pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the creaking of his battered van around him. He moved stiffly to the back doors, joints protesting each movement. The rust had practically welded the doors shut, but he braced his foot, muscles tense as piano wires, and drove the flat of his boot hard against the metal.

With a violent snap, the rust surrendered, one door swinging open and slamming loudly into the side of the van with an echoing metallic bang. Remi froze for half a heartbeat, nerves on edge as he scanned the lot, senses sharp and jittery. The noise seemed painfully loud in the stillness, bouncing between dark trees and empty cars before finally dying out like an exhaled breath.

He waited, the wolf in him coiled tight beneath his skin, pulse thrumming hot and quick. But nothing stirred. No one moved.

Slowly, cautiously, Remi stepped down from the van, boots grinding against gravel. The chill hit him immediately, sharp enough to feel like teeth against his skin, slicing through his thin hoodie and torn jeans, chilling sweat against his ribs. His teeth clenched in irritation, cigarette bobbing between tight lips as he wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

The wind whispered mockingly, tugging at his tangled hair, making his eyes water. He sucked another drag from the cigarette, smoke warming his lungs but doing nothing against the chill crawling through him. He muttered a quiet, bitter curse.

“Fuck all of this.”

The words were barely audible, swallowed by the night. A yawn cracked his jaw wide, exhaustion finally overpowering even stubbornness. His white teeth flashed briefly in the dim light, jaw aching from strain.

Yet sleep still felt too far, too risky. Even the soft promise of the borrowed blanket—now tainted with the lingering scent of a stranger’s kindness—felt somehow dangerous, a quiet lure to vulnerability he couldn’t afford.

Remi’s mind drifted inevitably backward—Uncle Ivan, missing and leaving chaos behind. His mother’s bones left behind, her presence reduced to nightmares and bitter memory. And Meeko, lost, stolen, a gaping wound of failure Remi couldn’t even begin to bandage. Thoughts twisted cruelly, dark claws digging sharply into the soft places he kept carefully hidden.

He winced suddenly, pain lancing sharply behind his temples, Crimson Surge bubbling just beneath the surface. He pressed his palm against his forehead, fingers digging harshly against the ache. His vision swam momentarily, spots of color dancing at the corners, nausea curling briefly through his gut.

He breathed slowly, deeply, steadying himself, until the wave passed enough to let him straighten cautiously. The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers, ash scattering onto gravel like tiny stars burned out and cast down.

No more thinking. Not tonight.

He let the cigarette dangle there, smoke curling lazily upward into the frigid night sky. Across the way, something shifted again, catching his weary attention: that same stranger, standing alone by the lake’s edge, illuminated softly by pale moonlight, a joint held loosely between his fingers.

Remi’s eyes narrowed reflexively, tracking the other’s silhouette. The fool stood there, shoulders loose, head tilted up toward stars Remi himself had stopped seeing years ago. From this distance, his posture spoke of a peace Remi had forgotten existed. Of belonging, even in solitude.

His gut tightened again, a complicated knot of envy, irritation, and reluctant longing.

He shook his head sharply, drawing another long, bitter pull from his cigarette, the ember burning bright and angry.

What kind of idiot found comfort standing alone by a black half-frozen lake, breathing smoke into the night? What kind of fool looked at a world this cold, this dark, and still smiled?

The kind who handed jerky to starving strangers, apparently.

His fingers were so numb he couldn’t feel the cigarette between them until it burned too low. He dropped it with a hiss, shaking out the sting, flexing his hand like he could jumpstart circulation through spite alone before swiping it off the frozen ground with a grunt.

Remi’s shoulders slumped slightly, his cigarette hand dropping loosely by his side. His eyes remained fixed stubbornly on the man’s distant silhouette, resentment and curiosity tangling inside him like barbed wire.

How the hell had he ended up here—freezing, starving, alone—envying a stranger’s peace? Wishing he could walk across gravel and cold air and join him, even for a single goddamn moment?

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice strained, throat tight. He flicked his cigarette away with sudden disgust, watching its ember sputter and fade on the gravel. His breath escaped in a quiet, weary sigh, vapor curling softly in front of him.

For just a second, something flickered inside Remi’s chest, soft and aching—a yearning for something he couldn’t name, something he barely understood.

Then his expression hardened again. He turned sharply, climbed back into his battered, rusted prison. He grabbed the black blanket—softness still faintly scented with lavender and something sweet—and wrapped it roughly around his shoulders, jaw set stubbornly.

He wouldn’t let himself think about it anymore. Wouldn’t let the stranger’s effortless kindness twist deeper beneath his defenses, wouldn’t let vulnerability sharpen any further into ache.

He lay stiffly on the cold metal floor, curled tightly into the borrowed warmth. The blanket’s comfort felt foreign, unsettling, like a language he had no right speaking. But Remi held it stubbornly around himself, eyes squeezed shut against the intrusive thought of freckles and smiles and fucking kindness.

And slowly—finally—exhaustion overwhelmed stubbornness, dragging him down into sleep. His breathing evened out, muscles finally loosening, eyes finally dimming.

But even in sleep, one thought remained stubbornly, dangerously clear:

I don’t deserve this.

Not kindness. Not softness.

Not him.

🩸 Ready to Sink Your Teeth In?

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It’s everything Remi never said out loud… until now.

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