Rain tapped softly against the rooftop of Maggie's diner, blurring the world outside into a watercolor of shadows. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed with the same unease that hung thick in the air.
Caleb sipped his coffee in silence, eyes flicking to the window with every movement outside. His senses were sharper than they'd been in years—too sharp. Every scent, every heartbeat, every flicker of fear felt like it was stitched into his nerves.
He wasn't alone. Not truly. Not anymore.
"You still take it black," Maggie said quietly, leaning on the counter, her voice low.
"I don't change much," Caleb murmured. "Even when I should."
She looked older. Not aged, exactly—just wearier, as though the years had carved more into her soul than her skin. She wiped her hands on a dish rag, but her eyes never left him.
"They said it was a rogue," she said. "The thing that took out the Braddock twins last month."
Caleb's jaw tightened. "It wasn't."
"How would you know?"
"I've felt it."
Maggie hesitated, then leaned in. "The others won't believe it, Caleb. They barely believe in you anymore."
"They will when it comes for them."
Outside, a car pulled up. Headlights cut through the fog, and the door creaked open. A man stepped out—broad-shouldered, thick-bearded, with a sheriff's badge clipped to his belt. Caleb recognized him instantly.
Ronan Hale.
Beta of the Blackridge Pack. Loyal. Brutal. And very likely still pissed.
Ronan entered the diner like a stormfront. His gaze locked onto Caleb.
"Well, well," he muttered. "The ghost finally crawls home."
Caleb didn't rise. Didn't need to. "Good to see you too."
"I'd say the same, but I don't like lying to your face." Ronan glanced at Maggie. "Give us a minute?"
She nodded, disappearing into the back without a word.
Ronan pulled up a stool, cracking his knuckles. "Five years. You just vanish. No note. No goodbye. No Alpha."
"You had everything under control."
"That's what you told yourself so you could run."
Caleb's eyes darkened. "I ran to protect the pack."
"You ran to protect yourself."
The words hung there, heavier than silence. For a moment, Caleb said nothing. Then:
"I came back because something's wrong."
"You think I don't know that?" Ronan snapped. "We've lost four in the last two months. Our patrols are being stalked. Tracks vanish into thin air. And the dreams…" He shook his head. "People are dreaming of wolves made of shadow. Of the forest bleeding."
Caleb looked down at his coffee. "It's the Hollow."
Ronan froze. "That's a bedtime story."
"No. It's a prison. Or it was." Caleb finally looked up. "It's waking."
⸻
Far beyond the town, past the ironwood grove and the half-buried bones of old wars, a clearing pulsed with cold light.
At its center stood a ring of stones, black as coal, slick with something too dark to be dew. The air shimmered above them, like heat rising from pavement—but this was no warmth. This was a door. And something behind it was scratching to be free.
A young girl stood just beyond the tree line, barefoot, eyes glowing faintly.
She did not breathe.
She did not blink.
But she smiled.
⸻
Back at the diner, Ronan looked like he'd swallowed glass. "You don't just say 'The Hollow' like it's some cryptic warning. That's pack legend. Old wolf tales."
"So was I," Caleb said. "Until I came back."
Ronan stared at him for a long moment. Then he muttered, "You're insane," and stood. "We don't need you. We survived without you. We'll keep surviving."
Caleb's voice dropped to a near growl. "You're not surviving. You're stalling. Hoping the forest stops closing in. But it won't."
Ronan hesitated at the door, hand on the frame.
"It wasn't supposed to be you," he muttered. "You weren't supposed to come back."
"I never had a choice."
⸻
The forest greeted him like a forgotten lover.
Caleb walked beneath the canopy as the rain thinned, his boots silent on the muddy trail. The trees knew him. He could feel it in the way the wind shifted, in the way the earth trembled beneath his steps.
He was headed toward the one place he swore never to return: the heart of the Blackridge woods. The Den. His former home. The birthplace of his curse.
He hadn't come to reclaim the throne. He came for answers.
Halfway through the trail, something shifted. The world grew still. Birds stopped singing. The air tightened.
He dropped to a crouch just before the thing lunged.
A blur of fur and claws exploded from the brush—black, fast, hungry.
Caleb twisted, caught it mid-leap, and slammed it into the ground. It snarled, thrashing, snapping teeth inches from his throat. But he didn't flinch.
It wasn't a werewolf.
It wasn't anything natural.
Its eyes were empty.
Its mouth bled shadow.
Caleb growled, his own transformation clawing at the surface.
"Who sent you?" he demanded, pinning the creature down.
It didn't speak. It didn't need to.
In his mind, a whisper slithered: "The Hollow watches."
Caleb's claws burst free.
And he tore it apart.
⸻
He stood over the creature's remains, panting, his hands soaked in black ichor. The thing evaporated into mist, its body unable to hold shape outside of shadow.
The Hollow was no myth.
And it was already hunting.