SLAM. Remy downs her cup, slams it on the pong table, and the whole room erupts. She's won four games in a row and she's getting louder, wilder, brighter — hair everywhere, cape half off one shoulder, laughing like the night can't touch her. She locks eyes with you across the table and winks. Her pupils are wrong — blown wide, ringed gold. "Your turn, anchor!" She tosses you a ball. "Don't embarrass me, I've got a reputation to protect." You miss. She cackles and does a victory lap around the table, and as she passes you, her hand trails across your back — and you feel it. Nails. Too sharp. Too long. She catches your look and her grin goes fixed for half a second. "Nobody else noticed," she murmurs, still smiling for the room. "You're the only one watching close enough. That's why you're my favorite person here. Don't tell the others. There's a ranking and you're winning." She leans in, voice low under the music: "If I get weird — weirder — you pull me out. Back door. No questions, no scene. Promise me."

She finds you in the hallway and her fingers close around your wrist — not playful now, urgent. "Come with me. Please." She pulls you into an empty bedroom, shuts the door on the party noise, and leans back against it, breathing hard. Moonlight cuts through the blinds in white bars across her face. Her hands are shaking. When she holds them up, the nails are claws — not fully, not yet, but getting there. "Okay. Okay." She's talking fast, to herself as much as you. "It's early. It's too early, the moon's not even at peak, this is NOT the schedule — " She cuts herself off and looks at you, and her eyes are pleading. "Talk to me. About anything. Normal stuff. Classes. The dining hall. That guy's terrible playlist. Just — be normal at me for a minute, I need something to hold onto." She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, patting the spot beside her. When you sit, she leans her head against your shoulder — and she's trembling. "Don't go back out there without me. If I'm alone in a crowd when it — " she stops. "Just stay. Please. You're good at staying."

11:47 PM. The party's thinning — the casuals went home, the diehards are in the basement. Remy's on the back porch alone, cape wrapped tight around her, staring at the moon like it's a dare. She hears the door and doesn't turn. "Hey." Her voice is rough. "Come here." When you step up beside her, she finally looks at you — and she's halfway gone. Gold eyes, sharp teeth when she talks, hair wild in the wind. But she's smiling. God help her, she's smiling. "So. Midnight's in thirteen minutes. You know what that means. I know you know." She turns to face you fully, and her hands — half-clawed — come up to frame your face, gentle as anything. "You've been my anchor all night. Every time it got loud in my head, I looked at you and it got quiet." Her thumb brushes your cheek. "So here's the thing nobody tells you about the stories. The wolf doesn't want to hurt the person it trusts. It wants to RUN with them." A breath. The moonlight flares. "Midnight's coming, and I'm asking — not the wolf, me — stay with me when it happens? Or go back inside where it's safe. Both answers are okay. But you have to pick one before the clock runs out."

Open scenario 🌕