Twilight: Immortal Dusk

In the far corner of the cafeteria—unofficially marked "DO NOT APPROACH: Beautiful and Possibly Armed"—the Cullens, Peverells, and Hales took their usual table like gods descending Mount Olympus.

Well-dressed, well-fed (in their own way), and collectively responsible for at least seventeen crushes, five breakup rumors, and one spontaneous nosebleed (Emmett's fault), they folded into their seats with the elegance of a J.Crew ad shot during an eclipse.

Hadrian Peverell, all jawline and lazy power, slouched into the bench like it owed him rent. His emerald eyes scanned the room once, then settled on Daenerys Hale beside him. He wore a forest green Henley under a slate wool coat tailored within an inch of its life. His black hair curled in all the right places, like he'd just walked out of a wind tunnel made of secrets and heroism.

Daenerys — silver-haired, violet-eyed, and dressed in a plum leather jacket that fit like temptation — slid in beside him with a smirk and all the grace of a lioness who definitely remembered being worshipped in a past life.

"Hadrian," she purred, plucking the silver thermos from his hand and uncapping it with one nail, "if you're going to keep making me these bloodberry-ginger brews, you might as well just marry me already."

He smirked, arm draping across the back of the bench to claim her as his personal orbit. "I'll marry you when you stop stealing my breakfast, khaleesi."

"Please. You love the chaos," she murmured, taking a sip. "Mmm. Is that a hint of cinnamon?"

"Of course. I'm not a barbarian."

She leaned in and brushed a stray curl from his forehead, her violet eyes darkening with something heady. "You are absolutely a barbarian. Just a well-dressed one."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You always do."

On the other side of the table, Emmett Peverell — jacked like a linebacker, hoodie sleeves stretched to the brink — tore open a protein bar like it had personally insulted him.

"Yo," he said around a mouthful of peanut butter crunch. "New girl. What's she thinking?"

Edward Cullen, hair perfectly tousled and cheekbones sharpened by existential dread, glared at his untouched apple like it was plotting his downfall. "I wouldn't know."

Alice, all pixie energy and 'I've already seen your Tuesday,' paused mid-sip from her thermos. Her short black bob framed a grin made for mischief. "Wait, what?"

Rosalie Hale, blonde bombshell in a cranberry turtleneck and Vogue in hand, looked up from an article titled "Parisian Chic on a Budget" with a single arched brow. "You mean to tell me the all-powerful Edward Cullen can't read one high school girl's thoughts?"

"I've been trying since we walked in," Edward muttered. "She's just… blank."

Jasper Hale, in worn leather and a storm-colored Henley, tilted his head, the slow southern drawl sliding out. "Maybe she's not thinking anything. Could be shock. Forks does that to people."

Elizabeth Hale, golden-blonde with fierce eyes and a laugh like summer, leaned into the table, her iPod Mini clipped to her vintage Chanel purse. "Or maybe she's just not interested in your broody nonsense, Edward."

Katherine Peverell, sharp-eyed and raven-haired with a silver ring on every finger, smirked beside her, Scottish brogue curling in. "Poor laddie. Knocked sideways by a pretty girl who doesn't fall at his feet."

Edward looked up. "She's not normal."

"Oh, sweetheart," Elizabeth said, propping her chin on her hand, "none of us are. That's not an excuse."

Hadrian narrowed his gaze toward the mortal half of the cafeteria. "Let me try something."

"Try not to melt her brain," Daenerys whispered, leaning closer with a teasing bite to her lip. "You're already hot enough to cause localized tremors."

He chuckled, eyes briefly glowing green. His expression focused. The others stilled. Even Emmett stopped chewing.

One beat. Two. Nothing.

Hadrian blinked. "Well, bloody hell."

Alice blinked. "She's blocking you?"

Daenerys leaned forward, both elbows on the table. "Now I'm interested. If you can't get in, babe, that means one thing."

"She's a natural Occlumens," Hadrian confirmed, voice low. "Like, the real deal. Stone walls, smooth surface. I didn't even feel resistance. Just... silence."

Katherine grinned. "I like her already."

Rosalie rolled her eyes. "You would. You like puzzles you can hex."

The bell shrieked.

Edward stood, sliding his apple into his vintage satchel like it had personally betrayed him. "Newton's walking her to Biology. She's in my class. Only unpaired lab seat is next to me."

Alice was already nodding. "Then she's about to be assigned to you. The universe ships it."

"You'll have your chance," Emmett grinned, nudging Edward as he passed. "Just don't stare at her like she's an unsolvable riddle."

"Even if she is," Elizabeth added, voice sing-song and sharp.

Katherine stood with a stretch, black nails glinting. "We've got Chem after. Try not to catch feelings before third period."

Daenerys leaned in close to Hadrian's ear as Edward, Katherine, and Elizabeth headed for the exit. Her voice was honey and wildfire. "Do you think she's dangerous?"

He watched Bella Swan from across the room, something ancient flickering in his gaze. "No," he murmured. "I think she's important."

Daenerys kissed his jaw, silver hair catching the light like moonlight woven into silk. "Good. I was getting bored."

Alice smiled faintly as she watched Edward disappear out the doors. "The timeline's shifting," she whispered.

Jasper rested a hand on her shoulder. "That good or bad?"

She shrugged, dreamily. "Too early to tell. But one thing's for sure."

Rosalie closed her magazine with a sigh. "What?"

Alice's eyes sparkled. "High school just got interesting."

—

Edward Cullen sat at the far-right lab table with the unbothered intensity of a tortured poet who had seen the abyss and written a sonnet about it.

His elbows didn't touch the desk. His fingers didn't fidget. His expression was a masterclass in "brooding Renaissance statue, but make it Biology."

The seat next to him — formerly known as off-limits, unofficially reserved, do-not-touch-thanks — was now conspicuously empty.

But not for long.

Today, for the first time since this tragic little high school began its assault on his soul, that chair was going to be occupied. By her.

Bella Swan.

The girl with a heartbeat like a hummingbird in a thunderstorm. The girl whose thoughts were as silent as snowfall. The girl who had just strolled into Forks and somehow flipped the entire emotional compass of at least three supernatural beings.

He exhaled unnecessarily and reached for the lab setup again: microscope aligned, slides in place, worksheet rotated 1.2 degrees for aesthetic balance.

Control. Precision. Ritual.

Behind him, chaos whispered and giggled.

Katherine Peverell — equal parts sharp cheekbones and unapologetic menace — lounged backward in her seat like the desk owed her rent. She wore black eyeliner, black nail polish, and the smirk of a girl who'd hexed someone over a Game Boy once.

Her legs were hooked around Elizabeth Hale's under the table.

Elizabeth — all luminous skin, honey-blonde waves, and a look that screamed Abercrombie Angel with a Bite — was scrolling through her hot pink Motorola Razr under the desk, humming Kelly Clarkson between snorts of laughter.

"Stop it," Elizabeth whispered, tapping out a T9 text with unnecessary flair. "He's vibrating."

"Am no'," Katherine said, in that velvet-smooth Scottish brogue that made sass sound like seduction. She jabbed her pencil into Edward's back. "You are."

Edward didn't flinch. "I'm perfectly still."

"Internally vibrating, darling," Elizabeth added, her voice like honeyed sugar with a glittery bite. "Like a Nokia on silent in a velvet purse."

"Mm," Katherine said, biting the tip of her pencil with fake innocence. "You think he'll combust when she sits down?"

Edward, trying desperately not to combust, muttered, "I'm not combusting."

Elizabeth tilted her head, grinning. "You're prepping the table like she's a princess and you're about to propose via microscope slide."

"Leave him be," Katherine said, mock-pity in her tone. "He's in his tortured academic romance era. Very 2005."

Mr. Banner, the lab instructor and full-time enthusiast of mildew and scientific mediocrity, popped up from behind the supply cabinet with a petri dish in one hand and what might've once been a dissection frog in the other.

"Okay, class! Let's engage our microscopes and not our hormones—" He glanced directly at Katherine and Elizabeth, who were now fully cuddling. "—Please."

Elizabeth batted her lashes. "We're engaged academically, Mr. B. Deeply. Intellectually."

Katherine draped her arm around Elizabeth with dramatic flair. "Biological curiosity, sir. We're just applying it."

Mr. Banner sighed, defeated, and turned to scribble Mitosis Lab Day on the whiteboard in a font that looked like it had been attacked by caffeine.

Edward tried to breathe. Still unnecessary. Still reflexive. Still didn't help.

Then—

Footsteps.

Two sets. Sneakers squeaking. One heartbeat fast. One slow.

He went perfectly still.

Katherine froze mid-lip-bite. Elizabeth dropped her phone into her purse without looking.

Outside the door, down the hall… the energy changed.

"She's coming," Katherine whispered, eyes gleaming like she'd just been handed a new target.

"Oh, baby," Elizabeth cooed, leaning forward. "She's got that main character music swelling energy."

Edward didn't move. Didn't blink. But he felt her — soft, real, oblivious.

The door creaked open.

And there she was.

Bella Swan.

Porcelain skin, curls damp from the cold, navy hoodie layered under a corduroy jacket that had seen better days. Jeans a little too long. Wet Converse. A copy of Wuthering Heights barely visible under one arm like it was a shield.

Her lips were flushed from the cold. Her cheeks too.

And Mike Newton — walking beside her like a golden retriever on a leash made of delusion — said, way too loudly, "So, yeah, we don't really dissect things anymore. I mean, we did frogs last year, but I think they ran out or something—anyway, Biology's cool. It's, uh… alive."

Bella gave him a soft laugh. Polite. Tired. Like she was used to humoring people who thought they were being charming.

She didn't see the way the room froze.

She didn't catch Katherine's smirk.

Didn't notice Elizabeth twirling her hair like she was prepping for a villain arc.

Didn't hear the whispered "She's cuter than I thought" from Katherine or Elizabeth's "I ship it already."

But Edward noticed everything.

The way her hair curled just above her collar. The way her eyes scanned the room and locked — exactly, precisely — on the one empty seat.

His seatmate seat.

Her seat now.

And just like that, biology was about to get a whole lot messier.

—

Bella Swan handed over her enrollment form like it might explode. Crumpled at the corners, slightly smudged, and clutched so hard it had absorbed about half the anxiety in her bloodstream.

Mr. Banner — a man who looked like he still thought graphing calculators were suspicious witchcraft — squinted at it, then at her, as if she might be an elaborate prank someone was playing on him.

"Ah. Miss Swan. Excellent," he said, in a tone that implied it was not excellent at all. "You'll be sitting next to…"

He paused. Fate paused. The universe, for one infinitesimal second, held its breath.

"—Edward Cullen. Back there. By the window."

Bella blinked. "Okay," she said, softly. In that unassuming tone that meant, Sure, assign me to sit next to the guy who looks like he's in a Dior Homme ad and hates all living things. That's cool.

The class wasn't staring. But also, they totally were.

Mike Newton—blonde, be-dimpled, wearing a Volcom hoodie like his life depended on it—hovered at her elbow, equal parts high school golden retriever and wishful-thinking prom date.

"You sure you're good?" he asked, doing a little shoulder flex he probably thought was subtle. "I could, y'know, trade seats. Or, like, walk with you. I'm pretty adaptable. Like a… seating chameleon."

Bella gave him the kind of smile that was polite but had a definite please don't make this weirder undertone. "Thanks, Mike. I'm good."

And then the fan kicked on.

Just a fan. Just airflow.

Except… not.

Across the room, Edward Cullen went very, very still.

Like someone had jammed a stick into the gears of his soul.

The scent hit him mid-breath. A rush of freesia, rain-damp cotton, sugar, and skin.

La tua cantante.

The words detonated in his brain. His singer. His singer.

Her blood wasn't just appealing. It was music. A hymn. A curse in soprano.

Edward gripped the edge of the lab table like it was the only thing keeping him from disintegrating into a cloud of lust, guilt, and homicidal longing.

His throat burned. His vision flickered red at the edges.

Across the table, Elizabeth Cullen stiffened. Her blue eyes flared — sharp, surgical, deeply done with this nonsense.

"Edward," she hissed. "Don't."

Katherine's eyes narrowed — dark, stormy, matching her braided hair and resting wrath face. She tapped her pencil once. Twice.

Singer? she mouthed.

Edward twitched. The tiniest of nods. Help me, it said. Or kill me.

Bella was walking toward them, oblivious, the straps of her thrifted backpack slipping off one shoulder like an indie movie heroine about to walk into an ambush.

Don't breathe, Edward told himself. But he did.

And it was like inhaling lightning. Sulphur. Ambrosia. His damnation.

A memory crashed into his head — Emmett, decades ago, his voice broken, his eyes darker than oil spills.

There were two. Sisters. One laugh, and I just… snapped.

"I'm a goddamn monster," Emmett had said, back then. "You don't come back from that."

Edward's hands were trembling. He would not let it happen again.

Bella reached the desk.

She looked at him, brows arched slightly, as if waiting for the mean prince in the tower to sneer. Instead, he barely managed to nod.

"Hi," she said, voice low, a little breathy from nerves. "I'm Bella."

Edward's jaw clenched like he was chewing steel.

"…Edward."

Silence.

Not romantic silence. Tense, what-fresh-hell-is-this silence.

Bella sat down beside him. Pulled out the worksheet. Looked determined not to pass out.

Katherine's voice, dry and low: "Tell me we don't need to tackle him. Because I will. In heels."

Elizabeth, eyebrow raised: "If he kills her in front of Banner, that's, what, four new schools this century?"

Mr. Banner, completely unbothered, clapped his hands with substitute-teacher glee.

"Alright, everyone! Before we dive into mitosis, let's welcome our new student. Bella, would you mind saying a few words?"

Edward's soul actually screamed.

Bella froze. The worksheet crumpled a little under her fingers.

Mike Newton whispered, "You got this," like he thought he was in a John Mayer music video.

Bella stood. Slow. Eyes wide.

"Um," she said. "I'm Bella Swan. I moved here from Phoenix. I like books. Mostly. And… yeah. That's it."

She sat. The clapping was sparse and deeply unenthusiastic.

Mike tried to start a slow clap.

It failed.

Elizabeth leaned in, her voice a drawl with bite. "She even sounds like a poet who got ghosted by fate."

Katherine added, "She's like Pride and Prejudice, but make it rainy and underfunded."

Bella peeked sideways at Edward. He wasn't looking at her — just staring ahead like he was trying to astral project into another dimension.

"Did I… say something wrong?" she asked, quietly.

Edward finally turned his head, eyes darker than storm clouds.

"No," he said. "You didn't."

But his thoughts were a hurricane of hunger, horror, and regret.

Bella Swan was his singer.

And Edward Cullen had never been less okay.

—

Edward Cullen did not breathe.

He didn't need to, but he did—or rather, simulated it—because that's what normal seventeen-year-old boys did, and he was trying desperately to look like one. Chest rising. Chest falling. Air entering his nose.

Big mistake.

The scent hit him again like a freight train full of honeysuckle, freesia, cracked sugar, and fire. A scent so maddeningly tailored to his every instinct that he briefly considered biting himself just to redirect the craving.

La tua cantante.

He felt the words like a wound reopening. His singer. Her blood wasn't just appealing — it was a symphony.

And she was six inches away, fiddling with a pen cap like a mildly anxious woodland nymph in thrift-store flannel and ChapStick.

"Membranes," Mr. Banner droned up front, as if any of the students were focused on anything other than Bella Swan's weirdly poetic presence or Edward's porcelain, high-cheekboned spiral into moral collapse.

Edward's hands were folded, knuckles bone-white. His jaw ached from clenching.

Across from him, Bella glanced up—timid, curious.

"You okay?" she whispered.

Her voice sounded like it had been made to read poetry out loud in candlelight.

Edward's gaze flicked to hers, brief as a spark. "Fine," he replied in a voice that could've frozen lava.

Bella tilted her head slightly. "You sure? You look like you're gonna hurl. Or maybe commit tax fraud."

Elizabeth choked on her own breath two seats over.

Katherine didn't look up from her doodle of a skull in a prom tiara, but she did raise one brow.

Edward locked his spine and stared straight ahead, eyes glued to the mitochondria diagram like it owed him money.

Mike Newton, from his tragically reassigned spot near the sink, leaned forward and hissed, "If you're giving her a hard time, Cullen, I swear to God—"

Elizabeth turned toward him slowly, chin tilted, blue eyes glinting. "Michael," she said sweetly, "if you keep running your gob, I will snap your spine like a glowstick."

Mike shrank back in his seat. A faint squeak escaped him.

Katherine lazily twirled her pencil. "She's kidding. Sort of."

Bella blinked. "...Are they always like this?"

Edward didn't answer. He couldn't.

He was too busy planning multiple murders.

Bella. Newton. The girl chewing gum behind them. Everyone but Elizabeth and Katherine, who'd stop him anyway — Elizabeth with her voice like a knife in velvet, Katherine with her fists of caffeinated wrath.

He counted escape routes.

Imagined how the blood would pool.

Felt disgusted by how easy it would be.

And yet—

—her voice—

—her scent—

—the way she looked at him like she didn't know what he was—

—it was all too much.

Another false breath. Another wave of temptation that clawed at his throat like barbed wire dipped in syrup.

Elizabeth watched him, expression unreadable. Then, sotto voce, "Edward, if you try to drain the poor lass, I will pin you to the periodic table with a scalpel and ask questions later."

Katherine added, without looking up, "And I'll livestream it. On Myspace."

He closed his eyes. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to die. He wanted to not want.

Bella just kept… existing.

And somehow, that was the most dangerous part of all.

—

8:59 AM.

Salvation.

The bell rang — shrill, sacred, the sound of a soul escaping its earthly prison.

Edward stood immediately. Not vampire-fast. Not blur-on-the-wind fast. But human-fast with a capital Emergency Evacuation.

Books. Bag. Pencil. Gone.

Bella looked up, surprised. "Hey, do we—?"

He was already gone.

—

The door banged open and Edward exploded into the foggy morning, the cold air slicing across his skin like baptism. No blood. No perfume. No goddamn freesia.

He collapsed against the brick wall and breathed — truly breathed — as if he hadn't been dying inside for the last fifty-five minutes.

And then—

"Ye look like a haunted painting," said Elizabeth as she strolled out behind him, shoulder bag slung across one arm, eyes sharp and dangerous in a way that said I was ready to break your nose with a microscope slide and I'm still a bit disappointed I didn't get to.

"I didn't kill her," Edward said quietly.

"You want a gold star?" Katherine asked, appearing beside Elizabeth like an annoyed cat in Doc Martens. "Or a cookie?"

"I want to rip out my own throat," Edward muttered.

"That's dramatic, even for you," Elizabeth replied. "Which is really saying something, considering the last time you read Wuthering Heights you pouted for three hours about moral decay."

"I almost—" he started, then stopped.

They already knew. Of course they did.

Katherine popped a stick of gum in her mouth. "We were watching. You twitched exactly five times. Flared your nostrils twice. Glanced at her neck once — barely. Honestly? That's restraint. I'd be proud if I weren't moderately terrified."

"I can't go back in there," Edward said, eyes wide, haunted.

"Bollocks," Elizabeth said cheerfully. "You can, and you will. We'll be there. If you so much as blink with intent, I'll yank your fangs out and use them as earrings."

Katherine snapped her gum. "Plus, you know. Bella's cool."

Edward blinked. "You like her?"

"She's weird," Elizabeth said with a little grin. "And funny. And I like how she called your crisis a tax fraud incident. That was peak."

Edward groaned and covered his face with his hand.

Bella Swan was his singer.

And apparently, his chaos.

And he had four more days of biology with her this week.

—

Edward Cullen was unraveling.

Elegantly, of course.

Like a Renaissance tapestry being torn apart by moths made of Catholic guilt and lust-for-throat. He breezed into the office, blazer immaculate, cheekbones sharp enough to shave a soul on, and the expression of someone who'd just lost a duel with the Holy Ghost.

Mrs. Cope looked up from behind the counter, a redhead vision in a ruffled cardigan and tortoiseshell glasses, sipping from a mug that said World's Okayest Receptionist. When her eyes landed on Edward, she straightened like someone had just walked in trailing Sinatra and scented candles.

"Edward!" she said, smile blooming like a rose in prom lighting. "Good morning, darling. Don't tell me you're here about a detention — I simply refuse to believe you're anything less than perfect."

Edward offered a smile that was ninety-five percent manners and five percent please let me disappear into the ether.

"I'd never dare disappoint you," he said smoothly, voice dipped in melancholy molasses.

She tittered. Actually tittered. "Charmer. What can I do for you, sweetheart?"

He leaned on the counter, subtly — the kind of posture that said I read Oscar Wilde in cemeteries.

"I was wondering," he said, "if it might be possible to… drop Biology."

Mrs. Cope's smile flickered, then returned twice as bright — like a hostess trying to keep the party going during a blackout.

"Oh. Really? That's quite sudden, dear. Is there something wrong with the class? Mr. Banner? The syllabus?"

"Nothing specific," he lied, every syllable dusted in apologetic charisma. "I've already fulfilled the graduation requirements, and I thought I might—focus on independent study. Something quieter. Less…" He paused, then smiled faintly. "Dissect-y."

Mrs. Cope tilted her head, curls bouncing. "You don't strike me as squeamish."

"I'm not," he replied. "Just... introspective."

"Ah," she said knowingly, as if that explained everything. "Another tortured artist phase?"

"Perpetual," he murmured.

Mrs. Cope chuckled, pulling up his file on the chunky beige monitor that whirred like it was powered by steam. "Well, I suppose we can—"

Ding.

The office door creaked open.

And hell bloomed in his lungs again.

Freesia. Fire. Sugar. Blood. Hers.

Edward went still. Not in a "pausing to think" kind of way. More like statue cursed by ancient gods kind of way.

He didn't turn around.

Didn't need to.

Because she was here.

Bella Swan.

He could hear the quiet shift of her sneakers on the linoleum, the soft inhale she made like she was nervous, as if he wasn't the apex predator in the room trying not to go full Dracula-in-a-JCPenney.

Mrs. Cope, oblivious to the emotional hurricane, looked up with her default mom-energy smile.

"Hi, honey! Do you need something?"

Bella hesitated. "Uh. Yeah. I—um. Got sent for a locker combination mix-up."

Of course, Edward thought bitterly. Of course she has a locker mix-up. She's the kind of chaos the universe builds around.

She stepped closer.

The scent slammed into him like a brick wall in Chanel No. 5.

And for the second time that morning, he lost his grip on the performance.

"Never mind," he growled.

Mrs. Cope blinked, confused. "Pardon?"

Edward stood up so fast it almost broke the chair's time-space continuum.

"I said—never mind." His voice was flat now. Glacial. A marble sculpture of self-loathing wrapped in cashmere and contempt.

He turned.

Bella stood there.

Looking up at him with those big, unsure eyes like she'd just walked in on someone throwing a Bible into a fire.

He couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could barely keep from shattering like stained glass under pressure.

And then she did the worst thing imaginable.

She sniffed herself.

Quick. Awkward. Shoulder. Wrist. Hair.

Like she thought she was the problem. Like his reaction was because she smelled bad. Like she wasn't a divine trap designed to unravel him at the cellular level.

Bella's face crumpled a little. Just a little.

Enough to kill him.

"I have to go," he said to no one in particular, and stalked past her, his coat whispering like a shadow with secrets.

Mrs. Cope called faintly, "Edward, if you're—"

But the door was already swinging shut behind him.

—

The overcast sky kissed his skin like absolution. Cold. Wet. Blessedly freesia-free.

He leaned against the side of the building, eyes closed, breath heaving in a way that had nothing to do with needing air and everything to do with not screaming.

And still—

Her scent clung to him.

A ghost in his throat.

A storm in his veins.

From inside, he heard Mrs. Cope gently ask, "Sweetheart… is everything alright?"

A pause.

Then Bella's voice, small and painfully confused: "I… don't know."

Edward's hands curled into fists.

Because he did know.

And that was the worst part.

—

Forks High – Parking Lot, 3:15 PM

Cue light drizzle, muted alt-rock guitar riff, and teenage existential crisis brewing in the background.

The final bell cracked the air like a starting pistol. Students spilled from the building in clumps, laughter and sneaker scuffs bouncing off the pavement, but Bella Swan moved slower—like her soul was still stuck back in the main office, trying to make sense of that look Edward Cullen had given her. Not anger. Not disgust. Something worse.

Fear.

Fear like she'd been a spark hovering over a pool of gasoline.

Her boots splashed through a puddle as she cut across the lot toward her rust-colored truck, the kind of battered beast that made people in town say "still runs?" with a wince. It was ugly. Loud. Loyal. And it definitely didn't match the scene unfolding a few cars ahead.

Bella paused mid-step, blinked once, then twice.

There was a group clustered near a row of luxury vehicles, gleaming like wet jewels under the cloudy sky. Not just standing—arranged. As if the parking lot had become a stage and they were the cast of something epic and dangerous.

Edward stood at the center, posture tense and jaw sharp enough to cut granite. He looked like a statue that had been carved beautifully but wrong—too fragile, too conflicted, too much storm in his eyes. Alice hovered beside him, her energy bouncing even in stillness, short dark hair rain-kissed and feathering out like it was part of her personality.

But even they weren't the ones commanding the space.

That honor went to Hadrian Peverell.

He stood tall, rain beading off his black leather jacket, hands relaxed at his sides, emerald eyes flashing with something that didn't belong in a teenager's gaze. Power. Patience. Something ancient. His dark hair curled slightly at the edges from the mist, and every line of his body said: This isn't new. This isn't drama. This is war prep, and you're late to the briefing.

Next to him—gods help her—was Daenerys Hale.

Silver-blonde hair in a loose braid down her back, leather gloves folded in one hand, violet eyes that didn't just look at you—they assessed, devoured, dared you to be interesting. She wore ripped jeans tucked into boots, a deep plum top that fit like sin, and a purple leather jacket that looked like it had seen fire. Bella couldn't tear her eyes away.

The way Hadrian looked at her—subtle tilt of the head, the faintest smirk, that almost imperceptible lean toward her—that was the kind of look Bella had only seen in books. Epic ones. Tragic ones. The kind where kingdoms burned and gods bled.

Daenerys, for her part, met his gaze with a quiet amusement and a lift of her eyebrow that said, You're not fooling anyone, dragon-boy.

Dragon-boy? Bella didn't know why her brain supplied that phrase, but it fit.

The rest of the group moved around them like satellites in orbit.

Emmett—built like a linebacker with dimples and the self-assurance of a golden retriever in human form—was laughing at something Rosalie had muttered.

Rosalie, all ice-blonde and fire-eyed, didn't seem amused. She stood with her arms crossed, one stiletto heel tapping the pavement, exuding don't-mess-with-me energy like she'd patented it.

Jasper leaned against a pillar, one hand in his pocket, eyes distant and haunted, while Alice stood close enough to whisper something to him that made the corner of his mouth twitch.

Katherine and Elizabeth stood a little apart, both with that uncanny quiet of people who were listening without looking like they were listening. Elizabeth's blonde hair framed her porcelain face, her eyes narrowed slightly like she was calculating something. Katherine, tiny and dark-eyed, stood with one hip cocked and a hand idly playing with a lighter, her bored expression giving nothing away.

And then—movement.

Hadrian raised a hand. The air shifted. Like someone flipped a switch and the play entered its final act.

"Time to move," he said, voice smooth but edged. A leader's voice. A hunter's.

Everyone responded. Without question.

Edward and the others peeled off first—he and Alice slid into a sleek silver car that Bella thought might be a Volvo, but it looked nothing like Charlie's busted cruiser. Jasper and Rosalie followed, Emmett tossing one last grin at Katherine before getting in the back. The car purred like a panther and disappeared down the road.

Next, Katherine and Elizabeth approached a blazing red sports car that looked like a spaceship on wheels. Elizabeth rolled her eyes as Katherine casually flipped her hair and slid behind the wheel, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "I get shotgun or I'm hexing your eyeliner off" in a Scottish accent so light Bella almost missed it.

And then...

Hadrian and Daenerys.

They moved together like some ancient, mirrored force—like war and magic dressed in leather and confidence. He straddled a sleek red motorcycle, engine already humming beneath him. She swung a leg over and slid in behind him, her hands wrapping around his waist like it was muscle memory.

"Try not to kill anyone," Daenerys murmured near his ear, lips curving into a smirk.

"No promises," Hadrian replied without turning, revving the engine.

The roar was thunderous. Every student nearby instinctively turned. Bella didn't breathe.

Daenerys looked over her shoulder and caught Bella's gaze—just for a moment. No smirk. No snarl. Just eyes full of secrets.

And then they were gone.

The rain continued. Bella blinked.

Her truck sat nearby, squat and unimpressed.

It groaned when she started it, headlights flickering like a grumpy sigh. As she pulled out of the lot, the tires squealing slightly on the wet road, she couldn't stop thinking about the way everyone had deferred to Hadrian. The way Edward had looked like a man on the edge. The way Daenerys had wrapped herself around the back of that bike like this wasn't a high school—it was a battlefield.

And deep down, she knew—

She hadn't just moved to Forks.

She'd stepped into something ancient.

And it was already watching her back.

---

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