In a quiet neighborhood, inside a cozy two-story house, a young girl named Sofia slept peacefully in her Pink pajamas, surrounded by stuffed animals she lovingly called her "Cinnamon Rolls."
Downstairs in the kitchen, the tension was suffocating.
Iván sat at the table, arms crossed, his eyes locked onto his mother's. The silence between them was heavy, filled with everything left unsaid. He was done waiting. He wanted the truth.
She exhaled a long, weary sigh—just as she opened her mouth to speak—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
A loud, desperate pounding rattled the front door, slicing through the moment.
"Yo lo abro," she said sharply, switching to Spanish. The sudden shift wasn't lost on Iván—it meant whatever she had to say was serious.
She walked briskly to the door and pulled it open.
Standing on the porch was a breathless teenage boy, eyes wide with panic.
"Oh my God—uh, hi, I'm Stiles. I kinda… know your son," he said.
Iván stepped into the hall, voice flat. "She knows."
Stiles let out a relieved gasp and nodded quickly. "Good. Because—there's been another attack. I was with my dad and—" he swallowed, eyes flicking from Iván to his mom. "The guy's head… it was off. Just—clean off."
Iván's mom stared at him for a beat, then sighed, rubbing her temples like the world itself was trying her patience. "You know what? I'm getting really tired of this."
She turned to her son. "Iván. Go get my gun."
"What?!" both Iván and Stiles shouted in unison.
Stiles took a cautious step back. "You're not gonna shoot me, are you, Mrs.…"
"Vasilios," she said flatly, finishing for him.
Iván blinked. "Wait—you have a gun?!"
"You think I'm just a normal human, Iván?" his mother said, her voice steady but sharp. "No. Your father wasn't the only one with secrets."
She took a step closer, eyes locked on his.
"I knew about the supernatural long before I met him—enough to understand what my family passed down. Stories, warnings… truths most people never hear."
Her expression hardened.
"And one thing they made sure I learned was how to protect myself from those things."
She pointed toward the garage.
"Now go. Grab the briefcase hidden under the tarb."
Iván listened to his mother's words and headed into the garage. There, tucked beneath a dusty tarp, he found a large black briefcase. He brought it inside, set it on the table, and unlatched it.
Inside lay a sleek, black shotgun—polished and deadly. Neatly arranged beside it were rows of shotgun shells, each one engraved with a skull logo.
"Holy shit, Mom—how the hell have I never seen this before?" Iván shouted, eyes wide as he stared at the weapon.
His mother sighed, picking up one of the engraved shells and turning it over in her hand. "Because I never thought I'd have to involve myself with this again," she said quietly, her gaze distant—lost in memories of the family she'd left behind long ago.
"Dude, your mom is seriously badass," Stiles said, eyes wide as he stared at the gun on the table.
Iván's mom glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her lips at the compliment.
"Listen, Iván, the truth is—I don't know much about werewolves, aside from their weaknesses. One of the ways to kill a werewolf is to destroy the heart or the brain. And when they're transformed, it's even harder—their hides become tough, you'd need a close-range weapon or an arrow made from a specific alloy that can cut through almost anything."
"And what's a shotgun supposed to do against a werewolf?" Iván asked.
"It's laced with a special poison," his mom replied, calmly loading the shells. "It slows down their healing factor. And if you hit one at close range—believe me—it's going to leave a hell of a mark."
She snapped the case shut and turned to Stiles. "Your dad's the sheriff, right? That means you have access to their database. Which means—"
"I can check all their reports and findings!" Stiles interrupted, eyes wide. "Of course—I can totally do that!" He tapped the side of his head. "Why didn't I think of that sooner?"
Stiles quickly dashed off, disappearing down the street.
Why didn't he call Scott? Iván wondered—but then a darker thought crept in. One he didn't want to imagine. He shook his head, forcing it away.
Iván turned to his mother, who was staring at the case with a distant look in her eyes—like she wished she didn't have to use it.
"Mom…" Iván approached her, the questions about his dad lingering, but for now, something else weighed heavier. He had never once heard her mention her family.
She turned to face him, sensing the unspoken question in his eyes.
"They were hunters," she said softly. "I cut them off myself. I knew exactly what my mother would do if she ever found out I'd married a werewolf… and had children with him."
And there it was—the answer to his newest question. Iván sank into the sofa, his mind racing.
His mother was a hunter. His father, a werewolf.
It sounded like something out of a twisted romance novel, but this was his life. Of all the secrets he thought he might uncover, this wasn't one he ever expected. She had hidden it well… or maybe he had just been willfully blind. Probably the latter.
The necklace's secrets.
The mystery of my dad.
My mother's hidden past.
The vampire who sank his teeth into my neck.
The Alpha that wants me dead.
And then a vision of a silver-haired girl standing on snowy mountains.
Iván glanced out the sliding door, eyes landing on the moon hanging overhead. He clicked his tongue.
"All this started because of you."
His mom watched silently as he walked toward the window, staring into the night sky.
If our powers get stronger during the full moon… then what kind of magic, voodoo-level crap is this?
His head felt like it was going to explode from the overload of information. As a wave of panic surged through him his pendant began to glow softly, its light calming him like a breath of fresh air.
He let out a long, steady sigh.
"Yeah… it's official. I need a vacation."