Ethan woke to darkness and the wrongness of it.

  For a long, suspended moment, he y still, breath shallow, listening to the quiet house. No tail warmth. No soft weight curled around his legs. No fur brushing his wrists. Just sheets, cotton and ordinary, the familiar creak of the bed when he shifted his shoulder a fraction of an inch. The ceiling fan whispered overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe ticked as it cooled.

  He swallowed.

  The neckce was still on.

  The realization hit him like a sp. His hand went to his chest automatically, fingers closing around the cord, the small charm resting against his sternum—cool, solid, undeniable. He hadn’t taken it off. He hadn’t transformed back. He’d fallen asleep exhausted, crying quietly into his pillow, the house already settled into uneasy silence.

  And now he was here. Still Ethan.

  A sharp, ugly ugh tore out of his throat before he could stop it. He cmped a hand over his mouth, heart pounding, the sound echoing in his ears anyway. Anger surged up fast and hot, burning through the lingering fog of sleep.

  Of course. Of course this would happen. Of course he’d forget, even after everything—after the pressure, the longing, the constant ache of wanting to just be. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight, nails digging into his palm as if he could physically hold himself together through sheer force.

  “I hate this,” he whispered, voice rough.

  The words felt too small.

  His chest hurt. Not physically—though his breathing had gone shallow again—but in that deep, aching way that had become so familiar it frightened him. The pull was there immediately, stronger than it had ever been at night before. Not the gentle hum he’d sometimes feel when he was calm, but a sharp, demanding tug, like something inside him was yanking on a leash.

  Eri.

  Not a separate voice. Not a whisper from somewhere else. Just him—his own wants, his own truth—rising up and demanding space.

  He rolled onto his side, then onto his back again, sheets twisting around his legs. The charm slid against his skin with the movement, and something in him snapped.

  Before he could think, before caution or fear or logic could intervene, his fingers clenched around the neckce.

  He yanked.

  The cord bit into his neck for a split second, and then—

  Crack.

  The sound was small but impossibly loud in the silence of his room. A sharp, brittle noise, like ice breaking underfoot.

  Ethan froze.

  The charm gave way in his hand, splitting unevenly, one jagged half still threaded on the cord, the other clutched in his fist. Tiny fragments skittered across his chest and down onto the bed, catching faint light from the window.

  For a heartbeat, there was nothing. No pain. No rush. Just shock.

  “Oh,” he breathed.

  His pulse roared in his ears now, so loud it drowned out everything else. Slowly, trembling, he lifted his hand and stared at what he’d done. The broken charm y there, dull and cracked, edges sharp and wrong. The cord hung loose around his neck, useless.

  He’d broken it.

  The realization hit him fully then, crashing down with terrifying weight. His stomach dropped. His breath hitched, a cold spike of fear punching through the anger that had fueled the act.

  “No—no, no, no—” He scrambled upright, heart racing, hands shaking as he gathered the pieces, pressing them together uselessly as if that could undo it. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

  But even as panic fred, something else was already happening.

  Warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading outward in slow, unstoppable waves. It wasn’t sudden or violent like the first times. It was inevitable. Like slipping into deep water after standing at the edge for too long.

  Ethan gasped as the sensation rolled through him. His skin tingled, nerves lighting up one by one. His spine arched involuntarily as pressure built along his back, a familiar, dizzying stretch that made his vision blur.

  “Oh—” His voice cracked, pitching higher as the sound left him.

  The sheets rustled as his body shifted, bones realigning with a series of soft pops that made his teeth clench. Heat pooled at his hips, down his legs. His feet curled, toes reshaping, the bed suddenly feeling too small, too tight around him.

  His breath came in short, panicked bursts. “Wait—please—wait—”

  But there was no waiting now.

  Pressure built behind him, and he cried out quietly as his tails emerged one by one, uncoiling with a heavy, plush weight that made his lower back ache. Ten of them, full and powerful, fanning out instinctively, knocking pillows aside, thumping softly against the mattress and headboard.

  The room smelled different now. Sharper. Richer. The faint scent of detergent, old wood, night air through the cracked window—all of it yered and intense. His ears burned as they shifted atop his head, sound sharpening, every creak of the house suddenly crystal clear.

  And then—

  Relief.

  It washed over him so completely it stole what little air he had left. The tension that had been coiled tight inside his chest for days—weeks finally loosened. His shoulders sagged as the transformation finished, leaving him breathless and shaking in the aftermath.

  Eri y there, curled amid tangled sheets and scattered shards of the neckce, heart pounding, fur warm, tails instinctively wrapping around her body in a protective cocoon.

  She ughed.

  It burst out of her, half-hysterical, half-sob, a sound she immediately smothered against her pillow. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric as she pressed her face into it, shaking with emotion she couldn’t begin to untangle.

  She’d done it.

  She’d broken it.

  The fear came next, sharp and dizzying. What had she done? There was no putting it back together. No hiding this. Morning would come. Her mom would knock. Yui would know immediately. There would be questions she couldn’t dodge, consequences she couldn’t predict.

  Her cws flexed helplessly against the sheets.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered hoarsely, even as her body hummed with rightness. “I was just—so tired—”

  Her tails tightened around her waist, warmth seeping into her bones. The pull was gone now, repced by a deep, steady calm that made her eyelids heavy despite the adrenaline still buzzing through her veins.

  She stared at the broken neckce for a long time.

  The charm looked so small now. So fragile. How had something like that held so much power over her? Over him—over her entire life?

  A sob shook her chest, quieter this time. “I can’t go back,” she murmured, the words sinking deep, settling into pce like a truth she’d been circling for so long. “I don’t think I can.”

  Footsteps creaked faintly somewhere in the house—someone turning in their sleep, or shifting beds—and Eri flinched, heart jumping into her throat. Her ears flicked, listening intently, but the sound faded, the house returning to stillness.

  Slowly, carefully, she gathered the broken pieces of the neckce and hid them beneath her pillow, as if that could somehow protect her from what was coming. Then she curled onto her side, tails pulling close, fur brushing her cheek.

  Her breathing finally slowed.

  Fear lingered, heavy and unavoidable—but beneath it was something else, too. A strange, fragile hope. For the first time since this all began, the question wasn’t when she would have to change back.

  It was whether she ever would.

  Eri closed her eyes, exhaustion ciming her at st, aware that dawn was only hours away—and that when it came, nothing would ever be the same again.