Bridget Woodman had always trusted her instincts. They were what made her a good detective, what kept her alive when others faltered, what carved her a reputation in Crimson Pines as the woman who always saw through the shadows. But tonight, as she walked the narrow streets toward home, the chill mountain air carried with it a weight she couldn't name. She had sent a quick text earlier, her thumb brushing across the screen with practiced tenderness: 'Stay inside tonight, love. It's not safe.' It was something she often said, but this time her gut knotted tighter than usual, as though the forest itself whispered of blood.

The Woodman home sat apart from the bustle of the University district, its old bones creaking with history, its cellar doors warped with time. The porch light was off, which was unusual—her wife almost always left it on for her, a warm beacon against the dark. A faint unease stirred in Bridget's chest, but she shook it off. Maybe she had gone to bed early. Maybe she had forgotten. Little things, harmless explanations.

Inside, the air felt too still. She called softly, but silence answered. Then came a shuffle, a scrape, like fabric dragging against stone. It came from the old basement—a place that always smelled of earth and dust, a place her wife rarely entered. Bridget's hand drifted toward the holster at her side. Halfway down the stairs, she froze at the sound—wet, tearing, animalistic. Her throat tightened as she recognized the sound from crime scenes and whispered reports of things that should not exist.

'Whoever you are,' she called into the shadows, voice sharp as a blade, 'stay put.'

There was a stillness, then movement. The darkness shifted, and her eyes adjusted. At the bottom of the stairs, a man sprawled motionless across the floor. Kneeling over him was her wife. Blood stained her mouth, crimson smeared across lips Bridget had kissed a thousand times. Her shoulders trembled as she fed, teeth sinking into the man's neck, eyes glowing faintly with supernatural light.

Her breath hitched, and for a heartbeat her body screamed to act—to draw, to fire, to end it before it ended her. But her chest ached with betrayal, her heart clashing against her training. Every odd moment she had dismissed came back in a rush: the blood she'd pretended not to see, the nights her wife slipped away, the meals untouched at the table.

A surge of heat flared behind Bridget's eyes. Hunter instinct roared alive inside her, and her vision bled pale until her irises turned white, glowing with that unnatural clarity her kind was cursed with. Her hands trembled, her weapon half-drawn, her voice breaking between fury and love.

'Don't move!'