I never asked to be psychic. I never wanted friends. And I certainly didn’t volunteer to save Jericho from a centuries-old grudge wrapped in monster skin. But here I am—knee-deep in bloodied snow, a dead raven in my hand, and the voice of a long-dead girl whispering through my dreams. The Hyde isn’t just some beast; it’s a weapon. And someone is aiming it at Nevermore. If I don’t unravel the truth before the next attack, Enid will be next. Maybe me too.