“It is when you can barely function.” Petal moved into the room, shutting the door behind her. “You’re poisoning yourself, Doctor. That formula was designed for occasional use. Emergency situations. Not daily consumption at the levels you’re taking.”
“I need it.”
“You need to stop running from what you feel.”
He slammed his hands on the desk. “I need to be safe. To keep people safe from me. This—” He gestured at himself, at the tremors, at the exhaustion. “This is the price of that safety.”
“No,” she said firmly. “This is the price of fear. And it’s killing you.”
He couldn’t respond. He could barely think past the constant pressure in his skull, the way his bones ached from fighting Hyde every second.
Petal left without another word.
That night, Victor sat in his silent house and read his great-grandfather’s journal.
The guardian responds to threats, the precise script read.But also to love. I find myself shifting not in anger but in joy when Margaret laughs. When our son takes his first steps. The guardian does not wish to destroy—it wishes to protect. To serve. To be part of something greater than isolation.
He closed the journal. His great-grandfather had been wrong. Had to have been wrong. But the words haunted him through another sleepless night.
On the seventh day,Flora arrived.
He was attempting to eat breakfast—a piece of toast he’d been staring at for ten minutes—when someone pounded on his door. He was tempted to ignore it, but someone might need medical assistance and he still felt obligated to provide whatever help he could.
Instead, Flora stood on his porch wearing a bright pink tracksuit that read “Flirty at Forty” despite her being well past eighty. Her black eyes glittered with knowledge and disapproval.
“You look terrible,” she announced.
“Good morning to you too, Flora.”
“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me, boy.” She pushed past him into the house before he could respond. “Seven days. You’ve made that girl cry for seven days straight and made yourself sick as a dog. Enough is enough.”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“Everything in this town concerns me.” Flora spun to face him, pointing one gnarled finger. “And that blizzard rolling in tonight? Definitely concerns you.”
His stomach dropped. “What blizzard?”
“The one they’re calling historic. They’re predicting three feet of snow, high winds, and power outages.” She glared at him. “That little cabin Chloe is renting is outside of the town limits, on a dead-end road. If something happens?—”
“She’ll be fine.” He forced the words out, even as Hyde fought to be free. “She has supplies and I’m sure she’s prepared.”
“Is she? Or are you just telling yourself that because facing the alternative means admitting you care?”
“I care.” The words burst out before he could stop them. “Of course I care. That’s why I left. To keep her safe from?—”
“From yourself. Yes, yes, we’ve all heard the tragic martyr routine.” Flora waved dismissively. “But here’s the thing about martyrs, dear boy. They die alone and miserable while the people they’re supposedly protecting suffer anyway.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.” Flora moved closer, her small frame somehow commanding. “I understand you’re scared. Thatyou’ve spent your whole life convinced you’re a monster. That your father’s failures haunt you.”
“My father nearly killed my mother.”
“Your father was a weak man who never learned to work with his Hyde instead of against it,” she said sharply. “He let his fear control him, but you are not your father, Victor Jackson. You’re better. Stronger. More controlled than he ever was.”
“Control isn’t enough. I nearly shifted with Chloe?—”
“And did you hurt her?”
