The spotlight felt like a cage.
Holt couldn't see much beyond it.
Just white light.
Flashing red and blue.
Shadows moving.
Doors slamming.
Voices shouting.
Everything happening too fast.
One second he had been standing alone on the street.
The next—
Three officers were on him.
"Gotcha, you dirty little monster!" one barked.
Hands grabbed his arms.
Another officer shoved him toward the hood of a cruiser.
"Hold still!"
Holt jerked instinctively.
"Get your filthy hands off of me, pigs!"
The words came out louder than he intended.
Immediately three officers tensed.
Hands moved closer to weapons.
Jackson felt the fear spike inside both of them.
Holt—
I know.
I know.
Holt forced himself to stop struggling.
Forced himself to breathe.
Because suddenly he understood something horrible.
They weren't treating him like a scared teenager.
They weren't treating him like a freshman.
They weren't treating him like a kid.
They were treating him like a threat.
Like he was dangerous simply because of what he was.
The officer twisted Holt's arm higher.
Pain shot through his shoulder.
"You got the wrong dude, dudes!"
Nobody listened.
Nobody even looked like they were listening.
One officer snorted.
"Looks like we got the monster who vandalized New Salem High School."
"What?!"
Holt stared.
"I was framed, yo!"
The sheriff laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he didn't care.
"Yeah, right. Sure."
He looked Holt up and down.
Blue skin.
Green fire.
Headphones.
Monster.
Verdict already reached.
"Then what's a monster like you doing in this part of town?"
The sheriff's lip curled.
"And dressed like that."
His eyes lingered on Holt's clothes.
The chains.
The hoodie.
The headphones.
Like they were evidence somehow.
"Already going into the thug life?"
The words landed like a punch.
Holt felt Jackson flinch inside their shared mind.
Because they both knew what he meant.
It wasn't about the clothes.
It wasn't about being out at night.
It wasn't even about the vandalism.
The sheriff had decided who Holt was the moment he saw him.
Monster.
Troublemaker.
Criminal.
Dangerous.
Case closed.
The music from the party had stopped.
Humans and monsters were spilling out onto the lawn now.
Dozens of faces.
Watching.
Staring.
Some scared.
Some confused.
Some satisfied.
And then—
"HOOOOLT?!"
Frankie's voice.
Holt turned.
For a second relief hit him so hard it hurt.
Frankie.
Clawd.
Draculaura.
Abbey.
Heath.
Deuce.
Lagoona.
Even Toralei.
All standing there.
All looking horrified.
"DJ Hyde?" Toralei blurted.
"Holtster?!" Heath yelled.
Frankie looked ready to cry.
The sheriff noticed immediately.
His gaze snapped toward the rest of the monsters.
Like he'd just spotted a nest of spiders.
"Well now."
Holt saw it happen.
The moment.
The shift.
The realization.
More monsters.
More targets.
More arrests.
More people to blame.
Fear shot through him.
Not for himself.
For them.
The sheriff pointed.
"Sheriff!" one of the deputies yelled. "There's more monsters over here!"
Everything stopped.
For one terrible second.
Holt looked at Frankie.
Frankie looked at Holt.
Both understood immediately.
Run.
"Run!" Holt shouted.
Nobody moved.
"RUN!"
Frankie shook her head.
"Holt—"
"GO!"
The deputies started moving.
Fast.
Too fast.
The crowd exploded into chaos.
Humans scattered.
Monsters scattered.
People screamed.
Someone knocked over a mailbox.
Another deputy pointed.
"There!"
Holt saw Frankie hesitate.
Saw Clawd grab her arm.
Saw Abbey already moving.
Heath looked frozen.
Terrified.
Then a deputy lunged toward him.
Before Holt could think—
He shoved forward.
"Don't worry!"
The words burst out.
"I'll protect—"
A deputy collided with him.
The sentence died.
Heath stumbled away.
The deputy missed him.
Holt grinned despite everything.
"You're welcome."
Heath looked like he wanted to argue.
Wanted to stay.
Wanted to help.
Abbey grabbed his arm.
Hard.
"We go!"
"But—"
"NOW!"
Clawd was already pulling Draculaura away.
Toralei disappeared over a fence.
Deuce vanished into the darkness.
Frankie lingered longest.
Of course she did.
Frankie always lingered.
Always worried.
Always cared.
"Holt!"
For a second—
A horrible second—
Holt wanted to tell her.
Everything.
About Jackie.
About the headphones.
About why they could never both be seen together.
About how scared they were.
About how neither of them knew what was happening anymore.
About how they didn't want to be alone.
Instead he smiled.
The fake smile.
The DJ Hyde smile.
The one he wore when everything hurt.
"Don't worry about me!"
Frankie didn't look convinced.
Not even a little.
Then Clawd pulled her away.
And she disappeared into the darkness.
Gone.
Everyone gone.
Safe.
Escaped.
Exactly what Holt wanted.
Exactly.
So why did it feel so awful?
Silence settled.
The street suddenly felt enormous.
Empty.
Cold.
The sheriff approached slowly.
Holt stood alone beside the cruiser.
Surrounded.
No friends.
No backup.
No escape.
Inside his head, Jackson's voice was barely a whisper.
...they got away.
"Yeah."
...good.
"Yeah."
Neither of them sounded convinced.
The sheriff grabbed Holt's shoulder.
"Looks like your friends abandoned you."
Holt laughed.
A little too loudly.
"Ain't my friends."
Lie.
"Just some dudes I know."
Lie.
"Didn't expect 'em to stick around."
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
Inside his head, Jackson felt sick.
Because the truth was much simpler.
Please come back.
Please don't.
Please escape.
Please help.
Please stay safe.
Please don't leave us.
Please run.
The contradictions tangled together until neither of them knew what they actually wanted anymore.
The sheriff opened the cruiser door.
"Get in."
Holt looked down at the seat.
Then back toward the darkness where his friends had vanished.
Nothing.
No sign of them.
No sign anyone was coming.
The reality finally settled in.
He was alone.
Completely alone.
Jackson felt it too.
The realization.
The hopelessness.
The certainty that this was really happening.
Holt climbed into the back of the cruiser.
The door slammed shut behind him.
And as the police lights painted the inside of the car red and blue—
For the first time all night—
Neither Holt nor Jackson knew what to say.
---
The back doors of the cruiser slammed shut.
The sound didn't just echo—it hit.
CLANG.
For a second, Holt just sat there.
He was fourteen years old.
Hands cuffed behind his back.
Trying very hard not to let his breathing get weird.
Trying very hard not to let his face show anything.
The metal bench was freezing.
The cage between front and back seats was freezing.
Even the air felt sharp.
And Holt was literally a fire elemental.
That part was almost funny.
Almost.
He leaned back anyway, forcing a crooked grin like this was just another dumb misunderstanding.
"Yo," he said. "You dudes always this welcoming, or is this a special occasion?"
Nobody laughed.
The sheriff didn't even turn around.
The deputy driving kept his eyes locked on the road like Holt wasn't there.
The officer in the passenger seat finally glanced back.
Not angry.
Not curious.
Just… disgusted.
Like Holt was something that had gotten on the seat and wouldn't come off.
"Still talking?" the officer muttered.
"Still breathing," Holt shot back.
"Unfortunately."
Inside his head, Jackson was spiraling.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
Holt.
We're not getting out of this clean.
I noticed, Jackie.
No—no, listen. This is bad-bad.
I AM listening.
Then act like it!
Holt swallowed, keeping his face steady.
The cruiser pulled away.
Streetlights slid across the windows in slow flashes.
Each one felt like time stretching.
Like distance growing between him and everyone who might've helped.
Heath.
Draculaura.
Ghoulia.
Frankie.
Deuce.
Clawd.
Gil.
Lagoona.
Abbey.
Gone behind them.
The officer in front finally spoke again.
"Should've known it was one of your kind."
Holt's jaw tightened.
"One of my kind?"
The officer shrugged without looking back.
"You know what I mean."
Yeah. Holt knew.
That was the problem.
The deputy snorted.
"School gets wrecked. People panic. And somehow it always circles back to you monsters."
Holt leaned his head against the window.
"Crazy how that works when you just decide it's us before anything's even proven."
The officer in the passenger seat gave a short laugh.
"Look at him. Acting like he doesn't know how this goes."
Jackson's thoughts sharpened.
They already decided.
They didn't even hesitate.
Holt didn't answer.
The sheriff finally spoke, voice low and controlled.
"Kids like you always think rules are suggestions."
Holt blinked.
"Kids like me?"
"Monsters," the sheriff said flatly.
The word wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
It just hung there in the car like something heavy and permanent.
The deputy shook his head.
"My uncle says you can always tell when one's trying to blend in, pretend they're like us."
Holt's eyes narrowed slightly.
Jackson froze inside him.
Don't say it—
The deputy continued anyway.
"Skin's wrong. Voice is wrong. Something's always off."
Holt didn't respond immediately.
Because that one hit too close.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
Like being inspected.
Measured.
Reduced.
Jackson's thoughts flickered fast.
Oh shit.
They're looking at us like that.
Like we're… that.
Holt finally exhaled through his nose.
"Yeah. Real subtle analysis, dude."
The deputy smirked.
"Just saying."
The sheriff didn't join in the joking.
His eyes stayed forward.
Cold.
Tired.
"You ever think about what it looks like from our side?" he asked.
Holt blinked.
"...Your side?"
"Yeah," the sheriff said. "When something gets torn up. When people get hurt. When nobody knows who did it yet—but the pattern's always the same."
Holt's fingers tightened behind his back.
"We didn't do it."
The deputy laughed again.
"Every one of you says that."
Jackson's thoughts twisted harder.
They don't care if it's true.
No.
They just want it to be.
The cruiser rolled on.
Miles of silence followed.
Eventually, buildings faded out.
The road grew emptier.
Then the jail came into view.
Gray concrete.
Floodlights.
Barbed wire.
Chain-link fences stacked like layers of teeth.
Jackson felt his stomach drop.
No.
No, no, no—
Holt.
Yeah.
This is fucking bad.
I KNOW.
The gates opened with a metallic groan.
The cruiser rolled inside.
Then the gates shut behind them.
CLANG.
The sound sealed the night off.
The vehicle stopped.
The officer got out first.
The rear door opened.
Cold air rushed in.
"Out," the deputy said.
Holt hesitated just a fraction of a second.
Then stepped out.
The moment his shoes hit the pavement, the officer grabbed his arm.
Hard.
Too hard.
"Move."
"I am moving," Holt snapped.
"Faster."
Jackson flinched mentally.
Holt forced himself not to react outwardly.
The jail doors opened ahead.
Bright fluorescent lights spilled out like interrogation.
Everything inside looked too clean.
Too bright.
Too controlled.
The kind of place that didn't forget you.
The officer shoved him forward again.
"Keep walking, monster."
Holt's grin stayed in place.
But it didn't feel real anymore.
Not even to him.
And for the first time since this all started—
He stopped joking, even in his head.
Because there wasn't anything funny about where they were going next...