I was born a monster, a natural killer by the time I was six.

My sister, on the other hand, was the opposite. She was everyone’s beloved, their shining light. And she was mine, too.

For ten years, my mother locked me in a hidden chamber, and only my sister would visit me.

But a decade later, my sister was carried back to us, her body broken, her face ruined, drenched in blood.

For the first time, my mother unlocked the chains that bound me. Her voice was thick with hatred as she hissed, “I want you… to kill everyone who harmed your sister.”

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In our pack, twins were considered a curse.

After we were born, my mother built a hidden chamber and took turns presenting either me or my sister to the world.

But that changed when I was six.

At six years old, I felt an unexplainable urge to explore the body of a rabbit I had raised for two years.

I used my claws to slice it open, then carried its mangled corpse to my mother, grinning.

She fainted in horror. When she woke, she grabbed a whip and lashed me until I was covered in blood. But I didn’t feel the pain. I just stared at her, cold and indifferent.

“Monster. You’re a monster!”

She locked me in the dark chamber for a month to “reflect.”

During that month, I idly played with the bloodstained claws. Only my sister would visit, bringing me food and toys.

But I wasn’t interested in those. I grabbed her hand, my eyes bright as I said, “Sister, catch me another rabbit to play with, won’t you?”

Her face paled, but she forced a calm expression. “Kori, why did you open the rabbit’s belly?”

“Because I felt something moving inside. I wanted to see what it was,” I said innocently.

“I see… Well, maybe you’re meant to be a healer,” she said softly, though her smile was fragile. “But you can learn about animals from books. I’ll bring you some next time.”

I was stunned, staring at her as if she were some strange, fascinating creature.

She was the first person who didn’t call me a monster. The first to try to understand why I did what I did.

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t interested in being a healer, but her smile was too delicate, so I swallowed my words.

Eventually, my mother relented and let me out. But the first thing I did was claw a maid in the eye.

My sister was soft, never one to hold grudges, but I wasn’t like her.

During the month I was locked away, that maid had spread rumors about my sister, calling her a monster. She’d even tried to force my sister to drink some foul concoction of herbs and ashes.

No one knew there were two of us—only my mother, her trusted maid, and the pack’s elders. To everyone else, the one who killed the rabbit was my sister.

When the maid bent down to hand me a bowl of tainted soup, I slashed her with my claws.

It was fascinating. A soft “pop,” and it was done.

I poured the bowl of soup into the gaping wound where her eye had been.

“A gift for you.”

Mother was utterly terrified. She had her most trusted Gamma bind me and toss me into the wasteland, a place where rogue werewolves roamed and the air reeked of death.

“I don’t have a monster for a daughter,” she spat, her voice trembling with fear and disgust. “No wonder they say twins are cursed—one of them is always a soulless beast!”

“From now on, I only have Georgina as my daughter!”

But three days later, I returned. My clothes were torn, my body caked in dried blood, and in my hand, I clutched the silver wolf pendant Calvin had given me, now stained crimson.

To Mother, I must have looked like a vengeful spirit clawing its way back from the abyss. I tilted my head, a sweet, chilling smile spreading across my face. “Mother, I’m hungry.”

After that, Mother tried repeatedly to kill me.

But every attempt failed, and each time, Georgina would inexplicably fall ill—burning with fever, vomiting, or even struggling to breathe.

When I was on the brink of death, Georgina’s life force would weaken as well.

Mother couldn’t bear to lose her “normal” daughter, so she finally relented, locking me in the hidden chamber of our pack house.

Only later did I learn that Georgina had been intentionally harming herself—running through the woods in the middle of the night, eating wolfsbane—just to share my pain and protect me.

This went on for ten years.

Ten years passed, and Mother never once visited me. Only Georgina came.

She brought me novels to keep me from boredom, stacks of books she bought with her saved allowance.

She gave me a glowing crystal she’d spent months saving for, just so I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

Georgina taught me to read, sang to me, and never flinched when I snapped at her in my moments of rage.

Aside from the boy I’d met in the wasteland, Georgina was the only one who ever tried to understand me.

I touched the wolf pendant the boy had given me, a faint sense of nostalgia washing over me for the times we’d hunted rogue werewolves together.

But I preferred being with Georgina. Her scent, a calming mix of lavender and sage, soothed the violent urges that coiled inside me.

This time, though, I waited for a month, and Georgina never came.

The heavy door of the chamber creaked open, and Mother stepped inside—the first time I’d seen her in ten years.

Her face was gaunt, her eyes bloodshot. “Your sister… something’s happened to her.”