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Lucas's Perspective

The cafeteria during lunch hour was a swirl of chaos—voices bouncing off the walls in a racket that made it hard to pick out any individual conversation. There was the metallic crash of trays colliding with table edges, the clatter and scrape of chairs being dragged across the floor, and scattered laughter that echoed through the room. The entire space was drenched in a medley of questionable odors: the heavy, greasy aroma of fries that had spent too long under the heat lamps, the faintly sour scent of reheated pizza that had clearly seen better days, and the lingering sharpness of someone's too-strong perfume riding on the air, impossible to escape.

I wove my way through the throng of students, balancing my own tray with careful precision and scanning for a familiar face. Toward the back of the room, away from the worst of the noise and jostling, I finally spotted Malia. She sat alone at her usual spot, a small table near the window, apparently absorbed in poking at her salad. It looked like she'd gone out of her way to separate herself from the madness, seeking a pocket of relative peace in the midst of teenage pandemonium.

I made my way over and slid into the chair across from her, the legs scraping the floor with a protest of their own. Malia didn't acknowledge me immediately; she seemed locked in her own thoughts, absently stabbing at a limp leaf of lettuce as if hoping it would magically become more appetizing.

I decided not to waste any time beating around the bush. "Hey," I said, keeping my voice low, "those girls, the ones giving Erica a hard time in gym—what's their deal?"

She answered without looking up, her fork moving deliberately. "Erica's an easy target. She hasn't got friends to look out for her. Those girls know that and take full advantage—sit behind her during tests, copy off her answers whenever they want. Only yesterday, Erica finally put a stop to it—wouldn't let them cheat off her." She stabbed the lettuce harder this time, punctuating her next words. "Now, this is their way of getting back at her for standing up for herself."

Her explanation hung in the air, and I leaned back, feeling a sinking pit form in my stomach. I couldn't say I was really surprised, but it still left an unpleasant taste that mixed with the cafeteria's scent.

Then Malia looked up at last, fixing me with a sharp, discerning stare. "You've got a look on your face," she said, voice just above a whisper.

I raised an eyebrow in response, feigning ignorance. "What look?"

She didn't miss a beat. "The look that says you want to go out of your way to help the sick girl." She popped a piece of lettuce into her mouth, chewed deliberately, then continued. "Let me remind you—you've got a freshly turned teenage werewolf following you around who barely understands what's happening to him. You really think you have time to play high school vigilante too?"

I shot her a flat, unimpressed look across the table. "You make it sound like he's a walking disaster waiting to happen."

She shrugged, not bothering to soften her words. "Because, let's be honest—right now, he sort of is."

Before I could respond, Isaac burst onto the scene, sliding into the seat beside me so fast that his tray nearly slid off the table. He radiated that erratic energy that made you wonder if somebody had mistakenly swapped his IV for straight espresso at the hospital. He grinned, his entire face lighting up like he was about to drop the world's greatest news.

"So! Lydia's throwing a house party tomorrow night," he announced, eyes flicking between us. "We actually got an invite."

Malia didn't hesitate for even a split second—her response was swift and brutally decisive. "You're not going," she snapped, her tone leaving zero room for negotiation.

Isaac blinked, momentarily thrown off. "Seriously? Why not? What's up with her?" He looked at me as if expecting me to offer a more reasonable answer.

I shrugged and gestured in Malia's direction. "You probably already know Malia—she's also a werewolf. And, to be honest, she's right. No party for you."

Now Isaac looked genuinely startled, torn between shock and growing confusion. "Okay, but why? What's the big deal?"

Malia leaned forward, bracing herself on her elbows, her voice dropping so that only we could hear. "Tomorrow's a full moon."

A moment passed. Isaac's eyes darted between us, doubt giving way to reluctant understanding as the implication dawned. "Do we really have to worry that much? I mean, it's almost the full moon today and I feel fine."

Malia's expression was unyielding. "That's only because the change hasn't really started yet. Trust me—you don't want to be anywhere near a bunch of drunk high school kids when it does."

He turned to look at me, his expression quietly asking if this was true, hoping for a reprieve. I simply nodded in confirmation, all humor gone from my voice and face.

It took him a second, but eventually he let out a resigned breath and gave a small, reluctant nod of his own. "Alright," he said quietly. "I get it."