Charlie Swan

The boy prowls through his usual hunting ground, the forest's grim atmosphere as familiar as the scars etched across his skin, yet today he ventures too far. A strange scent—blood and fear, not the musk of prey but something sharper, stranger—hooks his curiosity and pulls him deeper into uncharted woods. He moves like a shadow among the trees, claws flexing instinctively, red eyes glinting in the perpetual dusk, tracking the unfamiliar trail with a predator's focus. His battered tan jeans, his only clothing, hang loose on his hips, leaving his upper body bare—pale skin slashed with white scars exposed to the air. The air shifts, and he freezes—sharp, frantic barking pierces the silence, mingling with the low, tense voices of men. Crouching in the underbrush, he peers through the foliage, his scarred body coiled and wary, every sense straining for danger. Confusion spikes within him; humans are a blur in his fractured memory, faint echoes from a vision of what might be his parents' death, lost to time. His predator's instinct screams to fight or flee, but a child's curiosity—buried deep beneath years of blood and solitude—holds him fast.

The hunting dogs catch his scent, their barks turning wild, growls rumbling as they strain their leashes to protect their masters. Three figures turn—Charlie Swan and his deputies, Mark and Jane—rifles snapping up, their faces taut with expectation, hunting a vampire tied to a girl's death in Forks. The boy steps into view. His lean, muscular frame stands bare, pale skin crisscrossed with white scars that map a history of violence—red eyes burning like embers, claws glinting like black daggers. The dogs whimper, cowering back; the cops shout, "Freeze!" in unison, their voices sharp with dread. Charlie's eyes narrow, finger hovering on the trigger, but he hesitates, caught off guard. Before them stands a nightmare in a child's body—a boy, looking younger than his daughter, yet something far wilder, forged by the forest's cruel embrace.

Terror ripples through the group. Mark stammers, "What the hell is that?" his voice cracking as he grips his rifle tighter. Jane stumbles back, her weapon trembling, expecting a beast or the vampire they've been tracking, not this scarred wraith. Charlie, stoic but rattled, lowers his rifle a fraction, barking, "Kid, don't move!" His cop instincts war with a paternal shock—Bella's age flashes in his mind, but this boy is no ordinary teen, his feral presence a stark contrast to the daughter he shields, his bare torso a canvas of suffering laid raw. The boy growls low, crouching lower, claws flexing as instinct labels them threats—yet their voices stir a buried ache, a ghost of human connection he can't grasp, tugging at the edges of his shattered past. The standoff stretches, the air thick with dread, nerves fraying as the dogs whine and the cops' guns stay trained on him, his red eyes darting between them, sizing them up like prey.

Mark's nerve breaks first. "It's one of them—shoot it!" he yells, finger twitching, but Charlie snaps, "Hold fire, damn it!" Stepping closer, his voice steadies despite the tightness in his jaw. "Hey, kid, you hurt? Where'd you come from?" The boy snarls, baring fangs that gleam beneath cracked lips, a rumble deep in his throat—yet he doesn't lunge. Charlie's calm cuts through the haze of his instincts, a firm yet kind tone that stirs something faint, unfamiliar. His scarred chest heaves, a boy's fear flickering beneath the beast's glare, trapped in a body that knows only survival. Jane whispers, her hands trembling, "Charlie, look at him—he's not right." Mark's rifle stays up, his breath shallow, seeing only a monster. But Charlie sees more—the scars, the battered jeans—and recognizes a kid beneath the feral shell. "Easy, son, we're not here to hurt you," he says, voice softening, though his hand lingers near his gun, wary of those deadly claws.

The tension shatters as a dog lunges, snapping at the air, breaking the fragile stillness. The boy reacts—claws slash outward, a warning swipe that sends the cops flinching, rifles jerking up. "Stand down!" Charlie shouts, stepping between them, but it's too late. The boy leaps, knocking Mark to the ground, claws grazing his arm—not fatal, just instinct cutting through the chaos. Blood beads on Mark's sleeve as Charlie tackles the boy, pinning him with a cop's strength, his arms locking around the thin, scarred frame. "Stop, kid, stop!" he yells, voice raw with urgency. The boy thrashes, claws digging into the dirt, then stills—red eyes wide, flickering with fear and a glimmer of recognition, pinned beneath a gaze that isn't hate. Charlie releases him, breath heavy, and the boy bolts, vanishing into the trees with unnatural speed, branches snapping in his wake, his growl fading into the forest's depths.

The cops stand stunned, the silence heavy with their ragged breaths. Charlie stares after him, muttering, "What the hell was that kid?" Mark curses, clutching his grazed arm, blood seeping through his fingers. "That wasn't a human, Charlie," he spits, voice shaking. Jane nods, pale, her rifle still raised as if the boy might return. But Charlie's expression hardens, grim and protective. "He's just a kid, scared out of his mind," he says. "Lost out here… damn it, we need to find him." He ties it to Bella's safety in his head—a father's instinct kicking in, imagining his daughter alone in this cursed forest, facing whatever turned that boy into this. The dogs whimper, the vampire trail forgotten for now, as the encounter leaves a mark deeper than claws—a human echo in a beast's world, and a cop's resolve to uncover the truth.