A new home

The boy sits rigid in the interrogation room, the metal chair pressing against his bare back, scars crisscrossing his chest like a testament to battles carved in flesh. His obsidian eyes flicker under the fluorescent lights, hands resting still in his lap, a low growl fading as the door clicks open. Charlie Swan steps in, notepad in one hand, coffee mug in the other, a gray blanket tucked under his arm. He sets the mug down, slides the blanket across the table—simple, no fuss—and sits, his gaze steady but not hard. "Alright, kid," he says, voice low, flipping the notepad open. "Why don't we figure this out."

Charlie leans forward slightly, pen poised. "I think your name's a good start. What should I call you?"

The boy tilts his head, eyes narrowing, voice rough but clear, edged with a growl honed by silence. "I have none." He pauses, hands flexing briefly, then stilling. "Lost it… or never had one."

Charlie's eyebrows lift, but he nods, jotting it down. "Alright. So no name… Where you from, then? Before the forest?"

The boy's gaze drops to his hands, a snarl threading through his words, then smoothing out. "I don't know. I woke there—alone, bleeding. That's where it begins."

Charlie's pen hesitates, his tone softening but firm. "Woke up? What do you mean? What happened before that? Were you hurt out there?"

The boy's breath catches, voice low and deliberate, carrying the weight of memory's shards. "An attack. Blood in the air, screams—mine, theirs. They died… parents maybe?, I think. Faces are gone, erased." His sharp dark nails scrape the table lightly, a strained motion, eyes glinting with buried pain.

Charlie sits back, eyes tracing the scars. "Did someone attack you? Killed them? How'd you end up all alone?"

The boy's jaw tightens, words cutting through a faint growl. "I woke to ruin—hurt, abandoned. The forest claimed me. I hunted, fed, endured. That's been my life." His chest rises sharply, voice steadying. And glances down "Monsters fell to these claws… I became one."

Charlie's expression turns grim, but his voice stays gentle. "How long, kid? How long you been out there like that?"

The boy shrugs, a flicker of certainty in his tone. "Three years, maybe. Time blurs when you kill to live. No one else… just me."

Charlie taps the notepad, voice firming. "The woman we found in Forks—found dead, drained. That wasn't you, was it?"

The boy's eyes flare red briefly, a snarl curling his lips, then fading as he shakes his head. "No. I hunt beasts, animals—not humans. Her blood's not on me." His voice holds a quiet defiance, clear and sure.

Charlie nods, flipping a page—vampire report, bite marks. "Yeah, figured. That kill was clean—teeth, not claws. You're clear, kid. Not pinning that on you."

Charlie leans back, studying him, voice dropping low. "You can't go back out there. The forest's no place for a kid, claws or not. I've got a house plenty of room and food. What do you think of coming with me?"

The boy's obsidian eyes flicker, softening to a question, sharp and probing. "Why help me?" His words are crisp now, testing the offer, a mind hesitating.

Charlie shrugs, a faint smile tugging his lips. "Ive got a daughter, her names Bella. She's only two years older than you. She wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I Ieft you all alone like this."

The boy stares, breath slowing as he weighs it. "Will I be safe there?" His voice carries a fragile edge, seeking, not pleading.

Charlie stands, tossing the blanket closer. "Of course and don't worry we'll find you a name. You're safe now. Lets go."

The boy pauses, then nods, taking the warm blanket with a steady grip. "alright" he says, quiet but resolute, a spark of trust igniting.

Charlie pushes the door open, guiding the boy out, his bare shoulders squared under the blanket, scars stark against pale skin in the station's harsh light. The room hums with quiet chatter—Mark's glare burns from the corner, a clerk's typing clacks steadily—but Charlie's focus stays locked on the kid, scarred and nameless, stepping into a world he doesn't know. He pauses by the front desk, where Linda, the night clerk, looks up, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Hold on, Charlie," she says, peering at the boy's wild hair and red-tinged eyes. "You taking him somewhere?" Charlie nods, voice firm but low. "I'm signing him out. He's staying with me for now."

Mark snorts from his chair, arms crossed, bandage peeking from his sleeve. "You serious, Chief? That kid's a damn animal—he clawed me up good." Charlie turns, eyes narrowing, but his tone stays even. "He's fourteen, Mark, not a suspect. No record, no ID—someone's gotta watch him while we dig into where he came from." Linda frowns, pulling a form from a drawer. "Legally, he's a runaway 'til we prove otherwise. You'll need to file for temporary custody—state'll want a report." Charlie takes the clipboard, scrawling his signature with a quick, practiced hand. "I'll handle it. He's not sitting in a cell or a foster home with those scars and no name. We'll figure his origins—run prints, check missing kids. 'Til then, he's with me."

Linda hesitates, then stamps the form, muttering, "Your funeral, Swan." Mark shakes his head, but Charlie ignores them, turning back to the boy, who stands silent, claws retracted, watching the exchange with a flicker of wary curiosity. "Home's not far," Charlie says, unlocking the cruiser outside. "We'll get you cleaned up, fed—real food, not raw." The boy climbs in, a low growl fading as he settles, eyes dimming with exhaustion as the engine rumbles to life. Charlie slides into the driver's seat, glancing at him in the rearview—fourteen, feral, but a kid, not a monster. Forks' streets stretch ahead, quiet and shadowed, as he pulls out, the station's hum replaced by the soft thrum of tires on asphalt. The forest's echo fades, its work done, leaving a broken boy in the hands of a man who won't let him go—a man now legally bound to shelter him while the truth of his past unravels