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┃Chapter 3 / Edward POV┃

II — Anomaly

Edward POV

———

I froze instantly, gripping the edge of the table beneath my folded arms.

That was impossible.

Humans couldn’t feel that. It was absurd to even consider. There was no way anyone could have a sensitivity sharp enough to detect my gift. Maybe he was just more attuned than most to my cold presence; maybe his body instinctively reacted to the inhumanity radiating off me like a dense magnetic field. The inevitable presence of a predator. Either way, it didn’t matter. Whatever anomaly Blake Hammer represented, he was still human. Still fragile. Still fleeting.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting his backpack on his lap with a motion so subtle no one else would've noticed. But I did. He was uncomfortable. Restless. His heart rate picked up slightly, betraying his nerves. He probably hadn’t even realized he was reacting to me. It was instinctual, like when a deer hears a twig snap and its body tenses before the mind even processes fear.

Every second stretched unbearably tight under my sharpened focus. Blake didn’t fidget again after those first few minutes. He listened intently, scribbling notes in a tiny, careful handwriting that slanted a little to the right. My eyes caught his paper without meaning to. His notes were meticulous. Neat. A little cramped, but expressive. Normal. So normal it should have reassured me. It didn’t.

His fingers were stained with ink. I noticed after a while, how the blue seeped into the folds of his skin, like he'd spent the morning chewing on his pen or letting it leak into his palm without realizing. His knuckles were marked too—little crescent-shaped cuts, some old and nearly faded, others raw and red like he'd scraped them just yesterday.

He sat curled into himself, legs tucked beneath the desk like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. And even though the classroom wasn’t loud—just the usual shuffle of papers, chairs dragging, the dull drone of Mr. Banner’s voice—Blake still flinched at every small noise, like it was too much. His fingers twitched every time someone coughed.

I felt... unsettled. More than I had in years.

His heartbeat was there, fluttering softly beneath his skin, like moth wings against glass. I could hear it when the room went quiet for a second. It was the only sound he made. Just that slow, steady thrum. The kind of sound that would normally make a predator freeze. And I was the predator. But something was wrong. The beast inside me didn’t move. Not the way it always had before, whenever the sweet scent of blood hit my core. No panic, no venom burning up my throat. Just... nothing. Nothing at all. Like Blake’s blood wasn’t even there to smell, let alone crave. Like he wasn’t alive. But that was impossible.

I shifted slightly, watching him from the corner of my eye. His lashes were long, eyes lowered, lips moving silently as he tried to understand the worksheet instructions. He tilted his head just a little to the left when he read and bit the inside of his cheek when he was confused.

"Do you get this?" he whispered suddenly, so low it barely broke the air between us.

I blinked.

His eyes were locked on mine—those huge eyes with that strange green glow around the pupils. Maybe it was just the light? No, I’d seen them too clearly before. That green wasn’t normal. It was striking, especially against the brown. Like his eyes were made of forest and fire at the same time.

I should have answered. But I just stared.

"I... don’t," he added quickly, a bit of panic creeping into his voice, clearly mistaking my silence for judgment. "Sorry, I-... forget it."

"No," I said finally. My voice came out too rough, too fast.

His eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

I tried again, softer this time.

"It’s fine. Here..." I tilted my page toward him.

He leaned closer, studying my notes. His arm brushed mine briefly, a faint warmth barely noticeable through the fabric. Like his blood could barely keep him warm. And still, nothing. No spike of bloodlust. No flash of temptation. Just that scent—cinnamon, cotton, and a trace of soap. The warm scent of skin. A smell that shouldn’t have calmed me, but somehow did. Comforting, even as my instincts screamed that none of this made sense.

"You have really nice handwriting," he murmured distractedly. I frowned.

"You think so?"

He nodded and smiled again. That same soft smile he’d given Angela earlier, like it was carved into his bones.

"Yeah. Mine always looks like... a chicken stepped in ink."

I almost smile. Almost.

I watched him for another long moment, trying to make sense of this boy who didn’t smell like blood. Whose heart beat like a bird’s. Whose mind felt like static crawling over my skin. Who smiled even though it looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He turned back to the worksheet, tapping his pen lightly against the desk. Absentminded. Like a kid lost in his own little world. I wanted to ask him: "What are you?"

But I didn’t. Because it felt cruel.

Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

"Blake," I said instead.

He looked up, eyebrows lifting in surprise, like he hadn’t expected me to talk to him again. "Hm?"

"I’m Edward."

"Oh," he said, tilting his head again. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, blinking slowly, like his brain was lagging behind. "Well, you look... like someone who would be named Edward."

I didn’t know what that meant. My eyebrows drew together before I caught myself and smoothed them back down. That was his response to me introducing myself? A simple "you look like an Edward," said with a weird kind of contentment, like it was exactly what he meant to say. He noticed my confusion and gave a little nervous laugh, clutching his pen with both hands, fidgeting. I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, or if he was messing with me, but the bell rang before I could, and he jumped, like he’d forgotten where he was. He scrambled to pack up his things; the pen slipped from his fingers. I reached out to grab it, my hand brushing against his thin ones.

"Thanks," he said breathlessly, stuffing it into his pocket. "See you, Edward."

And then he was gone. That scent of cinnamon lingered in the air, dancing around the empty space he'd left behind until he disappeared out the door, nearly tripping over Kate Richards on the way out. I stayed sitting there long after everyone else had left. Mr. Banner said something on his way out, but I didn’t catch it. I was too busy replaying every heartbeat. Every look. Every word. And underneath it all, the static was still there, humming low and steady. Something was wrong with Blake Hammer. I could feel it. It was too obvious. But I couldn’t pin it down, because the idea that he wasn’t human was absurd.

It was absurd.

And yet, I sat there in my empty chair, staring at the door he'd disappeared through, like I was waiting for him to come back. Like he might have been nothing more than a mirage. A brief distortion in the fabric of reality. But if even Emmett had noticed the boy’s lack of essence, then it wasn’t just my imagination. I forced myself to gather my things slowly, listening distantly to the chatter echoing through the halls. Alice was close—I could tell by the hum of her mind, and by the sudden flutter of her voice when she spotted me. Her head peeked in through the door, curious.

"Everything good?" she asked, like she didn’t already know. But her thoughts weren’t showing clear images, just a swirl of doubt, tiny shifts in potential futures spinning too fast to catch. Her mind buzzing like gossip between the girls in her English class.

I nodded, brief and mechanical.

I wasn’t about to give her an honest answer. Not yet. She narrowed her eyes slightly, like she could see something out of focus she wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t give her the chance to push. I slipped out of the classroom, leaving behind the faint smell of chalk dust and burnt electricity, following the nearly imperceptible trail of cinnamon still lingering in the air. But I lost it too fast, swallowed up by the smells of the other students, the noise of the crowded hallways and their overexcited thoughts. I forced myself not to look for it. To let it go. Not to chase it like an animal tracking a scent it didn’t understand.

Alice caught up to me almost instantly.

"Did Emmett tell you?" she chimed, graceful as ever, her voice lilting with curiosity and interest. When I turned to glance at her, she raised her eyebrows slightly, her eyes sparkling, hunting my face for any detail she could use for entertainment. Digging into the lives of humans, seeing how they lived, how they thought, and how it would shape their futures was a favorite pastime of hers. But I kept my face blank, almost bored, and she huffed. "The new kid. Emmett said he smells weird."

"He doesn’t smell weird," I said, brushing past her, heading toward the back staircase. Alice didn’t miss a beat, practically skipping after me.

"You have class with him, right? I heard Angela Weber talking about him with Jessica Stanley. They say he’s cute and shy. I wasn’t paying much attention, but when Emmett mentioned the weird smell thing, well, that caught my interest," she explained quickly, her fingers waving animatedly and her hair bouncing in perfect little swings. "I mean, I haven’t smelled him yet, but do you think maybe he’s, you know... one of them?"

The word "werewolf" screamed in her thoughts.

I stopped with a sharp breath next to the staircase at the back of the building, turning slightly toward her—not enough to fully face her, but enough to catch her in my peripheral vision. I shoved my hands into my pockets and shook my head with boredom, my eyes drifting toward the glass door leading to the back patio. The glass was fogged over from the rain; the mist clinging to the trees beyond was slowly starting to clear.

"Please," I scoffed, dragging my feet as I leaned against the wall. "Alice, if Hammer were a shapeshifter, we’d know within five seconds of getting near him. Even Emmett, with his infinite lack of attention, would've caught it during gym class."

I let that sink in, then sighed, the condensation from my breath puffing against the glass.

"And believe me," I added dryly, "if he was, I wouldn’t still be standing here talking about it. I’d be halfway to Canada by now."

I made sure every syllable dripped with irritation. Hammer didn’t smell remotely like a shapeshifter. There was no sour, earthy stink, no wet dog stench that surrounded them like a force field. Blake smelled different. Warm. Real. Like damp bark and cinnamon burning over a fire. Nothing about him repelled my senses—which, in a way, was even more alarming.

"It’s not like..." I cut myself off, jaw tightening. "It’s not like I’ve been paying attention to his smell." I shrugged indifferently. "I’m just saying he smells... normal. Human. Like he came from a thrift store, not a flea-infested forest."

Alice stared at me for a full second. A whole second, an eternity for her. Her smile curled up just slightly, not sweet, but sly, like a cat spotting a clumsy mouse.

"Very... specific," she sang, crossing her arms as she rocked back on her heels.

I raised an eyebrow, feigning boredom.

"Basic supernatural anomaly biology. Day one stuff."

She giggled musically.

"And since when do you care enough to explain something to me in that much detail, big brother?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I turned toward the back doors, pretending the rain was more interesting than her prying gaze. Alice bounced to align herself with me, her grin barely contained.

"Oh no," she whispered like she’d stumbled on some delicious secret. "You’re interested."

I pressed my lips into a hard line, displeased.

"There’s nothing I’m less interested in than that boy," I muttered. "I’m just educating ignorance," I added dryly, staring deliberately out the foggy door. "You should thank me."

She laughed under her breath, light and musical, like she’d just confirmed every suspicion she had. She spun on her heel, her skirt twirling around her, and danced a few steps ahead before pausing to toss her hair over her shoulder.

"Mmm, sure," she sang without looking back. "You’re just being a good big brother, then."

She paused dramatically.

"Or maybe..." she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with mischief, "...you want me to take a closer look?"

"You won’t find anything you’re interested in," I snapped back coldly.

Way too fast.

Alice giggled brightly and disappeared down the stairs, victorious—even if she didn’t yet know what exactly she’d won.

I stayed there a little longer, letting the damp, fogged-up glass swallow my distorted reflection. Alice’s footsteps were already a cheerful echo bouncing down the stairs, her laughter still hanging in the air like a dart lodged in my ear. I inhaled deeply—knowing full well I shouldn’t—but did it anyway. The rain couldn’t quite wash away that fleeting trace of burnt cinnamon that clung to the air like a stubborn whisper. A sensory glitch, I told myself. Nothing more.

Humans were irrelevant. Tiny, insignificant. Like dead leaves blown around by the wind, or raindrops vanishing into the ground without a trace. Their noisy thoughts, their short-lived passions, their petty fears... None of it was my world. None of it was my problem. It never would be. Blake Hammer was no different. Just another minor anomaly. A small glitch in the vast, predictable machinery of human existence. A manufacturing defect. I forced myself to think of him that way as I stepped out into the halls, moving slowly, weaving through bodies and minds without paying any real attention. Reflex. Habit. Not interest.

And yet.

That memory brushed against me, so brief I could’ve tossed it aside. But I didn’t. The sensation was sharp: the exact moment I had tried to read his mind. The precise instant I had reached out, invisible and silent... and Blake had reacted. His body had tensed, like he felt something. Like he sensed a touch against his awareness. And then, his eyes had flicked toward me, curious.

I scowled, forcing the scene out of my mind, burying it under the weight of my will. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. I wasn’t going to waste my energy—or my time—on something so trivial.

Outside, the fog was thickening, swallowing the trees whole. I kept walking with no real destination, telling myself with every step that I wouldn’t think about it again. That I wouldn’t look at him again. That I wouldn’t try to reach for whatever absurd thing kept slipping through my grasp.

And every word was a lie I knew I was going to break.

[twilightbl]

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┃Chapter 2 / Edward POV┃

II — The New Boy

Edward POV

———

Eternity isn't what the poets imagine.

It isn't made of light or promises. It's repetition.

A routine dressed up as normalcy.

Every day, the same carefully maintained façade. The same rehearsed gestures, the same simulated conversations, the same classes taught by minds so slow they drag like time itself when you've already lived through everything. The illusion of eternal youth, when there is nothing older than an immortal.

We attend high school by choice, though sometimes I struggle to remember why. Carlisle, with his boundless patience, insists on this way of life. On coexistence. On appearances. He believes there's redemption in the attempt. That if we live among humans, if we avoid bloodshed, if we suppress the part of us that howls to be let out, something of who we once were might survive.

I'm not so sure anymore.

But I keep trying. For him. Because I love him. Because he saved me from death, and then from something worse: the void. And because I know what I would have become without his guidance. A monster with no purpose.

This, at least, is a routine. And routines, no matter how tedious, give time a shape. They make it livable.

I pretend to be seventeen. That I care about exams, the weather, music. I walk among ageless teenagers. I sit at lunch without eating. I breathe without needing to. I blink without reason. I listen without wanting to. And when I forget why I keep doing it, I think of Carlisle. Of his faith. Of his borrowed hope.

And I begin again.

Forks was painted in soft, cold watercolors this morning. The sky, a weightless gray, draped over the pines as fog pooled in the gaps between trees. A fine drizzle had started around second period, more a whisper than rain, slicking the asphalt in the parking lot until the tires hissed across it.

The air smelled of wet earth, coppery moss, and diesel smoke, same as always. Inside, everything was warm, vibrant, full of life; the cafeteria smelled of grease and damp jackets. Scents that clung to me freely, though I'd long since learned to ignore them.

I didn't feel the warmth, but I could smell it.

I sat beside Alice, motionless. As I did every morning. Both of us silent, marble statues with untouched trays, our food already going cold. Pretending not to notice the glances cast our way, fewer than before, but we never ceased to be the center of attention.

I was used to the way they looked at us. Like weirds, off, no social. Beautiful in a way that unsettled. Untouchable. And that was the point.

The cafeteria was a beehive of human voices. Disordered thoughts invaded from every corner, who liked who, which teacher sucked, what song was playing in their earbuds. A mental cacophony. An unbearable symphony. The tables were filled with packs: the jocks, the popular girls, the loners, the bored.

Thoughts flitted through different subjects, but one kept repeating this morning: the latest addition to the student body.

A new boy named Blake Hammer.

So not just the Swan girl, then, I thought.

More minds opened around me like paper lanterns, flickering with impressions. Curious girls, dismissive boys. Some startled thoughts, the screeching voice of Jessica Stanley, loud even in her own head: "He's kinda cute."

But I didn't focus on their thoughts. Not at first. I was more focused on sinking into the misery of monotony, or so I wanted to believe. But through the adolescent minds I caught glimpses of the new boy, overshadowed by last week's arrival: Isabella Swan, Bella, she corrected every time someone called her Isabella. The daughter of the Chief of Police, Charlie Swan.

She was still the main subject in every male mind in the building, and it was unpleasant, to say the least. How all the boys orbited her like she was some kind of prize to be won, just for being pretty.

I sighed, not out of necessity, but out of fatigue, as I pushed aside yet another mental image from Oliver Baker fantasizing about kissing Isabella Swan. He wasn't the first, and sadly, he wouldn't be the last to stain my mind with such disrespectful, unpleasant visions.

Alice caught my subtle sigh and turned her thoughts toward me. «Something wrong?» she asked curiously, twirling an apple in her hands. Her gift wasn't showing her anything entertaining this morning, everything was calm, so even the smallest bit of gossip or tension intrigued her.

To appease her boredom, I shrugged.

"New student," I said without interest, moving my lips too fast for human eyes to catch. My gaze fixed on some distant corner of the cafeteria, already used to choosing a blank spot to rest my mind.

Still, in my peripheral vision, I saw Alice's eyes sweep the room, and she hummed, her brows furrowing ever so slightly.

«I didn't see a new student in my visions», she thought, puzzled. I could feel her interest perk up like someone had just placed a gossip magazine in front of her.

I tried not to sigh again.

"Your visions aren't always accurate," I muttered, though I didn't block her thoughts. I watched through her perspective as her curious eyes scanned every face in the cafeteria, only to feel her disappointment when she realized the boy wasn't there.

And I already knew why, Mike Newton and Jessica Stanley's conversation provided the answer. The boy had ended up in the nurse's office after being hit in the face with a ball during gym class.

Newton looked far too proud of being the one who'd thrown it, and his friends weren't holding back their laughter either.

Alice's frown deepened, her body tensing. «Blood, and I didn't even get a glimpse of it. If he had bled near us...» she whispered in her mind, blaming herself. I could hear her teeth clench. «If Jasper had been there...»

"But he wasn't. And neither were we," I tried to reassure her, though that wasn't my strong suit. Calming or comforting wasn't something I did well. But I tried, with my family, at least.

My words clearly didn't ease her.

And they didn't comfort me either, because in a way, her concern was valid. A human bleeding that close, in the same building, the same room, was a huge temptation, especially now, when our throats burned with hunger. Our last hunt had been a week ago, and while Alice and I had the most control after Carlisle, animal blood never truly dulled the burn enough to lull the beast.

«Emmett had gym today. Where's Emmett?» she asked with alarm, making my shoulders tense. I immediately reached out for the volatile mind of Emmett somewhere in the school, trying to locate him.

He was in the gym, focused, oddly enough, on not exploding the basketball as he played.

"In the court, playing basketball," I answered as I stood, my movements practiced and graceful, ignoring the eyes that turned toward me. "I'll go check on him."

Alice nodded carefully, relaxing just a little. «Keep me posted», she sent my way like a mission order.

I nodded wearily.

As soon as I left the cafeteria, I tried to keep my pace slow, human, but there was urgency in my stride. I needed to reach Emmett. Because something was spinning in his mind, something I couldn't catch clearly.

I didn't want to call it urgency, but it was something close. A flicker of... unease.

The halls were nearly empty, just a few students milling about who wanted privacy or were headed elsewhere, so it didn't surprise me to see someone ahead at their locker. I didn't pay much attention, until he closed it and I saw his face.

Blake.

His name rang in my mind like someone had whispered it in my ear, someone who sounded far too much like me.

Blake Hammer.

That was his name, from what I'd picked up in passing thoughts. But this morning I hadn't paid much attention, hadn't looked closely enough to notice that the new boy's face was familiar.

Now that I saw him up close, not from hundreds of feet away, I knew.

This was the boy I'd seen in the woods last week. I was sure of it. An immortal memory forgets nothing.

Back then, I'd been tense, dealing with Jasper's instability and the pressure of Alice's frantic mind, I hadn't had space to focus on the boy. But here he was, right in front of me.

His eyes turned toward me as he noticed my presence, and I could swear he had the reaction of a rabbit sensing a predator nearby. His eyes locked on mine, his shoulders tightened, shrinking in on himself, his hands clutching the edges of his open backpack as he finished slipping in a book, and finally, to top it off, his breath caught.

I waited for his thoughts. Something exaggerated or dramatic.

And heard nothing.

Just silence. Unusual. Maybe he was too dazed from the hit.

Something prickled at my fingertips and I looked closer, studying his expression. Then my eyes dropped to the collar of his hoodie, and I saw it. A dark spot on the fabric. A drop of blood. Just one, but still my body locked up, and I quickened my pace, cutting off my breath and looking away. I'd noticed too late, but luckily, I'd had enough time to stop breathing, unnecessary to live, but necessary to pass as human, before the scent hit me and pushed me toward his throat.

It was dramatic to imagine that, lunging at his throat. My control had improved with every year. But still, the image disgusted me.

I didn't let myself look at him fully, but from one glance, it was clear, he was too small. Fragile. His body shrank just by seeing me, likely feeling the wrongness of my presence, the predator's presence. It was normal. Humans didn't understand it, but their bodies did.

They could sense something dangerous nearby. Their brains warned them something was wrong, something cold and bloodthirsty was close. But our ethereal appearance, beautiful, impossibly carved, fooled them. Not enough to make them trust us, but enough to keep them from running on sight.

"Hammer," a voice called down the hall. My eyes shifted. Angela Weber was walking toward the new boy with tissues in hand. "Sorry it took me so long. Is your nose better?" she asked gently.

He mumbled a "thanks" so low it was barely audible. Then his eyes flicked back to me, and I turned, finally rounding the corner that led to the gym.

But his gaze clung to me a moment longer, until I pushed it from my mind.

[twilightbl]

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┃Chapter 1 / Edward POV┃

I — Eyes Through the Trees

Edward POV

———

Hunting.

Hunting no longer meant anything. Not to me, at least.

Even now, with the need humming dully in my muscles, the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other felt heavier than usual, as if every movement were a worn-out repetition.

Emmett was moving ahead to my left, crashing through the underbrush with the clumsy, elemental joy of a child toppling over building blocks. He was easily entertained. Jasper stayed farther forward, motionless at times, as if the wind whispered things to him the rest of us couldn’t hear. His face was turned to the east, the cold breeze brushing his cheeks while the damp scent of soil, pine needles, and the musky trail of a sluggish bear reached him in layers.

My own prey—a lean, fast cougar—lay forgotten several yards behind us. Beautiful in a way that, decades ago, might have stirred something like consciousness in me. But now… it was just flesh. Its scent stirred nothing. The warmth of its blood brought no comfort. Hunger had become a dead need, satisfied out of habit, devoid of spark.

I didn’t even bother wiping the blood from my lips.

Alice trailed behind us, silent, arms crossed and eyes locked on her mate’s every move. She’d only joined the hunt to stay close to Jasper. She preferred to hunt alone, she always said, and it was true. According to her, watching Emmett feed was like watching a bulldozer try to dance.

We weren’t far from human paths. Remote territory, yes—but still inhabited. Jasper kept angling his nose toward the east, then north.

And then his body went still.

It wasn’t instinctual. It was deeper. As if something invisible had struck him.

His head snapped east, nostrils flaring, silence broken.

“What is it?” Emmett asked, straightening up, lips still tinged red, his head tilted toward the breeze.

Jasper didn’t answer.

Alice’s expression changed instantly. Her voice turned sharp, clear.

“Jasper. Don’t.”

But he already had.

He bolted forward with a desperation I hadn’t seen in years. The undergrowth cracked behind him. The scent must have hit him hard—human. And recent. Not too close, but close enough to make him lose control.

“Damn it,” I muttered, and before Alice could move, I followed.

The wind lashed at my face as I ran—faster than Emmett, faster than Alice. The forest blurred past. I heard Jasper’s breathless gasps ahead of me, reckless, possessed. His thirst scraped against my senses like barbed wire. Emmett veered left to intercept him. Alice yelled something behind us—an order or a plea, I couldn’t tell. Her thoughts were a whirlwind.

And then I tasted it.

Not with the anticipated delight of satisfied instinct, nor with the heady intoxication of thirst. It hit suddenly and precisely, like someone whispering the name of a memory I thought extinct.

Blood.

Two distinct heartbeats reached me like discordant notes from the same score: one erratic, fast, stumbling—a drum out of rhythm. The other more measured, steady, though not entirely calm.

The image struck like a lone vision: a flash of warped metal, the dull snap of plastic breaking, the venomous hiss of a radiator bleeding steam onto damp gravel. A ruined motorcycle by the forest, and a trail of blood sliding down the bark of a tree like ink too thick to flow.

We reached him just as Jasper skidded to a halt, his pupils blown wide like an animal caught in a flashlight beam. The change was abrupt. Violent. His entire body convulsed as if the connection between his will and his mind had been torn out. Emmett moved instantly—a mechanical gesture from someone who’d lived through this theater before—and pinned him to the leafy ground with a strength almost casual. Jasper growled, chest trembling, jaw unhinged, his teeth bared in a gesture older than language. Thirst. We all knew it.

But I didn’t stop.

Not out of discipline. Not out of disdain. My attention had already shifted.

I slipped between trees with the automatic rhythm of someone who’d run that trail a thousand times. Something was pulling me—not like a call, not like a command. More like a barely perceptible dissonance breaking the forest’s harmony. Like a word in a language I didn’t remember learning.

And then the woods parted.

A break of gray light cut through the trees, revealing the dirt road slicing through the brush. There, just around a curve, I saw them. Not clearly. Just as one sees through water—forms distorted by urgency.

Two human figures.

One of them, a young man, maybe in his twenties, with an arm curled in pain. Blood ran down his skin with a clarity that needed no eyes to sense—only breath. His scent was sharp, mineral, clean like new metal. A poorly contained fracture. He was leaning against the wreckage of a motorcycle, body tilted, almost collapsing. His mind was dazed and irritated, trying to pull itself together, cursing nonstop.

And the other—

The other made me stop.

Not because he posed a threat. Not because I recognized him. Not because he said or did anything.

But because my mind—having already cataloged and stored away every relevant stimulus—refused to move forward. As if it would not process him.

He was younger. Perhaps my apparent age. Kneeling in the soaked dirt, his jeans torn where the rocks bit into him. There was blood on his face—a thin line running from his nose to the corner of his mouth, an uneven trail staining the pale skin of his chin—but… there was nothing.

Nothing.

I couldn’t smell him. I couldn’t feel his blood. I couldn’t taste him.

It was like looking at a photograph of something that should have been happening in front of me. My body registered the signs—the injury, the muscle tension, the low drumming of his heart, the shallow whisper of his unsteady breath—but none of it triggered the mechanisms that had damned me so many times before.

His heart was beating, yes. I could hear it clearly: a soft, restrained thud, as though it were shackled. As though it beat underwater. I watched him struggle to rise, his body tilting to one side, shielding an injured leg. And still, not a flicker of scent, not a single molecule stirred the faintest hint of hunger in me.

It was as if the air itself refused to speak of him.

I narrowed my eyes, doubting my own senses for a moment. There was blood staining his clothes. I could see it. His sweater soaked in dark red. A thin line trailing down his neck, clinging to his collarbone. His presence was undeniable, physical, defined… and yet incomplete.

Weak blood, I told myself.

Too diluted, maybe. Mixed with the acrid bite of oil, the burnt grease of the engine, the heavy stench of antifreeze pooling over wet stone, the earthy perfume of rotting vegetation wrapping everything like a shroud. The lichens of the northwest, decomposing leaves, the fungi thriving beneath the brush in cycles that had nothing to do with human time. Maybe his scent was simply lost in that saturated ecosystem. Maybe his blood was so insignificant the forest devoured it before it ever reached me.

But I couldn’t stop looking. And that was... inconvenient.

He wasn’t calling for help. He wasn’t screaming. He didn’t even seem concerned about the wound slowly soaking through the denim on his leg. His attention was... elsewhere. Not drifting, not frantic—focused, in a kind of measured curiosity. His eyes moved with a cadence that had nothing to do with panic or pain. He scanned the surroundings, yes, but not like someone seeking aid. More like someone searching for meaning. He studied the exposed roots of trees, the patches of mud, the scattered fragments of a shattered headlight... as if trying to reconstruct something.

And then he looked up.

Not directly, not as a human would upon sensing movement, but with a subtle, minimal shift. The tilt of his brow, the faint change in his focus. So slight I might have missed it. But...

Was he looking at me?

No. That wasn’t possible. I was deep within the woods, cloaked by the mist curling around the branches like an ancient breath. The fog was thick, and I was shadow. Motionless. Camouflaged by centuries of practice and a will older than my body. No one should have seen me. No human could.

And yet, his brow furrowed.

And I went perfectly still.

Though I already was. My muscles hadn’t moved since I saw him. My breath, nonexistent. A statue carved from shadow. But for one instant, that gesture—the frown, the flicker of curiosity—sparked something I hadn’t anticipated: a fissure. Not of emotion. Of attention. As if some part of me—the part I believed dormant—wanted to make sure that hadn’t been a coincidence.

In my mind, my siblings’ thoughts blurred like muffled echoes behind glass. And then, suddenly, a human voice burst into my head with grating sharpness—a familiar, dissonant vibration:

“This is the third time this month. Fixing this piece of junk is costing me more than it’s worth. I told him not to come. Should’ve left him home. Damn kid…”

The older boy. The other one. Of course. His mind was as loud as any human’s. Frustration, boredom, small flickers of guilt masked as anger. He stared at the wrecked motorcycle like the twisted metal might give him back what he’d lost. Time. Money.

“Blake, stop wasting time and help me gather the parts,” he growled, not even bothering to look at the boy.

Blake.

A name, finally.

The boy lifted his head slowly, as if the sound had reached him from very far away. He nodded without speaking. His expression didn’t change. There was no annoyance. No resentment or pain, despite the way his leg trembled under the uneven weight of his body. Blood still trickled down his pant leg, a warning left ignored. But he said nothing. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t complain.

Passive. Not with resignation, but with acceptance. As if he already knew the weight of every word before it was spoken.

And I, for the second time in that endless minute, tried once again to reach into his mind.

Not out of habit. Not for simple surveillance.

I needed to.

I wanted to know if he had sensed me. If that gesture toward the woods had been… something more. A coincidence wouldn’t have stopped me like this. It wouldn’t have shaken a certainty I had carried for too long.

I focused all my attention on him.

I tried to touch his mind.

And found nothing.

Not the usual silence that sometimes accompanies shallow human thoughts. This was something thicker. More complete. Like a polished surface that reflected no light. An invisible wall without texture. My gift didn’t slide off it—it bounced. There wasn’t a closed door. There was no architecture at all. As if the space where his consciousness ought to exist simply hadn’t been designed to be accessed. As if my ability didn’t even know how to recognize it.

And then I felt it.

A faint hum, barely perceptible, just behind my inner ear. Something that wasn’t sound or touch, yet sparked the exact sensation of electric contact. Not painful. But unnatural.

A kind of static.

“Edward?”

Alice’s voice reached me like a rope thrown down from the surface. It forced me back.

“We have to go,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I intended. “They’ll find them soon. Rangers, maybe. They’re less than ten minutes away.”

Jasper was still straining against Emmett, his body thrumming with poorly restrained desire. Alice, calm as rain, laid a hand on his arm.

“Jasper. Come back.”

And he did. To his body, to himself. To us. Barely.

I didn’t look at them as we left. I didn’t look back. Emmett still held Jasper firmly, though his mind had already drifted toward another memory. Alice whispered details about the approaching patrols. Possibilities. Branching outcomes. The exact second each route would close.

And I said nothing.

Not because I was concerned for Jasper.

My silence came from somewhere else.

Because what had just happened was not ordinary.

And I have never liked not understanding.

[twilightbl]

• ────── 🩸 ────── •

[BL Twilight Fanfic] <- LINK

┃Prologue / Edward POV┃

Immortality is not what humans imagine.

There's no glory in it. No silver crown. No sacred purpose etched into flesh. Only time, endless, corroding time, and the slow, relentless erosion of whatever humanity I once had.

I'm not alive. Not really. Not in any way that matters. My body moves, yes. Walks, breathes, speaks. But none of that makes me living. My heart lies silent in my chest. My veins are cold. My soul, if I ever had one, feels like a distant echo, lost in a place I can never return to.

My name is Edward Cullen.

Or at least, that's the name I wear now. I've borne it for over a century. I was born Edward Anthony Masen in 1901. I died in 1918, at the age of seventeen. That's when the world I knew ended, and something else began.

I was reborn into something... other.

A vampire.

Not the kind you find in gothic novels or fairytales. Not velvet-cloaked romantics or ghoulish figures sealed away in coffins. The sun doesn't burn me. Though perhaps it would be easier if it did. My skin, hard as marble, glitters under the light like it's dusted in frost. Not beauty, no. A grotesque parody of it. A perfect disguise for a creature that should not exist.

I sparkle.

Our kind were designed to seduce. To disarm. We are predators dressed as lovers. And the world never sees the difference, until it's too late.

I survive on blood. Not human blood. I've learned to control myself. Discipline. A diet of animals, lions, bears, elk. They sustain my body. They quiet the hunger. But never fully. The thirst is always there. Just behind my teeth. Just beneath the surface.

I live with a family, though "family" is a fragile word. We're bound not by blood, but by the thirst for it and the shared weight of our damnation.

Carlisle is our father in all but name. A doctor, a philosopher, a man of faith without faith. The most compassionate of monsters. He's spent centuries mending human lives with hands that never shake, though his soul is nothing but scar tissue. He saved me when Spanish influenza tore through my lungs. A bite that cost me my soul. He calls it redemption. I'm still deciding what to call it.

Esme, his wife, is warmth and perseverance. A tenderness that shouldn't have survived the grave. She lost her child in life, and ever since, she's loved us like something fierce and sacred. She holds us together with invisible threads. I don't know what she saw in me. But she loves me as if I deserve it.

Emmett, my brother, is laughter and muscle. A giant soul in an even bigger body. He speaks without filters, acts without hesitation, but his heart, if hearts like ours still beat, is unbreakable. Mauled by a bear in Tennessee, Rosalie carried him across mountains to Carlisle. He's seen eternity as an adventure ever since.

Rosalie, his wife, is marble carved from ice. Beautiful to the point of cruelty. Strong to the edge of resentment. She never wanted this life. And she's never forgiven Carlisle. Or Emmett. Or me. Sometimes I think she hasn't forgiven herself. She wears her rage like jewelry, elegant, deliberate. She did not choose this eternity. She drags it behind her like a poisoned crown.

Alice is storm and laughter, movement incarnate. She always arrives exactly where she's needed, though never by accident. Her gift lets her see the future, and she treats it like a game, a kaleidoscope of shifting paths. She doesn't remember her human life, and doesn't seem to care. Whatever she lost, she's filled with us. She's light. And vertigo.

Jasper, her mate, is war wrapped in silk. Born for battle, shaped by blood. A former general in the vampire wars of the South, he can sense and alter emotions, even as his own devour him. Every day is a battle. Human blood tempts him more than any of us. But he loves Alice. He follows her like a drowning man follows a light.

And then there's me.

The mind-reader.

Yes. Another curse. Another fracture in a soul already broken. I hear thoughts, every fleeting whisper, every private agony. I live in a constant storm of voices, desires, lies. There is no privacy for those near me. Not unless I force myself to look away. And even then, the echoes remain, like afterimages of flame.

I tell myself I use this gift for good, to protect, to guide. But more often, it isolates me. I know too much. I see people as they are, not as they pretend to be. And it wears on me.

There are worse things, I suppose. Carlisle believes in redemption. Believes that what we are can be tempered by what we choose to be. I've tried to follow him. I've tried harder than any of them. To live without killing. To cling to some thread of morality that keeps the monster in check.

But it's not easy.

The thirst is always there. A dull, constant burn in my throat. A reminder that hunger is my nature. That I was made to devour.

Humans are fragile. Their warmth, their scent, their pulse, everything about them calls to me. I crave them like fire. Knowing it will burn. Knowing it always burns. And still, I resist. Always, I resist.

It's not heroism. It's guilt. Shame.

We live in shadows. We move every few years. We pretend to be something we're not. High school students. A wealthy, reclusive family with no real friends. People look at us and know something's wrong. They just can't explain why.

I've grown used to the charade. The dull repetition of reliving the same four years in new towns, with new names, surrounded by strangers I'll never bother to learn. They don't matter. None of them ever matter. I already know them before they speak.

So I keep my distance. I watch. I judge. I hide.

Existence is mechanical, a loop of endless sameness. For someone like me, cursed with eternity, Forks is as good a place as any to disappear. Cold, rainy, remote. The sun is nearly absent. It's discreet. Safe.

Or at least, it used to be.

For years, nothing changed. No one truly noticed us. No heartbeat was loud enough to disrupt the dead rhythm of our lives.

Until he arrived.

I didn't notice him at first. Just another student. Another temporary face. But there was something... something off. A dissonant note in a familiar melody.

A presence like static. An anomaly.

I shouldn't have cared. I shouldn't have looked twice.

And yet, from that moment on, I did.

——————————————————

• ────── 🩸 ────── •

[twilightbl]

• ────── 🩸 ────── •

[BL Twilight Fanfic AO3] <- LINK

┃Synopsis / Edward POV┃

I've been walking among humans for over a century, pretending to live a life that no longer belongs to me.

I don't sleep. I don't breathe. I don't age. And most of all, I don't change.

I'm a vampire.

A predator who refuses to hunt, trapped in a routine of passing faces, grey days, and blood I never taste.

My world is static. Predictable. Dead.

Until he arrived.

Blake Hammer wasn't like the others.

Quiet. Unavoidable. Illogical.

His mind was a blank wall, impenetrable, and his scent... wasn't a scent at all. He didn't stir my thirst or my killer instincts.

Near him, the monster inside me fell silent.

And for the first time in a very long time, I wanted to stay close to someone.

But nothing is ever that simple. Since his arrival, something else has awakened.

Bodies have started appearing in the woods, torn apart by something that isn't us.

Creatures crawl from the darkest corners of the world, bringing with them secrets even my family can't explain.

And at the center of it all is Blake, calm, untouchable... too calm for someone so human.

Maybe I'm not the only one hiding something.

I should be afraid.

Instead, I’m obsessed.

——————————————————

• ────── 🩸 ────── •

——————————————————

Notes

• This is a Twilight fanfic, but with a BL (boy love) twist. The story will not only focus on romance, but also on the construction of mystery, creatures, and supernatural monsters. Yet, the central focus will be Edward's obsessive love.

• All original Twilight characters and concepts belong to Stephenie Meyer. However, this story will take a very different path from canon.

• Isabella Swan is still present in the story, but she is not Edward's love interest.

• Any original characters and plot deviations belong to me.

• You can follow me on Instagram for art and updates: @immortalasblood

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Content Warnings

• This story deals with sensitive topics. There will be mentions of murder/blood, explicit written violence, alcohol, smoking, drugs, and attempted sexual assault (non-explicit), as well as self-destructive characters.

• The story is a slowburn—meaning the plot, romance, and mystery unfold gradually.

• It is still under revision, so updates may take time.

• Some characters may be slightly out of character because I tried to give them more depth to make them easier to write. If there are any inaccuracies with some characters, I apologize. Isabella Swan is probably the most out of character, but I try to keep her somewhat canon.

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Hope you enjoy it ♡

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• ────── 🩸 ────── •

[twilightbl]

────── 🍎 ──────

His eyes flickered, his body tensing under my hands—something uncertain, something conflicted, something raw.

“…Why?”

The word was barely there.

Like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Like he couldn’t hear it.

I inhaled deeply, my fingers pressing just a little firmer against his skin, my hold on him tightening—not forceful, not possessive—just there.

Steady. Unshakable.

I swallowed, my throat tight, my control thinning.

Trying with all my control not to squeeze, not to touch him too hard because I might break him, shatter him under my touch. Leave marks under my fingers.

It was driving me crazy, being so close, his hot breath crashing against me, his blood gently rushing to his face.

Then, finally—

“Because you’re mine.”

Blake’s breath hitched sharply.

His eyes widened, looking for mines. His voice was barely more than a whisper—uncertain, fragile, almost disbelieving.

"What?" he whispered.

I swallowed, my jaw tightening, my control hanging by a fraying thread. The scent of him was thick, intoxicating, his warmth radiating against me, into me, making it impossible to think of anything but this—this moment, this impossible, unbearable pull toward him, this slow, inevitable collision I could no longer resist.

My voice was low when I finally spoke, steady despite the storm raging inside me.

"You're mine, Blake."

────── 🍎 ──────

[twilightbl]

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

𝒩𝑒𝓌 𝒶𝓇𝓉!

Blake always distracted, Edward always attentive —to him— 🍎

────── 𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𖤍

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

🍎. ׂ 𝃣 ؛ 𝓐𝓬𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 𝓭𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝔂𝓾𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓹 / 𝓸𝓬 𝔁 𝓬𝓬

🍎. ׂ 𝃣 ؛𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 : Twilight

🍎. ׂ 𝃣 ؛𝓜𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓢𝓱𝓲𝓹 : Edward Cullen x Blake Hammer

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

┊ 🥦 𝓦𝓮𝓫𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓬 𝓲𝓷 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼! 🌿

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

[twilightbl]

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

ㅤ※ 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓴𝓮※

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

[twilightbl]

[twilightbl]

🕷Welcome to my ship disaster🕷

This account will be dedicated entirely to my Twilight ship. Edward Cullen x Blake Hammer. Blake is a dumb, innocent boy, and Edward secretly loves him—and wants to eat him—👄

This isn't a self-ship, it's an ocxcanon. Blake was created based on an old fanfic, and I'm still polishing his story. I have plans to make some small animations and drawings, and many other things.

There will be out-of-character characters (not much) and Bella Swan will be respected (she's not eliminated from this fanfic just because she's no longer the romantic interest; that woman is my crush and will have relevance to the plot) 🌿

I'm still polishing the direction of this fanfic-comic, but for now I have the main plot, which I'll publish soon with drawings and an introduction. Don't think this will be a mirror of the original story but with Blake in it. There will be scenes from canon content, but there will be a lot of original content (I CAN'T CALL IT TOTALLY ORIGINAL BECAUSE IT'S A FANFIC, I KNOW 😭😭), but they are non-canon ideas.

This came to me when I found some of my old fanfic writing. I had a bit of nostalgia even though the story was horribly written, so it's time to bring it out into the open (improved, obviously).

If you don't like it, that's fine. I thought it was silly at first and laughed a lot, but I LOVE IT AND WANT TO DRAW IT 🗣🔥🔥🙏🙏

🔥 Long live Twilight and eternal love (and wanting to eat your partner) 🗣🔥

WARNINGS: Obviously, my blog will touch on many topics in the story, including alcohol, drugs, blood, and harassment. If my blog is deleted, you'll know I'm banned.