Soft warmth wrapped around Wendy like a cocoon, the weight of blankets pressing her into the familiar shape of her bed. The mattress curved beneath her in just the right way, molded over time to her body, the air holding the faint trace of lavender from the sachet tucked inside her pillowcase. The scent of books, old paper, and a whisper of dust clung to the space around her, the same smell that filled the shelves along her walls.


    She drifted, suspended in a syrup-thick haze, the edges of sleep and waking blurred beyond recognition. Exhaustion weighed her down, heavier than it should have been, sinking into her limbs, thick and cloying like honey poured into her veins. Her mind was fogged, slow and uncooperative, thoughts moving like molasses, sluggish and delayed.


    For a moment—a sweet, fleeting moment—she let herself believe she was home.


    A gentle breeze stirred against her cheek, cool and soft, the way it always did when her window was left open a crack. Sunlight stretched across the ceiling, golden and dappled, filtering through sheer curtains, tracing lazy patterns across white plaster walls.


    Yes. Home.


    A deep exhale loosened from her chest, unraveling tension she hadn’t known she was holding.


    Her right eye cracked open, peeling through the sticky weight of sleep. The light was warm, hazy, catching on the tiny dust motes drifting in the air. The ceiling stretched above her, familiar, safe—


    Something was wrong.


    Her left eye wouldn’t open.


    It felt numb, distant.


    She tried to move it, to blink, but there was no sensation, no tether between thought and response. The sluggishness in her limbs deepened into something more solid, more wrong, but she was too tired to question it.


    A slow inhale. A slow exhale.


    The golden light shimmered.


    Flickered.


    It wasn’t moving right.


    It fractured at the edges, sharp where it should have been soft, bending in ways light was never meant to bend. It wasn’t filtering through sheer curtains anymore. It was refracting—gleaming like something caught behind glass.


    Wendy’s breath stalled.


    The ceiling stretched.


    No, elongated.


    The angles warped, curving, twisting, the smooth plaster bubbling into deep grooves of woodgrain. The white drained away like ink swirling in water, bleeding into deep, burnished brown. The corners of the room peeled back, distorting, unfurling like something waking from a long slumber. The straight lines of her walls rippled, bending into arches, stretching outward, unfurling in slow, crawling motion.


    The foot of the bed was too far away.


    The air shifted, and the scent of lavender and books curdled into something else—old parchment, melted wax, the distant bite of sea salt and something metallic, like blood left too long in the air.


    Wendy’s fingers twitched against the sheets.


    The fabric was wrong.


    Not her soft, familiar quilt, but something heavier, thicker, the kind of decadent silk and velvet she had only ever seen in fairy tale illustrations. It pooled around her in strange folds, spilling over the edge of the too-large bed, swallowing her whole.


    She blinked.


    And the new eye rolled unnaturally.


    Vertigo slammed into her like a tidal wave. The world peeled open, as though she were seeing through layers of reality all at once. Everything tilted. The ceiling stretched too far, then too close. The floor warped, the angles bleeding into each other, flickering between what was and what wasn’t. Shadows curled unnaturally in the corners, bending and writhing, alive. Thin silver threads laced through the air, webbing through the walls, the floors, the ceiling, pulsing like veins in the wood.


    Wendy’s breath hitched.


    This was not her room.


    The bed beneath her was massive, too grand, draped in mismatched silks and velvets, colors clashing—deep crimsons, dusky blues, and gold-threaded blacks, each too rich, too heavy, too stolen. A towering canopy loomed overhead, its wooden frame carved with twisting, laughing figures, their faces grinning too wide, their eyes glinting even in the dimness.


    And the light—


    It wasn’t sunlight.


    The glow came from scattered lanterns, hanging at odd angles, their flames an eerie blue-white, flickering in slow, hypnotic pulses. Their glow stretched the shadows across the cavernous room, making them curl and creep, too long, too alive. The space around her was filled with things—gold filigree clocks, piles of books in languages she could not read, an enormous mirror cracked from edge to edge, its surface spiderwebbed with silver fractures that didn’t reflect the room properly.


    A pirate’s cutlass leaned against a gilded throne, one far too large for any human.


    Wendy’s breath stuttered.


    She was not alone.


    The mattress dipped beside her.


    A presence. A weight. A body.


    Pan.


    He lay sprawled on his side, head propped up on one arm, watching her with lazy amusement. His hair was a wild riot of untamed curls, casting shifting shadows over his face, his sharp cheekbones half-lit in the flickering glow. His too-bright eyes watched her unblinking, no longer gold but streaked through with something unnatural, something green and fevered.


    His grin spread slow and sharp, all teeth.


    “Oh, good,” he said cheerfully, voice light, careless. “You’re still you.”


    Wendy’s stomach dropped.


    Her new eye twisted.


    And her vision—her warped, corrupted vision—split the world apart.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Then there was Pan.


    He was seated on the edge of the bed, crouched like a wild thing, his elbows resting on his knees, chin tipped into his palm. The low, flickering lanternlight carved deep shadows across his sharp features, the too-bright gleam of his eyes streaked through with fevered green. He grinned as soon as she looked at him, teeth glinting, but she could see beneath it now—see the golden veins pulsing under his skin, shifting like molten light, see the way his form didn’t quite hold still, as if the space around him struggled to contain him.


    “Oh, good,” he said cheerfully. “You’re still you.”


    Something in Wendy curled at those words.


    She wasn’t sure what she had expected. Some acknowledgment of what he had done. Some hint of apology. But no, of course not. He was Pan. The boy who stole things and never thought twice about what they had cost.


    Her pulse was a slow, dull throb in her skull, the remnants of exhaustion curling around her limbs like a ghost of chains. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, and when she lifted her left hand—her non-dominant hand—up to her face, it felt wrong.


    Not weak.


    Not clumsy.


    Wrong.


    The texture of her own skin was sharper, like she was touching herself through someone else’s nerves.


    She swallowed hard, an ache crawling up her throat, but her new eye pulsed, like a second heartbeat inside her skull.


    A breath shuddered into her lungs, and she sat up too fast.


    The world fractured.


    Her vision split apart, shattering into warped, disjointed angles. She was looking down on herself. From above. From behind. From a reflection that did not exist. Three perspectives at once, tangled, wrong. The sensation of distance, of separation, lanced through her like a hook catching the back of her skull and yanking her out—


    Then everything snapped back into place.


    She reeled—nearly gasped—her stomach lurching as if she had fallen from a great height and hit the ground without ever moving.


    Pan’s hands were on her shoulders before she could sway too far, steadying her—but his touch only made it worse. The room wavered, the flickering lanterns stretched too long in the corners of her vision, their flames rippling unnaturally, their shadows curling toward her like reaching fingers.


    Too much. Too much. Too much.


    “Easy, Darling,” Pan murmured, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, so soft and sweet it stung. “You’re still adjusting.”


    Wendy yanked away from him, curling her fingers into the sheets, grounding herself in the feeling of fabric, of weight, of something real.


    And then, before she had even thought about it, before the words had a chance to filter through her mind, she whispered—


    “I should kill you.”


    The air stilled.


    The words felt alien in her mouth, but they didn’t feel like a lie.


    They felt like a promise.


    Something inside her flexed.


    A shiver of power curled under her skin, stretching outward. The lantern flames flickered and surged, the sheets around her lifted, drifting upward, twisting in slow, unnatural spirals, as if weight had suddenly become optional. Her hair fanned out in defiance of gravity, strands rising like she had been submerged in water, floating.


    And Pan—Pan just laughed.


    A real, delighted, wicked laugh, like she had just told him the funniest joke in the world.


    “Oh, you’re so much fun now.”


    His teeth flashed in the dim light, sharp and glinting. He leaned back, shifting like liquid, sprawling out beside her on the bed, stretching out like a cat. Completely at ease. Completely unafraid.


    Her fingers twitched.


    She wanted to hit him. Or shove him. Or rip something out of him, the way he had done to her.


    The feeling coiled in her gut, a flickering ember waiting to be stoked into something more.


    Wendy moved before she thought.


    She lunged, reaching for Pan, but he was already moving.


    He twisted like a shadow, rolling effortlessly with her momentum, the sheets dragging between them. The weight of fabric and limbs tangled—spun—knotted together until the edge of the bed met them—


    And Wendy fell.


    The world flipped.


    Gravity wrenched her downward, sending her plummeting in a graceless spill. The sheets clung to her like living things, twisting around her limbs, dragging at her as she tumbled off the bed.


    She hit the floor hard.


    The impact slammed through her bones, jarring something deep and aching. The world tilted, the air rushing from her lungs in a sharp, breathless gasp.


    For a moment, she couldn’t move.


    Then—laughter.


    Not hers.


    His.


    Pan never hit the ground.


    He simply floated downward, weightless, as if the concept of falling had never applied to him. He landed effortlessly, the tips of his bare feet touching the wooden floor with barely a sound.


    Wendy groaned, pushing up onto her elbows, her head still spinning.


    The sheets hovered above her, suspended for an impossible moment before gravity remembered them.


    Then they collapsed—


    Falling like a shroud, like closing curtains, like the settling of something she could no longer contain.


    Pan grinned, stepping around her with a slow, predatory ease. His shadow stretched unnaturally long across the floor, flickering at the edges, refusing to settle.


    “Now, now, Darling,” he chided, voice rich with amusement. “Is that any way to thank me?”


    Wendy sucked in a breath, shoving the sheets aside, her pulse pounding—not in fear.


    She did not know what she was feeling.


    Pan crouched in front of her, his golden-green eyes gleaming, watching her like a puzzle he was still piecing together.


    Something moved in the rafters.


    A sound like knives scraping against stone.


    A chittering rasp, a noise almost like crickets, but wrong.


    Wendy froze.


    Above them, the shadows stirred.


    Pan’s gaze flicked upward, his grin stretching wider. “Oh, good. She’s here.”


    Something dropped from the ceiling.


    A dark blur shot toward Wendy, moving too fast, too smooth—


    Then pain.


    A sharp yank at her hair.


    Wendy gasped, jerking backward as something thin and impossibly strong wove its fingers into her hair, pulling her down into the twisted sheets.


    She thrashed, fighting the fabric, but it was too heavy, pressing around her like tangled vines.


    Then—a gleam of silver.


    A flash of something bladed.


    The sheets tightened—


    Wendy lashed out, kicking wildly, her foot colliding with something small and fast.


    A high-pitched chittering sound erupted as the thing was flung back, spinning through the air in a blur of silver and black.


    It caught itself on the bedpost, wings flaring wide—


    Not wings.


    Blades.


    Wendy stared.


    The creature clung to the carved post, head tilted at an unnatural angle, its liquid-black eyes locked onto her.


    It was small, no larger than a squirrel, with delicate limbs too thin to be human. Its translucent wings shuddered—not feathered, not insectile, but razor-sharp silver, each movement slicing through the air with a whispering hiss.


    Its mouth stretched wide, revealing needle-thin gold teeth, glinting like sewing needles in the dim light.


    Wendy didn’t move.


    Neither did it.


    Then, with a sudden crack of its wings snapping open, the creature launched itself at her again.


    Pan burst into laughter.


    That wild, delighted sound, full of wicked amusement, like this was the best thing he had ever seen.


    Wendy braced herself—


    But the creature didn’t attack this time.


    Instead, it swooped low, yanking another sheet as it passed, pulling the heavy fabric over Wendy’s arms, trying to cocoon her in it.


    Wendy shrieked, wrestling against the blankets, kicking, grappling—


    Pan laughed harder.


    The creature looped around her again, tightening the sheets, dragging the heavy fabric up over her head like a burial shroud—


    Wendy ripped free.


    She threw herself forward, the last of the sheets falling away, her breath ragged, her pulse hammering.


    The creature flitted up into the air, circling once before landing lightly on Pan’s shoulder, wings folding like delicate knives.


    Pan reached up, scratching idly beneath its chin with one finger. “Oh, Wendy,” he purred, watching her struggle free of the last of the blankets, “meet Tinker.”


    The creature chittered, those sharp, golden teeth flashing in something that was not quite a smile.


    Wendy was still panting. Still shaking.


    Pan only smirked.


    And Tinker—Tinker just watched her, unblinking.


    Pan sat up properly, clapping his hands together. “Wendy, meet Tink.”


    Wendy was frozen.


    Tinker tilted her head, the knives of her wings scraping against each other, sending a ripple of sound through the air—a noise Wendy did not understand.


    But Pan did.


    He laughed again, shaking his head. “Don’t be rude, Tink. She’s still fragile.”


    Wendy snapped out of it.


    “What the hell is that?” she demanded.


    Tinker’s black eyes flicked to her.


    The silver wings rasped together again—not quite a hiss, not quite a song.


    Pan sighed.


    “She doesn’t like you,” he said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.


    Wendy’s hands clenched into fists. “The feeling is mutual.”


    Tinker’s wings flared, slicing the air, her needle-teeth clicking.


    Pan snickered. “Careful, Darling. She bites.”


    Wendy had never wanted to punch Pan more than she did in that moment.


    But there was no time for this.


    She shoved back the fear, the frustration, the wrongness crawling under her skin.


    She stood up, forcing her legs to steady beneath her.


    “We need to go,” she said. “We don’t have time for your games.”


    Pan watched her, his golden-green eyes flickering with something she couldn’t name.


    Then, after a long, too-knowing smile—


    He rose to his feet.


    “Then let’s go find your brothers.”


    And so, the hunt began.