Cayro Bracton
October 18, 2025
15:07 EST
The Bracton House, Hampton, VA
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Walking through the front door of my grandparents’ house, I made my way straight up to my room. The girls were still out shopping, giving me some space, but I wasn’t sure if I even deserved it. Today had been rough. Hell, the last few days had been a constant struggle.
I wasn’t ready to go back to work, but my grandfather had insisted I at least try. He meant well, but we both knew I wasn’t ready. After my reaction at the shop, we left early. The ride home had been silent—the kind of silence that sits heavy, pressing down on you. Granddad didn’t seem angry, but I knew he wasn’t happy either. How could he be? I could barely face him, or Star, or even myself after what I’d done.
When Star told me I’d killed during the Death Reckoning, I’d managed to disassociate from it. It didn’t feel real. I couldn’t remember it. But this time? This time I remembered everything. Every. Single. Detail.
That night at the SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation... I’d killed no less than ten people. And I could recall each one—vividly. It felt like my soul had shattered into pieces, splintered beyond repair. I didn’t know who I was anymore. For days, I’d cried for the lives I’d taken. I cried for what I’d lost in myself. My grandparents had raised me to respect life, to cherish it. Hurting or killing another person? That was wrong. That was the foundation of everything they taught me.
And yet, I’d done exactly the opposite. Worse, I had enjoyed it.
That was the part I couldn’t wrap my head around—the worst part of it all. In the heat of those moments, I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t second-guess myself. I felt a twisted thrill, elation even, as I watched those men die. And now, sitting in this house, the weight of it crushed me. I didn’t understand how I could’ve felt that way. I didn’t understand who I was anymore.
“Cayro? Can you come downstairs, please?” My grandfather’s voice called up from the base of the stairs, cutting through my thoughts.
I took a deep breath, pushing down the rising tide of emotion, and stood. I had no choice but to go face him. Again. When I got downstairs, I found him in his office, sitting at his desk. A dark wooden box, about the size of a shoebox, sat open in front of him. He wasn’t looking at me—his gaze was fixed inside the box, but I couldn’t see what was inside.
I approached quietly, stopping just in front of the desk. My eyes fell on the box’s contents, a royal blue velvet cloth draped over whatever was inside.
“Yes, sir?” I said, my voice flat and emotionless—an unfortunate new normal since waking up at SkyTeam.
“Take a seat, Cayro,” my grandfather said, his voice as steady as ever.
I sat down, folding my hands in my lap, my eyes drifting to the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. The shame was too much.
“Has Star talked to you about what you’re going through?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
“Yes,” I replied, staring down at the rug beneath my feet. “She said I’m experiencing post-traumatic stress from what happened at SkyTeam.”
“That’s true,” he said, folding the velvet cloth over the box’s contents, still not looking at me. “But it’s not just PTSD.”
His words caught me off guard. I lifted my head, frowning as I met his gaze for the first time. “Then what is it?” I asked, my voice a little sharper than intended.
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before his eyes met mine. The weight in them, the seriousness—it sent a chill through me. What he said next rocked me to my core.
“You’re experiencing a mental collapse of your moral psyche,” he said, each word deliberate. “You’ve done something you were raised to believe was very wrong. But no one is telling you what you did was wrong. You know, deep down, that it goes against everything you were taught. Now you’re fighting an internal war, struggling to reconcile that.”
I stared at him, my jaw slack, the words sinking in slowly. He’d just hit the nail square on the head. I’d felt it, but I hadn’t been able to name it until now. My soul was tearing itself apart, and I was left wondering if there was anything left worth saving.
“Judging by the look on your face, I take it I’m right about how you’re feeling,” my grandfather said, his eyes still steady on me.
I closed my mouth and gave a small nod, my gaze dropping back to the floor.
“The question you need to ask yourself is this,” he continued, his voice calm but firm. “Can you live with what you’ve done, or will you let it destroy you?”
I swallowed hard, my thoughts swirling in chaos. “I don’t know, Grandpa. Everything that happened, everything I did... it haunts me. I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel,” I admitted, my voice strained.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Then let’s break it down, step by step, starting with what actually took place.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, bracing myself.
“Did you provoke them? Did you attack or harm anyone first?” he asked, his tone patient.
“No,” I replied, shaking my head.
“Did you ask to be attacked?”
“No,” I said again.
“Were you or anyone at SkyTeam doing anything to harm others or endanger the public?”
“No,” I repeated, the word falling from my lips like a reflex.
“So, this group attacked you and everyone else at SkyTeam without provocation. They killed several people, and they tried to harm or kill both you and Star.” His voice was blunt now, laying out the facts. “Neither you nor anyone else at SkyTeam was doing anything to warrant that.”
“Yes,” I answered, the weight of the truth settling over me.
“Cayro,” my grandfather said, leaning forward slightly, “what you faced was what we call in my profession an act of war. You and Star made the decision to stay and defend those who couldn’t defend themselves. The men who attacked made their choice—a choice to act immorally. What you did may feel wrong, but you chose to protect the innocent. That’s something to remember.”
I stayed quiet as he paused, letting his words sink in.
“I want you to think about two things,” he continued. “First: evil prevails when good men do nothing to stop it. Second: sometimes, a good man has to become a monster to stop the monsters that evil sends. The challenge is learning how to balance being a monster and being a good man.”
I sat there, absorbing everything he’d said. In a twisted way, it all made sense. But the problem—the one I couldn’t ignore—was the way I felt that night. My emotions drove me in a way that conflicted with everything he was explaining.
Finally, I looked up at him. “Grandpa, I think the issue I’m struggling with is my moral identity versus the emotions I felt during the fight.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
I took a deep breath, steeling myself to just tell him the truth. “I... I enjoyed it. Killing them. It was exhilarating, powerful. It felt right to take their lives,” I confessed, my voice steady but laced with the horror of my own admission.
He didn’t look away. He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he nodded, a small grin creeping onto his face. The sight of it threw me off completely.
“Did you see them as prey?” he asked.
I blinked, confused by the question. “Yes,” I replied slowly.
“Good,” he said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “That means you instinctively correlate your enemies as prey. You’ve been genetically altered with werewolf DNA, Cayro. That DNA brings with it certain traits. You saw those men as prey, and you were the hunter. The exhilaration you felt? That was your predatory instinct kicking in. You took pleasure in the hunt and in the kill because that’s part of the werewolf’s nature.”
The look I gave him could only be described as a mixture of shock and disbelief. I had no words. I couldn’t believe what he was saying.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Cayro,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Dogs enjoy hunting, don’t they?”
“Yeah...?” I answered, still unsure where he was going with this.
“And you have werewolf DNA in you, correct?” he asked, a smirk creeping onto his face.
“Yes,” I said cautiously.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“So, if dogs—wolves’ distant cousins—enjoy hunting, that means wolves enjoy it too. Werewolves are a variant of wolves. It’s in the damn name,” he said, clearly waiting for me to catch up.
Then it clicked. The proverbial light bulb went off, and I finally pieced together what he was trying to say.
“So, I took pleasure in killing them because I was enjoying the hunt... because of my werewolf DNA,” I said slowly, the realization settling in.
“Ding ding ding, we have a winner!” he announced loudly, grinning.
I shot him an incredulous glare. “You didn’t have to be an ass about it.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Animals don’t have morals the way humans do, Cayro. They act based on instinct and environment. They don’t have the luxury of questioning right and wrong before they act. Now, I’m not a werewolf, so I can’t tell you if they always behave human or if they act more animalistic. My best guess? They’re somewhere in the middle.”
It all started to make sense now. My human morals were clashing with the predatory instincts from my werewolf traits. I leaned back in the chair, letting my mind process everything my grandfather had said. It wasn’t an easy truth to swallow, but it was a truth nonetheless. It would take time to come to terms with, but at least now, I had something to work with. I stood up, ready to leave, when my grandfather stopped me.
“Cayro,” he said, his voice softer now, “I want you to have this.”
He turned the box around, revealing its contents. Inside was a custom M1911 .45 ACP pistol, resting in a velvet-lined case, alongside two loaded magazines. Both the pistol and magazines fit perfectly in their spots, as though they’d been waiting for this moment. Below the grip of the pistol, nestled in the velvet, were two rings. One was a simple silver wedding band. The other, also silver, was inlaid with several small stones around the top.
I arched an eyebrow, glancing up at him. “What’s this?”
He met my gaze, the weight of years behind his eyes. “This is my retirement pistol from the Air Force. And those are your parents’ wedding rings. I held onto them after your mother passed. Your father… he couldn’t bring himself to wear his anymore.” He paused, letting the gravity of the moment sink in. “You know where I keep the ammo. There are five boxes of .45 ACP that go with the pistol. They’re yours now. I’ve trained you how to use it—make good use of it, okay?”
I swallowed, the air suddenly feeling heavier. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice softer than I expected.
“Yes,” he replied, his tone steady. “Happy early birthday, Cayro.”
I didn’t know what to say. The weight of the gift—and what it represented—settled on me like a cloak. All I could manage was a soft, “Thank you, Grandpa.” I closed the box gently and picked it up, careful with the contents as though they might break under the weight of their meaning.
Carrying it up to my room, I placed it on my dresser. I cracked the lid open again, staring at the pistol inside. It was a five-inch government-standard barrel, the upper slide polished steel, gleaming even in the dim light. The muzzle had been modified with reliefs, giving it a more aggressive, intimidating look. The lower receiver was anodized black with dark wood grips, perfectly crafted. It was a beautiful weapon, no doubt about it. But my attention shifted to the rings lying next to the pistol on the blue velvet.
A part of me wanted to pick them up—feel the connection to my parents. Another part screamed at me to leave them alone, as if touching them would unearth memories I wasn’t ready to face.
Before I could decide, the sound of the front door opening and voices drifting up from downstairs pulled me out of my thoughts. The girls must’ve gotten back from their shopping trip. I closed the lid and headed downstairs to meet them.
When I got to the living room, I found the three women standing near the door, their arms loaded with bags. My grandfather stood at the entrance to his office, watching them with a mix of curiosity and amusement. I followed him into the room as they made their way toward the living room.
“Lyra, can you take these three bags up to my room and place them on my bed?” my grandmother asked, handing her the bags.
“Yes, Luna Bracton,” Lyra said with a cheerful smile.
I raised an eyebrow at Star, mouthing the words, “Luna Bracton?”
Star just gave me a playful smirk and a wink. Oh no... there was definitely a story behind that. I made my way over to her as she continued pulling clothes out of the bags and neatly laying them on the couch.
“How much did you spend?” my grandfather asked my grandmother, sounding both amused and slightly concerned.
“None. Star paid for everything and even took us all out to lunch,” she replied with a smile.
I leaned in close to Star and whispered in her ear, “I thought we couldn’t access our funds.”
She turned slightly toward me, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “We can’t,” she whispered back softly, her tone carrying just a hint of mischief.
“Then whose money did you spend?” I asked, a mix of suspicion and curiosity in my voice.
“Oh, we spent yours,” my grandmother announced casually, as if it were no big deal.
I bolted upright, glaring at her. Star stood from the pile of bags and slid my black debit card out of her back pocket, handing it over with an innocent smile. I took it, sliding the card into my pocket, but my gaze stayed locked on my grandmother.
“How much did you guys spend?” I demanded, bracing myself for the answer.
“Eh... a little over two grand,” she replied, completely nonchalant.
I choked—on air. I didn’t even know that was possible, but somehow, I did it. “TWO GRAND?!” I exclaimed, my voice pitching higher than I’d intended.
“Oh, calm down. It’s not like you’re broke, Cayro,” she said, waving me off like it was nothing.
“We don’t have access to our funds from the Autumn. We need to be mindful of how much of my twenty-five thousand we spend,” I shot back, trying to rein in my panic.
She gave me a calm, almost amused look. “Honey, you have close to three-quarters of a million dollars to your name.”
I froze, blinking in disbelief. “Huh?” was all I could manage. My brain couldn’t process the number she’d just thrown at me.
“Cayro,” she said patiently, “your grandfather and I set up a trust fund for you after your mother died. We insisted that your father put her death benefits into it after her funeral costs were covered. When he passed, we did the same thing with his benefits. Over the years, the trust earned dividends, and we also funneled part of your paycheck into it. Plus, you’ve been putting money aside in your own savings account. You’re not exactly hurting for cash.”
“Oh...” I muttered, the reality of my financial situation settling over me. I shut my mouth with a click.
“Now,” my grandmother continued, clearly unfazed by my mental breakdown, “help Star carry her stuff up to your room.”
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Together, Star and I hauled her new clothes up to my room. I made room in my closet and helped her hang up a few dresses and some shirts. Most of what she bought was similar to what she’d worn aboard the Autumn, functional but stylish. As we worked, we didn’t say much, but there was a comfortable silence between us. It felt... nice.
“How are you feeling?” she asked after a while, her voice calm and soothing.
“I’m doing a little better,” I replied, pausing to glance at her. Her presence was always a calming force, and I felt more grounded just being near her.
“That’s good. You had me worried today at the shop,” she said, her tone gentle but tinged with concern.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sighing softly. “I wasn’t ready to be teased about having a girlfriend. It pushed me over the edge.”
She smiled softly. “That’s understandable, and it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her words wrapped around me like a warm blanket, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I pulled her into my arms, holding her close as we stood in the middle of the room. If it hadn’t been for her, I wasn’t sure how I’d be holding up right now. She was my anchor, the rock I needed.
I pulled back slightly, meeting her beautiful eyes. “I love you, Star. Thank you for being there for me.”
Her smile was radiant, the kind that lit up her entire face. “I love you too, Cayro. That’s what we do for each other. We look out for one another.”
I leaned my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling as we stood there in the quiet.
“Thank you for getting that bolt out for me. Rick was pretty impressed,” I said with a grin, injecting a little levity into the moment.
She chuckled softly. “It was easy. A little patience and elbow grease can go a long way.”
I grinned wider, holding her close again. As we stood there, I could feel her presence—gentle but insistent—probing at the edges of my mind. She’d found the crack in my mental barrier earlier at the shop, and now she was pushing at it again.
This time, instead of resisting, I made the conscious choice to open the crack a little wider, letting her in. I felt her presence slip in, wrapping itself around mine like a warm embrace.
Inside my mind, everything was still a mess—shattered fragments of emotions and memories, swirling in the chaos that had become my internal world. I had shut her out, building this barrier to protect her from the wreckage inside me, but now I let her in.
Her presence moved carefully, almost cautiously, as if examining the broken pieces of my soul. Slowly, she made her way to the core of my being and wrapped herself around it, bringing with her a warmth that spread through me. Her presence shuffled through the shattered areas of my mind, replaying different memories.
But when she reached the memories of that night—the night at SkyTeam—I instinctively raised a mental barrier around them, blocking her from seeing.
I wasn’t ready for her to see what I had done—not yet. Star’s presence paused at the barrier I had thrown up around that memory, almost as if she was pondering it. I felt her tap against it gently, like a soft pat on the head, before moving on. It was clear she wasn’t after those memories, not now. She continued to move through my mind, picking through different memories, observing them quietly.
When she came across the conversation I’d had with my grandfather earlier, she paused again, watching as the memory played out. When it ended, I felt a warm pulse of happiness flow through me. It was a comforting feeling, as though she agreed with what my grandfather had said.
She moved on, sifting through more fragments, until one particular memory surfaced. I was four years old, sitting at the very same kitchen table that still stood in my grandparents’ house. I was munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a juice box sitting next to my plate.
Suddenly, the back door flew open, and a young girl came bursting in, her voice full of excitement.
“Cayro! Cayro! Look what I caught in the garden!” she exclaimed, holding her hands up toward me.
I looked down and saw a large toad resting in her dirt-covered hands, its body still as it breathed slowly, staring up at me with wide eyes.
“Is that a toad, Tabatha?” I asked, equally excited, my voice high and young.
“Yeah! I’m gonna ask Nama if I can keep him!” she declared, her face beaming with pride.
“Yeah, we should! Maybe Paw Paw will let us keep him in the garage,” I replied, eager at the idea.
“What should we name him, Cayro?” she asked, looking up at me with wide eyes.
It was in that moment, as I stared into her bright amethyst eyes, that I recognized her. There was no mistaking who she was. That little girl—Tabatha—was Star.
Before I could react, I felt Star’s presence rip out of my mind, leaving a cold emptiness in its place. The warmth she brought with her was suddenly gone, and I opened my eyes to find her still in my grasp. But her entire body was trembling.
She was staring down at the floor, and I saw massive tears rolling down her cheeks, one after the other. Then, she let out a deep, heartbreaking sob, and more tears followed.
“Star?” I asked softly, my voice laced with concern. But she didn’t respond.
Gently, I lifted her chin, wanting—needing—to see her face. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, had dulled to an almost chocolate brown, a shade I’d never seen before. Panic rose in my chest at the sight of her like that.
“Star, what’s wrong?” I asked, my tone more serious now, urgency creeping in.
She sobbed again, her voice broken as she finally spoke. “Why can’t I remember you, Cayro?” she cried, her hands coming up to cup her face as more sobs racked her body.
I guided her over to the bed, helping her sit down as she crumbled under the weight of whatever was haunting her. Her words echoed in my head—why can’t I remember you—and I realized that the memory we shared, the one from our childhood, had shaken something loose in her. Something she couldn’t understand or grasp.
Sitting beside her, I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close as she buried her face in her hands. My mind raced, but I didn’t have any answers either. All I could do was hold her as she cried, the weight of the lost memories between us hanging like a heavy fog.