Genesis

Life at Solus Institute? It could've been a good one, sure. That is, if you were born there, if the sterile, regulated halls were all you’d ever known. But for me? Yeah, that’s where it got a little iffy. My life before Solus was a real one, a good one. Heck, a great one. I had a mom, a whole crew of friends, and yeah, even love. The kind of messy, complicated, wonderful love that doesn’t always fit into neat little boxes. Solus Institute was just a fancy way of saying "orphanage for supernatural kids." A home for children who lost all family, who were just alone in the world. It’s got that official, clinical vibe, you know?

Every morning, the same routine. A disembodied voice crackles through the intercom at 6 AM sharp, dragging us from whatever fragile dreams we managed to cling to. Make our beds, shower, get dressed. Precision is key. By 6:45 AM, we’re lined up for inspection, uniforms crisp, hair neatly combed. A watchful eye scans for any deviation, any rumple in the fabric of conformity. Breakfast at 7 AM, a bland, nutritious affair in a cavernous dining hall. Classes start at 8 AM, a relentless march of lectures and practicals that stretch until 3 PM. Then, a precious one-hour free time to socialize – or, in my case, to try and disappear into the library. After that, it’s back to our rooms. Just to get ready for dinner at 6 PM, another quiet, supervised meal. And then, the final bell: lights out at 8 PM.

It’s all very structured, all very strict. You could set your watch by the schedule, and God help you if you dared to miss a beat. The Watchers, omnipresent figures in their dark, unmarked uniforms, never miss an infraction. Any deviation, no matter how small, is punishable by means of the White Room. I’ve never been there, not personally. But the kids who do go in? They come back… different. Like someone sucked the color right out of them. Their eyes are vacant, dull, never smiling or laughing again. And they never, ever break the rules. It’s enough to make you walk the line, believe me.

It’s so different from the life I had before the Patefaction, the big reveal. But hey, it’s still a life, right? The Patefaction. You might know it as the day supernaturals stopped hiding in the shadows and stepped out into the blinding light of the human world. They say there are three main factions, the ones that made themselves known. Humans, being humans, suspect there are many more who decided to stay hidden. And they’d be absolutely correct. But that’s a story for another time. Let's stick to the big three for now.

First up, the Ragana, or witches. More or less human, I guess, but with a serious upgrade. While regular humans can only harness a tiny, almost negligible amount of magic—like trying to fill a bathtub with an eyedropper—magic in witches is powerful. It’s rooted deep into their very being, humming beneath their skin. Witches are able to harness power from the elements: fire, water, earth, air. And a select few? They can tap into something much darker, the element of shadow. It's the kind of power that makes your skin prickle just thinking about it.

Then there are the Upir, or vampires. Honestly, they don’t really need an introduction now, do they? Pop culture pretty much nailed most of it. Except for a couple of crucial details: they don't actually burn in the sun. That’s a load of garbage, probably made up by some panicked human trying to figure out how to kill them. Everything else, the super speed, strength, heightened senses, the whole eternal life thing? Pretty much true. Oh, and the blood consumption. It's not the daily, frantic need you see in movies. It’s not needed as often as books and movies make it seem, just often enough to keep their senses sharp, their powers potent, and to, you know, not get hangry.

Same goes for the Vlokodlak, also known as werewolves. The biggest myth about them? That they need a full moon to change. Nope. A full moon might amplify their power, make the shift a little easier, but it's not a hard requirement. They can change whenever they want, though it takes a lot of energy and control. And here’s another big myth about both Upir and Vlokodlak: you can’t make them. They’re not contagious, you don’t get bitten and suddenly sprout fangs or fur. Vampires and werewolves are born, end of story.

Now, here’s where things get complicated, and where my own story really begins. A vampire or a werewolf can mate with a human. The offspring? They’ll become a vamp or a were 99% of the time. That other 1%? They remain stubbornly, frustratingly human. Then there’s the Hibridni, or hybrid. That’s what you get when a vampire or a werewolf mates with a witch. The result is pretty rare: a vampire or werewolf with magical abilities. They get the best—or worst, depending on your perspective—of both worlds. It was always understood that a vampire and a werewolf could never produce offspring with each other. It was biologically impossible, a fundamental truth of the supernatural world.

Until me, that is.

I’m what my mother used to refer to as a tribrid. That’s it. No fancy origin word, no ancient prophecy. Just… tribrid. Because I’m the first of my kind. See, while the humans were just figuring out that their next-door neighbor might actually sparkle or howl at the moon, I had known about the supernatural world my entire life. It was just… normal. My mother was a hybrid vamp, born with witch abilities, which already made her pretty unique. But then she went and did the unthinkable: she fell in love with a wolf. Not just any wolf, but a pure-blood werewolf. A walking, talking contradiction to everything the supernatural world knew.

So what did she do? She ran off with him, leaving her family, her structured life, her whole world behind. Pure, unadulterated passion, right? A year later, reality came crashing down. My father’s pack, a fierce, territorial lot, located them. They dragged him back home, kicking and screaming the whole way, literally. According to my mom, they threatened that if he even so much as tried to contact her again, they’d find her and kill her. And my father, for all his wildness, was no fool. He stayed away. Two months later, my mom found out she was pregnant with me.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to exist. I was the anomaly, the impossibility. So, for the first ten years of my life, my mother hid me. Not just my dual nature, but my existence itself. She taught me how to hide what I am from everyone around me, from the subtle shift in my scent to the flicker of power in my eyes. We didn’t know what would happen if I was ever found out, and she wasn't taking any chances.

Then, six years ago, I lost her. Like, literally lost her. Vanished. It started like any other day. She woke me up, made me my favorite breakfast, and dropped me off at school with a kiss on the forehead. The next thing I knew, chaos was everywhere. The emergency broadcast system, usually reserved for hurricanes, blared through every TV and radio, revealing the existence of the supernatural world.

Humans were scared, no doubt about it. But that fear quickly curdled into something far more dangerous. They started attacking anyone they thought might be a supernatural creature. Innocent humans, caught in the crossfire, lost their lives in a wave of panicked violence. What these frantic humans didn’t understand was that we had been living among them for centuries, undetected. Why on earth would they think they could identify one so easily?

As a result, school was dismissed early. Parents were rushing to get their kids, to keep them safe. I stood out front of the school for hours, the hot pavement baking beneath my shoes, the afternoon sun beating down, waiting for my mom to show up. But she never did. The crowds thinned, the last stragglers left, and still, I waited. When the principal finally discovered me, a solitary figure abandoned on school property, she called the police. They searched for weeks, for any sign of my mom, any explanation. No progress. Eventually, it was decided I’d be put into foster care. It was there, desperate and scared, that I confessed I was a hybrid. That confession, born of necessity, is what got me a position at the Solus Institute. A gilded cage, if you ask me.

It’s been six years since the Patefaction, and things have calmed down some. Humans and "supes" live side-by-side, sort of, in a fragile harmony. But things also changed fundamentally. A new leadership, called the Councillium, now delegates everything. It's made up of a representative from each of the four main factions – witches, vampires, werewolves, and even a human. Places like the Institute were created not only to care for parentless children like me but also to teach us what we needed to know for our seventeenth year. When we turn seventeen, we’d be shipped off to one of the Academies, elite institutions where we would learn to control our powers. So far, I’ve managed to get them believing I’m only a hybrid – a vamp-witch. But they're sure to find out about my werewolf side once I hit seventeen and change for the first time. Can you imagine? With all those eyes on me?

My mom and I had a plan, a whole strategy worked out. We would endure the change at home, just the two of us. After my first shift, after I understood and could control it, then I’d go to the Academy. She was even going to make me a special potion, something I'd take everyday to mask my scent, to hide the wolf. We’d be fine, she promised. Now? Now she isn’t here. And I’m three months away from my birthday, with absolutely no clue what to do.