Wendy was falling.

  But it wasn’t like before.

  The ship, the sky, the world she had known—even the one she had only just discovered—was gone. The storm had swallowed everything, and now there was only fog.

  The mist was not air. Not sky. Not even cloud. It was thicker, heavier, smothering light, sound, and space itself, pressing against her like damp hands. Everything had dissolved into a pale, endless void.

  Wendy held her breath.

  The mist pressed against her lips, curling in damp tendrils around her face, seeking a way in. It wasn’t like holding her breath underwater, or even in open air—this was different. This was like being sealed inside a coffin, where the air wasn’t just thin, it was wrong. The fog pulsed, pressing against her ribs like a second set of lungs, urging her to inhale. It slithered against her skin like a searching hand, pressing into her clothes, her hair, slipping into the hollow space behind her ears.

  She clenched her teeth.

  No.

  It wanted inside her.

  Her lungs burned.

  The fog dragged at her, not just downward but everywhere at once, as if gravity itself had unraveled. She twisted midair, weightless, breathless, helpless, lost in an endless sea of white.

  And the boy’s grip was the only thing keeping her from vanishing completely.

  His fingers burned against her wrist, too warm, too solid, the only real thing in the void. His grip was unshakable, firm in a way that was almost unnatural, as if he had done this a thousand times before—as if he belonged here, and she did not.

  But she could not see him.

  Only his hand.

  The rest of him was lost in the fog.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Her lungs spasmed.

  Her body screamed for air, panic rising sharp and fast.

  She had to breathe.

  She had to.

  No—no, she couldn’t.

  Don’t breathe.

  Her pulse hammered against her skull, hot and frantic, a drumbeat counting down. The burning in her lungs spread, climbing up her throat like a scream she couldn’t let out.

  Her eyes snapped open, wild with panic.

  Her chest caved in, her head swam, her limbs twitched with fading strength.

  She couldn’t do this much longer—

  And then the whisper came.

  Not a voice.

  A suggestion.

  A thought that wasn’t hers.

  Soft as a breath against her ear.

  "Let go."

  Wendy’s vision blurred.

  The fog thickened.

  The air around her grew denser, heavier, pushing in from all sides like invisible hands.

  A presence curled at the edge of her mind, pressing against her thoughts, against her name, against her past.

  "Let go."

  Her fingers twitched against the boy’s hand.

  The edges of her vision darkened, her thoughts turning sluggish, her body demanding oxygen, screaming for relief—

  Her lungs convulsed.

  Her body betrayed her.

  She had to breathe.

  She had to.

  No—no, she couldn’t.

  She—

  Her mouth parted.

  And she inhaled.

  The mist rushed in.

  Cool. Soft. Sweet.

  It slid into her lungs like silk, soothing the raw ache in her chest, unfurling through her ribs like a long-awaited sigh. The pressure in her skull eased. The fire in her limbs dulled.

  Relief crashed over her, so sudden, so overwhelming that for a moment, she could have wept.

  Her body stopped fighting.

  She wasn’t suffocating anymore.

  She was breathing.

  Finally.

  The tension bled from her muscles. The dizzying, crushing panic that had held her in its jaws let go.

  She sank into the feeling, her mind floating on the quiet lull of stillness, a weightless calm wrapping around her like a mother’s hand smoothing back her hair. It was peaceful, like slipping beneath warm water, like curling into soft sheets after a long, sleepless night.

  She exhaled, the fear of suffocation leaving her with the breath.

  And then—

  The whispers turned to screams.

  White-hot needles stabbed through her veins.

  A fireless burn seared beneath her skin, a seething, festering heat that wasn’t just pain—it was invasion. It was something foreign carving through her.

  Her pulse fractured, splintering into erratic rhythms, her body rebelling against itself. The pain was beyond anything she had ever known—deeper than flesh, deeper than bone.

  It was in her mind.

  Tearing, peeling, burrowing.

  Unseen hands clawed into her thoughts, splitting them apart like fragile parchment. They weren’t destroying her.

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  They were rewriting her.

  No—no, stop!

  But she couldn’t stop it.

  Her name. Her past. The shape of who she was—cracking, unraveling. The whispers weren’t just voices anymore.

  They were thoughts.

  Not hers.

  But they were becoming hers.

  She felt them crawling in the spaces between her memories, slithering into the cracks, pressing against her, bending her, shaping her. Not erasing—replacing.

  Don’t let them in. Don’t let them in.

  But she already had.

  She wasn’t being lost.

  She was becoming.

  Her fingers jerked, spasmed—then curled into claws.

  Her teeth throbbed, her jaw aching as they sharpened, lengthened.

  Something inside her shifted—not breaking, but twisting, warping, her bones stretching, her skin crawling like it no longer belonged to her.

  She felt hollow, stretched too thin, her veins burning as something poured through them that wasn’t blood, that wasn’t hers.

  Her lungs thickened, expanding to hold something other than air.

  Her spine twisted, a sickening wetness curling around it like creeping vines.

  Her body convulsed.

  A new hunger bloomed in her gut.

  A deep, crawling ache—a craving that did not belong to her.

  It was bottomless, gnawing at her insides, whispering eat, devour, consume.

  Her stomach clenched violently, a twisting convulsion of need.

  No—NO!

  Her own voice shrieked through her head, but it sounded strange—garbled, warped, something else speaking alongside her.

  She thrashed, kicked, twisted, trying to shake it off, tear it out—

  But how do you tear something from your own blood?

  A choked, ragged scream ripped from her throat—

  Wrong.

  The sound was wrong.

  Something else was inside it. Inside her.

  No, no, no, NO!

  She would not be this.

  She would not become this.

  Her mind fought, clawed, screamed—

  Then—

  Heat.

  Searing. Burning. A brand against her skin.

  The boy’s arm snapped around her waist.

  And he yanked her free.

  Gravity tilted sharply.

  The mist howled, shrieking through her mind, clawing at her, trying to drag her back, to finish what it had started—

  The hunger inside her clawed at her ribcage, screaming for her to give in, to let the fog have her—

  The boy’s grip burned, too hot, too bright, real in a way the mist could never be.

  The fog shuddered around them, raging as it lost its hold.

  They broke through the mist, their bodies snapping free of the choking weight—free-falling toward something solid.

  A jagged island loomed ahead, cliffs rising from the mist like the bones of some ancient beast, their edges cracked and crumbling, as though they had been barely holding themselves together for centuries.

  And Wendy—

  Wendy was already unconscious.

  The first thing Wendy felt was wrong.

  Her body wasn’t hers. Not fully. Something still coiled inside her, slithering through her veins, curling around her bones, whispering in the hollow spaces of her mind. She could taste the mist on her tongue—thick, cloying, the sour rot of stagnant water and the sickly-sweet stench of decay. It coated the inside of her throat, a phantom presence, a lingering infection.

  The second thing she felt was solid ground beneath her.

  Not damp wood. Not the shifting, breathing planks of a living ship. Not the weightless nothingness of the mist.

  Stone.

  Rough. Warm.

  Baked dry despite the storm-churned sky, despite the wet fog still licking at the edges of the island.

  She twitched her fingers against the rock, slow and sluggish, waiting for the sensation to make her real again.

  She was alive.

  Barely.

  Then—

  Her stomach convulsed.

  The pain hit like a knife to the gut, a sick, twisting lurch that sent her body into violent rebellion.

  Wendy lurched forward, her arms buckling beneath her as she heaved, her entire body wracked with spasms. She gagged, throat locking up as something thick and wrong surged up her esophagus, forcing its way out.

  She choked, her lungs seizing, her ribs screaming—

  And then it came.

  Dark.

  Oily.

  It splattered onto the stone in a wet, sickening thud.

  Wendy reeled back in horror.

  It pulsed.

  Veins of silver rippled beneath its slick, black surface, writhing like a thing still half-alive. It twitched, curled in on itself, shriveling with a faint, wet crackle before dissolving into nothing.

  The rock was clean.

  But Wendy wasn’t.

  She gasped, shaking, her body still convulsing, her stomach still twisting in raw, unbearable revulsion.

  That had been inside her.

  She felt a sob rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down, her hands clawing at the ground as she forced herself to retch again—harder, deeper—desperate to rid herself of whatever else might still be there.

  She coughed. Gagged. Heaved.

  Nothing else came out.

  Still, she kept gasping, clawing at her own throat, her nails scraping against her skin as if she could somehow pull the infection out with her bare hands. Her hands shot up to her throat, nails scraping at her skin, pressing against her ribs like she could tear it out with her bare hands.

  It wasn’t enough.

  "Better out than in, Darling."

  The voice was too amused.

  Her head snapped up.

  He was crouched nearby, perched on the jagged rocks like some wild thing, elbows resting on his knees, golden eyes gleaming with something between curiosity and delight.

  A flare of rage burned through her.

  "What—" she gasped, her voice wrecked, raw from choking, breathing, drowning in the mist. "What was that?"

  His grin stretched wider, sharp teeth glinting

  "The mist didn’t want to let you go."

  Wendy shuddered.

  Her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could hold herself together long enough to keep from unraveling.

  She still felt it. Deep inside.

  Curling in her mind.

  Waiting.

  "You’ll feel better soon," he added, stretching lazily, his own body shaking off the last traces of corruption like it was nothing. And maybe it was. For him.

  But Wendy?

  She would never feel clean again.

  Her breath hitched, panic climbing up her throat, her thoughts spiraling in a thousand directions, none of them good.

  John.

  Michael.

  The grotesque ship.

  The attack.

  The fall.

  "Where—" She tried again, her voice sharper, demanding. "Where are we?"

  The boy tilted his head, considering her. "An island."

  "No—" Her pulse spiked, frustration clashing with terror. "Where is this? What the hell is happening?!"

  His golden eyes glittered in the dim light.

  "This," he said, voice lilting with amusement, "is Neverworld."

  Neverworld.

  The name landed heavy in her mind.

  It felt old.

  And it didn’t answer a damn thing.

  Wendy shoved herself up, still trembling, swaying on unsteady legs. "Where are my brothers?"

  He didn’t answer.

  She turned on him fully, her rage overriding her fear. "John and Michael. Where are they?"

  The boy exhaled through his nose, pushing himself up from his crouch. His movements were fluid, lazy, but there was something in his posture—something coiled, something dangerous beneath the ease.

  His smile didn’t falter, but his voice lacked its usual playfulness.

  "Gone."

  Wendy’s stomach plummeted.

  "What do you mean gone? We have to go back! We have to find them!"

  His grin twitched, just slightly. "Why?"

  Wendy’s breath hitched, sharp and ragged, her body shaking with exhaustion and rage. She lunged toward him—whether to grab him, shove him, or claw at his stupid grin, she didn’t know. But before she could, her legs buckled.

  Pan didn’t move to catch her. He just tilted his head, watching.

  "Temper, temper," he said, his teeth flashing.

  "Because they’re my brothers!" she snapped, her voice rising. "Because we don’t just leave people behind!"

  He rolled his eyes, head tilting back in exaggerated boredom. "Ugh, why do mortals always make things so dramatic?"

  Wendy went rigid.

  "Mortals."

  The word wasn’t a joke. Wasn’t thrown in for effect.

  He meant it.

  Something cold crawled down her back, because for the first time, she let herself see him. Really see him.

  The unnatural glow of his eyes. The way he moved—fluid, effortless, untouchable.

  Her breath hitched, but she shoved it aside. Later. Later she would deal with that.

  Right now—John. Michael.

  "Take me back," she ordered, stepping closer, fisting her hands at her sides to keep them from shaking. "You brought me here, so you can get me back."

  The boy raised a brow.

  "Can I?"

  "Yes!"

  He snorted. "I don’t think you understand, Darling. The Jolly Roger isn’t exactly friendly waters. And I already had my fun." He stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders. "They wouldn’t be useful anyway."

  Pan said it so lightly, like it was nothing. Like they were nothing.

  Wendy felt the words strike her chest, hollowing her out. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Then the rage came, hot and blinding.

  "Useful?" she shrieked, voice shaking. "They’re people, not—whatever the hell you think they are!"

  "People who would slow us down," he said, meeting her glare without a hint of remorse. "They’re not like you."

  The way he said it, like she was different, like that meant something, sent another chill through her.

  But she was too angry to unpack it.

  "You selfish, arrogant—" She whirled, scanning the mist-choked edges of the island, heart pounding. "Fine. I don’t need you. I’ll find them myself."

  He sighed, dramatic and theatrical, dragging a hand down his face.

  "Gods, you’re exhausting."

  Wendy ignored him, already moving—

  But then he was in front of her, fast, suddenly, blocking her path with that infuriating, wild grin.

  "Alright, alright," he relented, throwing his hands up. "I get it. You won’t shut up unless we at least try to find them."

  Wendy glared at him.

  She didn’t trust him.

  Not even a little.

  But he was her best chance.

  She exhaled, shoving down her rage, forcing herself to focus.

  "Good," she said.

  The boy tilted his head, then grinned wider.

  "You can call me Pan, by the way."

  The name curled in her mind like smoke, slow, creeping, familiar in a way that sent a chill down her spine.

  Pan.

  A name wrapped in childhood stories, in candlelight and whispers. A name tied to adventure, to mischief, to—

  No, that didn’t make sense.

  But the pieces were there, waiting to click into place.

  The ship. The Captain. The hook. The boy with golden eyes and too-sharp teeth.

  The shape of it was forming in her mind, stretching toward something she wasn’t ready to see—

  The screech split the air, high and jagged, clawing at Wendy’s ribs.

  Her breath snapped short.

  Pan’s grin sharpened.

  "Time to run."

  And before she could ask from what—

  The shadows moved.