Here's a tight, atmospheric translation and edit, in the style of urban fantasy with a sense of real threat and intimate mother-daughter tension. If you want it even denser or leaner, let me know which section!
Twilight thickens in the room, the streetlights casting striped shadows across the walls. I sit, listening to the ticking clock, feeling something inside me go still—not fear, not anger, but a strange waiting, like something important is about to happen.
The phone vibrates again on the table—short, sharp. I don't want to look, but I do anyway.
The screen glows with dozens of new messages. Some are blank avatars, strange usernames, some just numbers.
"You can't hide behind glass,"
"We saw you running,"
"You don't understand what you mean to us,"
"This isn't a threat. It's just truth."
"Choose. Or you'll be chosen."
I read them—each word falls like a stone, short, emotionless, charged with a foreign authority that raises goosebumps on my skin.
Mom notices my face, leans closer.
– Is it that bad?
I nod, unable to explain what it's like, feeling the whole city watch you—even if no one's at the windows.
– They won't let you go, – Mom says, almost soundless. – You get that, right? This won't stop until…
She trails off, just watching me—and for the first time today, I see more than worry in her eyes. Fear mixed with a hard edge of resolve.
I squeeze the phone in my hand. My fingers are cold, as if that old moon-rhythm is still humming under my skin, begging me to run, just not stay.
– Maybe we should leave? – I whisper. – Just disappear, like everyone else.
Mom shakes her head.
– You can't. It doesn't work like that. If not these people, others will find you.
She takes my hand—warm and strong, trying to lend me some of her strength.
The room is nearly dark now. Only the phone screen lights her face, my trembling fingers. Outside, the city sinks into night: headlights on empty streets, open windows with laughter, music turned up too loud. Everything familiar suddenly feels strange.
– Don't sleep by the window, – Mom whispers, pulling the curtain. – And… keep this with you, – she hands me an old pendant on a leather cord. I always thought it was a fairground souvenir, but now the chain feels unusually heavy.
– Will it help?
– I don't know, – Mom admits. – But it always made me feel a bit safer.
I slip on the amulet. The cold metal rests on my collarbone. I don't really believe a trinket can protect me from five men and their strange allies—but for a moment, I feel steadier.
Mom makes tea, moving around the kitchen quietly, almost invisible—like we're both afraid to draw attention, as if even the walls might be listening.
Another burst of messages lights up my phone:
"Open the window."
"Talk to us."
"We're close."
Some are just fragments, almost random:
"Don't be afraid."
"Make a choice."
"Your home isn't safe anymore."
I mute the phone, but the screen keeps blinking. My heart thuds. My head pounds with anxious static. I try to make a plan, but it all narrows down to one thing: wait and see what comes next.
Mom sits across from me, takes my hands in hers.
– We can go if you want, – she says softly, but I know: leaving means starting the same chase again, just somewhere else, the same tension in my spine.
– No, – I whisper. – I don't want to.
Moonlight sneaks in through the window, sharp and white, as if someone's watching from the street.
Then—the doorbell rings. Once, loud and insistent.
We freeze.
My phone flashes with one last message:
"It's us."
Mom rises first, motions for me to stay in the kitchen. I grip my mug so tight my knuckles go white. I hear her footsteps—steady, even a bit slower than usual—as she walks to the door.
Muffled voices in the hall, a tense shuffle, someone whispering, none of them daring to be the first to cross the threshold.
Adrian's voice, calm and measured:
– Mrs. Carter, we don't want trouble. We just want to talk.
Mom opens the door just enough to see them, but not let anyone in.
– I know who you are, – she says, voice firm, almost routine—like someone who's done this before. – And you know the law is on my side here.
Silence. Then Julian, impatient, snaps:
– This isn't your fight.
– Anything that happens to my daughter is my fight, – Mom replies, steady as a stone. – You came to her, not the other way around.
She leans in, and for the first time, I hear real ice in her tone:
– If you cross this threshold without her will, the Council will know. And not just the Council.
Silence, thicker now. I can feel the tension rolling across the floor.
– We don't want conflict, – Adrian says carefully, his voice softer. – But you know why she matters. To all of us.
Mom meets his eyes, unblinking.
– I know more than you think. Which is why I'm telling you: no one steps inside unless she comes out by her own choice.
– The Council won't protect you forever, – someone else warns—maybe the older man in the suit, deep and humming.
– Long enough for you to reconsider, – Mom smiles coldly.
I stand in the kitchen doorway, holding my breath, hearing all five of them shifting in the hall.
– Liza's an adult, – Mom says. – If she wants to talk, she'll come out herself.
The words settle like a spell.
A long pause. Someone curses, someone texts.
Finally, Adrian gives a short nod—forced, accepting the terms.
– Tell her… don't waste her time.
The door shuts quietly.
Mom turns back to me—not shaking, not afraid, just with shoulders a little lower.
– You're safe till dawn, – she says. – The rest is up to you.
And outside—the night, long and watchful, the city full of people who don't know how to let go.
—
Morning comes unexpectedly quiet, as if the night left no trace. Mom insists I don't open the door unless there's a clear sign it's safe. But the city keeps moving, and I still have to go out—otherwise, the suspicion just grows.
I pick a route through the park, where the morning's full of dog-walkers and old men with newspapers, where the air smells of dew and hot bread. I want to dissolve into an ordinary day, just another person, not the last wolf-girl being hunted.
On the path between the trees, I spot a familiar figure—a tall guy in a dark overcoat, shirt collar open, eyes calm but stormy underneath.
Adrian leans against the railing, like he just happened to cross my path. Nothing about it is an accident.
He meets my gaze, nods slightly.
– Morning, Liza, – his voice is soft, almost gentle, as if last night's scene never happened.
I walk past, trying to look indifferent.
– No need to run, – he says, not loud but there's command in it. – I'm not here to hurt you.
I pause, just a moment.
– You all say that, – I throw back over my shoulder.
– I'm here alone, – he continues calmly. – Give me two minutes—not for the pack, for yourself.
I stop, fidget with the strap on my wrist.
Adrian steps closer, still keeping a respectful distance.
– You don't have to be afraid of me, – he says. – I don't want to control you. I want to see what you'll choose.
– You say that like I have a choice, – I say, not bothering to hide my exhaustion.
He gives a small, crooked smile.
– You have more choices than you think. No one wants you to realize that.
He just stands there, no rush, no pressure. In his manner, there's weariness—and a resolve you can't fake, not even in the sharpest suit.
– When this started, I was a lot like you, – he says suddenly, like he's confessing something old. – I didn't choose who I was. I just ended up in the wrong place at the right time.
He glances down the path, where someone walks a spaniel.
– But I figured out: sometimes, the choice isn't "run or stay," but who you want to be—for yourself. Not for the pack.
He takes out a small note, hands it to me carefully, not quite touching.
– If you ever need it—here's an address. No pressure. Just… if you need help.
I take it, squeeze it in my hand without reading.
– Thanks, – I murmur, and he walks away, melting into the sunlight between the trees.
That day, I try to forget the wolf part—go to the store, buy bread, ice cream, take the long way home. But on the corner, I spot another.
Lucas—impossible to miss in the morning crowd: white shirt, blond hair messily tousled, bag covered in pins and what looks like a magazine clipping. He grins like he's been waiting here for me forever.
– Hey, Liza! – he waves, like an old friend. I don't reply.
He falls in beside me, not blocking my way, not pushy.
– You know, if you looked less like a hunted animal, everyone'd think you were just a local celeb, – he says cheerfully, no edge.
– I'm not a star, – I mutter. – And not an animal.
– I know, – he nods, tilting his head. – You're just someone who deserves a little peace.
He's quiet for a few steps, then unexpectedly hands me a pack of stickers—some silly phrase like "Keep calm and wolf on."
– For you.
– Thanks, – I can't help smiling for the first time in days.
– I actually know how to listen, – Lucas says, suddenly serious. – If you ever want to talk, I'm around.
– Just talk?
He laughs—light, genuinely human.
– With you? However you want. Not an alpha. Not a hunter. Just… another neighbor in this crazy city.
He nods, ducks down a side street, and I'm left with the stickers in my palm, and—for the first time in a long while—the sense that not everyone out here wants to catch me.