Chapter 176: 176 The Waking Light

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176: The Waking Light 176: The Waking Light The lighthouse shuddered, its beam a dying flicker as a giant dark spirit werewolf loomed over the harbor, its shadow-fur writhing, eyes glowing like twin moons.

The dream-city’s fragments—glowing streets, singing families—trembled in a fractured sky, buckling under the beast’s roar.

Mishka’s Siren song wavered, her heart pounding as Jean’s fading form stared in terror, her werewolf claws frozen mid-strike.

“What the hell is that?” Jean snarled, eyes locked on the creature.

Mishka clutched her chest, her song faltering.

“It’s not mine!

It’s not part of this dream!”

Bruce grabbed her arm, his protective field crackling.

“Mishka, sing!

Keep us together, now!”

The hospital’s beep sliced through.

Duncan’s voice desperate.

“Mishka, you’re fading!

Stay with me!”

Catherine’s translucent form flared, reaching out.

“Sing, love!

You’re the anchor!

Don’t let it take you!”

The werewolf lunged, paws shaking the earth.

Its roar drowned the city’s chorus, buildings dissolving into sparks.

The air screamed, claws raking bone.

Sarah’s instruments sparked, her shout frantic.

“It’s rewriting the dream!

Your song’s pulling it in!

Shut it down!”

“Shut it down?” Mishka gasped.

“This is all I have!

If I stop, we lose everything!”

Howard dodged a falling shard, yelling, “No time, Mishka!

That thing’s beyond!

Hit it with everything!”

Nathaniel’s eyes glowed, tracking the beast.

“It’s feeding on your power!

Your song’s a beacon!

Pull it back!”

The werewolf swiped, claws slashing the lighthouse.

Bruce’s field blazed, deflecting with a thunderclap.

“I can’t hold this long!” he shouted.

“Mishka, sing something small!

Reel it in!”

Mishka’s knees buckled, the hospital flashing—Duncan’s tear-streaked face, Bruce’s real hand clutching hers.

“I can’t lose you!” she cried, her voice cracking.

Jean leaped between Mishka and the claws.

“You’re not losing them, idiot,” she growled.

“You carry them!” Her claws slashed, but the beast roared, unfazed.

“Jean!” Mishka screamed, her song surging with compassion.

The city’s fragments pulsed, families’ voices joining, a fragile chorus against the howl.

Catherine flickered, shouting, “You don’t need this city to hold us!

You’re enough!”

The beast’s eyes locked on Mishka, growling, “Stay.

Be mine.” Its claws raked stone, the beam flickering.

“Sing, Mishka!” Bruce roared, his field burning his hands.

“Sing for you!

Be you!”

Sarah ducked a spark.

“It’s feeding on your fear!

Sing it all—love, pain, everything!”

Howard tackled Mishka out of a claw’s path.

“Now, Mishka!

Or we’re done!”

Nathaniel locked on the beast’s eyes.

“It wants you!

Sing to it—make it see you!”

The Custodian’s hum cut through.

“You are enough.

Sing yourself free.”

Mishka’s tears fell, the hospital’s beep pounding—Beep-Beep-Beep.

Duncan’s cry broke through, “Mishka, please!” She saw Bruce’s real face, then dream-Bruce, his field crumbling.

She sang—a raw note of pain, love, fear, hope.

The song of a girl who’d lost her mother, defied her grandmother, loved a werewolf, survived betrayal.

The city’s fragments flared, the chorus swelling—parents, neighbors, strangers, all singing.

The werewolf staggered, its eyes blinking.

Jean’s claws slashed, drawing a howl.

“Keep going!” she yelled.

The lighthouse beam surged, flooding the harbor.

Mishka’s song wove Jean’s pain, Catherine’s love, Bruce’s strength into one chord.

The hospital flashed—Bruce’s hand, Duncan’s tears, the monitor’s scream.

The werewolf’s eyes narrowed, bellowing, “You cannot leave!” It leaped, jaws wide.

The city’s fragments shattered, the lighthouse cracking.

A claw swiped at Catherine.

“Mishka!” Catherine screamed.

“Don’t stop!

Wake up!”

Bruce lunged, his field collapsing.

“Go, Mishka!

Now!”

The hospital’s beep spiked—Beeeeep.

Duncan’s cry was deafening.

“Mishka!”

Mishka’s song broke, her voice a sob.

The werewolf’s eyes locked on her.

“If you wake, you lose them.”

The lighthouse crumbled, the city dissolved, and the beast lunged, jaws snapping.

A figure stepped from its shadow—her father, holding a blood-dripping vase.

“Choose, Mishka,” he said.

“Stay, or die.”

Mishka’s breath caught, her song faltering.

“I choose me!” she screamed, her Siren voice exploding in a defiant chord, weaving love, grief, loyalty, forgiveness.

The city’s chorus roared, a tidal wave of voices.

The werewolf howled, its shadow-fur burning away in the beam’s blaze.

Catherine’s fire flared.

“That’s it, love!” she shouted.

“You’re free!”

Bruce shielded them.

“Keep singing!” he yelled.

Jean slashed the beast.

“Finish it, Mishka!” she growled, her eyes human.

Sarah’s instruments stabilized.

“Frequencies shifting!

You’re breaking through!”

Howard pulled Mishka back.

“One more push!”

Nathaniel locked on the beast’s eyes.

“It’s weakening!

You’re stronger!”

The Custodian hummed, “Sing your truth.”

The hospital’s beep steadied—Beep… Beep… Beep.

Duncan’s voice was a lifeline.

“You’re back!

Come on!”

Her song soared, shattering the werewolf into sparks.

The city fused, glowing with connection.

Her father’s figure wavered, the vase crumbling, his eyes softening.

“Mishka…” he whispered, fading.

But a roar shook the sky—not the werewolf, but a primal howl from beyond.

The lighthouse beam flickered, a crack splitting the harbor, revealing a glowing rift pulsing with alien light.

Eyes—thousands, unblinking—stared within, whispering, “You’ve opened the door.”

Mishka’s song faltered, the hospital surging—Duncan’s hand, Bruce’s desperate gaze.

The rift widened, a metallic claw reaching out, gleaming with hunger.

“You’re mine now,” it hissed.

The claw lunged, the dream shattered, the hospital’s beep screaming.

Mishka’s eyes snapped open.

Sunlight streamed through the hospital window, the sterile hum of machines grounding her.

Mishka blinked, her throat dry, head throbbing under a bandage.

The heart monitor beeped steadily—Beep… Beep… Beep.

Duncan sat beside her, his Parisian scarf askew, eyes wide with relief.

“Mishka!” he gasped, grabbing her hand.

“You’re awake!

Oh, thank God!”

Bruce stood by the door, his face haggard but lighting up.

“Mishka,” he whispered, rushing to her side, his hand warm against hers.

“You’re back.”

She tried to speak, her voice a croak.

“Duncan… Bruce… how long was I out?”

“A month,” Duncan said, voice breaking.

“That crazy Jean woman hit you with a vase in the hotel.

You’ve been in a coma.

We thought…” He choked up, squeezing her hand.

Bruce’s eyes glistened.

“I found you, got you here.

Been here almost every day.”

Mishka’s chest tightened, the dream’s echoes vivid—the werewolf’s roar, Catherine’s fire, the alien claw.

She saw the tray on her bedside table: a hospital breakfast of watery oatmeal, a shining green apple, and orange juice in a plastic cup.

A nurse bustled in, adjusting her IV.

“Eat something, hon,” the nurse said, voice kind.

“You need your strength.”

Mishka nodded, spooning oatmeal, its bland taste grounding her.

She glanced at Duncan, then Bruce.

“It felt so real,” she whispered.

“The city, the lighthouse… Mom.

Was it just a dream?”

Duncan frowned, brushing her hair back.

“You were out cold, Mishka.

Dreams can feel like that.

But you’re here now.”

Bruce’s hand tightened on hers, his voice soft.

“What did you see?”

She hesitated, the alien claw’s hiss echoing in her mind.

“A world… I built it.

Fought for it.

There was a werewolf—not Jean, something worse.

And a rift… something came through.” Her voice trembled.

“What if it wasn’t just a dream?”

Bruce exchanged a glance with Duncan, worry flickering.

“You’re safe now,” he said, but his tone wavered.

Duncan forced a smile.

“Eat your breakfast, sis.

Let’s focus on getting you out of here.”

“What about Dad?” Mishka asked, the dream’s image of her father’s cold eyes flashing.

Duncan’s face tightened.

“You know how he is.

Sees me here, steps out, waits for me to leave.”

“He was in the dream…” Mishka closed her eyes, the vase dripping blood vivid in her mind.

“Babe, I’m sure he was,” Bruce said, rubbing her hand with his thumb, his voice gentle.

“Lots of people were, right?

But you’re awake now.

Stay with us.” He shot Duncan a look, sensing his discomfort.

Duncan grinned, mischievous.

“He heard I have a flatmate in Paris.

Thinks it’s my boyfriend.

I didn’t exactly correct him.”

Mishka managed a weak laugh, the tension easing.

She bit into the apple, its tartness sharp, grounding.

“Jean… what happened to her?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

“Arrested.

Hotel security caught her before she could run.

She’s locked up, facing charges.

You’re safe, Mishka.”

She nodded, sipping the orange juice, its sweetness clashing with the unease in her gut.

The dream’s chorus lingered—her mother’s smile, the city’s voices, the rift’s eyes.

“Safe,” she echoed, but the word felt hollow.

She set the cup down, her hands trembling slightly.

The nurse reappeared, carrying a clipboard.

“Good news, hon.

Doctor says you’re stable uenough to leave in a couple days.

There’s a press release scheduled—reporters are itching to hear from you after… everything.”

“Press release?” Mishka’s stomach churned.

“Already?”

Duncan leaned in, his tone light but firm.

“You’re a star, sis.

The world’s been worried.

A quick statement, a smile, and you’re back to your life.

We’ll be right there with you.”

Bruce nodded, his hand still on hers.

“You don’t have to say much.

Just let them see you’re okay.

We’ve got your back.”

Mishka forced a smile, pushing the tray away.

“Okay.

I can do that.” She swung her legs over the bed’s edge, wincing as her muscles protested.

The nurse helped her stand, guiding her to a small mirror by the sink.

Mishka stared at her reflection—pale, bruised, but alive.

Her fingers traced the bandage on her temple, the dream’s claw flashing in her mind.

“Looking good, superstar,” Duncan teased, handing her a hairbrush.

“Gotta shine for the cameras.”

She brushed her hair, each stroke grounding her further.

“Back to normal,” she murmured, but the word felt foreign.

The dream’s rift, those unblinking eyes, whispered at the edge of her thoughts.

She pulled on a soft sweater Bruce brought, its warmth a faint echo of his protective field.

As they prepped for discharge, a hospital aide wheeled in a TV, the news already buzzing.

“Pop star Mishka recovering after brutal attack,” the anchor said.

“Fans await her statement tomorrow.” A clip showed Jean in handcuffs, her eyes wild, being led away.

Mishka froze, the dream’s werewolf superimposing over Jean’s face.

“She can’t hurt me anymore,” she whispered, more to herself than them.

Bruce wrapped an arm around her.

“She’s gone, Mishka.

You’re stronger than she’ll ever be.”

Duncan nodded, adjusting his scarf.

“And you’ve got us.

No more vases, no more drama.

Just you, singing your heart out.”

She smiled, but as she turned back to the mirror, her reflection flickered—just for a second.

A faint glow, like the rift’s light, pulsed in her eyes.

The heart monitor skipped a beat—BEEP-BEEP.

Duncan and Bruce didn’t notice, but Mishka’s breath caught.

“What if the dream followed me?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as the mirror’s glow pulsed again, and a distant, metallic hum echoed in her ears, like a claw scraping the edge of reality.

She looked around herself and shook her head.

Everything looked normal.

No sign of the supernatural anywhere.

She sighed in relief and mentally got ready for the next phase of being free from dreams and nightmares.

No time to waste.

The world was waiting for news.

Where was her temporary manager?