Six months ago. Mark’s Morning

  Mark was always the first to show up at the lab in the morning. Well, except for security. Two guards stayed overnight on site, but with the system running at max internal lockdown, they'd long since stopped caring. They usually slept, drank beer out of tea mugs, maybe played some poker. No one was watching them. The system did it for them.

  He rolled through the gate. The scanner pinged the ID chip embedded in his shoulder. Signal accepted. The gates slid open. He drove in — and immediately noticed Strob's car parked out front. Weird. Strob was a night owl, always stayed late, but never showed up earlier than Mark. Never.

  He parked next to it. Something sharp was in the air — a burnt smell. Mark wrinkled his nose. Maybe it was the swamp again. Damn peat fires. Bit early in the season, though.

  He headed for the entrance. The security booth was empty, which made him twitchy. Not enough to change course, though. Day shift would clock in later, and the night guys didn't always react to him. Probably sleeping.

  He made his way to his lab. Passing by, he noticed the door to Strob's office was wide open.

  He pushed it further and stepped inside.

  Red. Red everywhere. On the walls. The floor. The ceiling.

  Mark froze. For a second, he couldn't process what he was looking at. His eyes saw blotches, splatters, smears — like someone hadn't painted, but torn the space apart. But his brain refused to form a picture. His skin prickled. The kind of cold that whispers straight to your spine: "Danger." Like something was about to collapse. Something important. But his mind hadn't caught up yet.

  Because of the full moon, Mark had pre-dosed. Max allowable pharm level. No chance the second nature would stir. His enhanced sense of smell, his gut instinct — all shut down. He stood in the middle of a slaughterhouse and didn't even smell the blood.

  He took one step forward.

  Something squished under his shoe.

  He stopped. Looked down. A small red lump.

  He lifted his foot to get a better look.

  Squatted down.

  And suddenly it clicked — he understood what he was looking at.

  A finger. Or rather, part of one. A severed phalanx.

  His stomach flipped. He barely turned before he threw up. His body reacted way before his mind could catch up. The spasms didn't stop, like his body was trying to purge what his brain had just figured out.

  Mark stumbled out of the office and ran. Straight outside. Threw up again in the middle of the lab yard.

  Thoughts sparked and jumped. One louder than the rest:

  I overdid the meds. Whoever did this — might still be here. Might've killed me too.

  And I wouldn't even have felt it. Not fear. Not pain. Just... nothing. The end.

  **************************************************************************************************************

  Present Day. Chris and Gerda

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The balcony was cool, but the air felt lighter. The club noise faded below like a distant sea. Neon buzzed overhead. The city stretched before them—huge, layered, sleepless. Towers cutting into the sky. Holograms flashing off the glass. On the lower levels, endless streams of people and traffic flowed like blood through the veins of a beast.

  Dim lighting. A few empty tables. One ashtray with someone else's cigarette stub still smoldering.

  Chris sat first, leaning back in his chair, arms stretched casually on the armrests like it was his office. He took up space with quiet confidence—measured, composed, but unmistakably dominant.

  Gerda sat across from him, shoulders slightly hunched, arms crossed. She caught herself and corrected her posture—back straight, hands on the armrests. A quiet reclaiming of control, of herself, of the moment.

  He looked at her with a strange calm. No mockery now. No games.

  "You don't really know what's happening to you, do you?"

  She gave a small shrug.

  "Obviously. That's why I came."

  "Alright. Let's start with the basics." He paused. "Your tastes have changed. Your emotions are unstable. Senses heightened. Body temperature all over the place. Weird dreams. Strange cravings..."

  He locked eyes with her, and she felt a chill crawl down her spine.

  "You're in transmission. The shift is underway. Initiation already happened—something or someone triggered your dormant gene. Now your body's adjusting. Rewriting itself."

  Gerda stared at him.

  "I'm in what?"

  "You're in transition," he said, calm as if explaining how a coffee machine worked. "You're newly turned. Probably a wolf, judging by the scent, your reactions and..."

  He leaned in just a bit.

  "...how you kissed me about ten minutes ago. Your endocrine system is rebooting. Glands shifting gears. But from the way you froze—it's just beginning."

  She crossed her arms like a shield against the absurdity.

  "I'm not turning into anything. I'm just... hormones. Stress. Insomnia. And yeah... hormones again." She faltered. That kiss had shaken something loose.

  "Fine." Chris raised his hands in a peace gesture. "I'm not claiming absolute truth. But your symptoms? Classic transformation. You're not alone. Every type goes through its stages. I'm not a wolf, so I won't pretend to know the details. But..."

  He pressed his lips briefly.

  "I can introduce you to someone who does. His name's Pete. Solid guy. Pack, mate, cubs—the whole wolf deal."

  He smiled. His voice softened with something close to empathy.

  "You can ask him whatever you need. He'll get it."

  Gerda stared at him like a therapist with an interesting theory but no real-world license.

  "Are you serious? You expect me to believe someone 'initiated' me? Who? How? I was home. Sick for a week... maybe two? Then I was fine. Until I wasn't. Then the store..."

  She paused. Remembered the supermarket. Mark. Their eyes meeting. He'd felt something... A flash of recognition? No. No way. Ridiculous.

  "So you don't know who did it," Chris said quietly. "Transmission isn't random. Someone woke it up in you. Woke the sleeping part. And then..."

  Gerda's jaw tightened.

  "God. Who even are you? I came to figure myself out, not listen to bedtime stories from some smug lunatic who kisses strangers and spouts crap about wolves."

  She stood up fast, chair scraping back.

  "Idiot," she muttered. "Should've gone to a doctor. Not looked for answers from..."

  She waved a hand and walked away from the balcony. He didn't stop her. Just said, low and almost to himself:

  "You'll be back. When it really starts to hurt."

  Chris stayed on the balcony, watching her go. His shoulders were tense. Not angry, not exactly—but irritated. That burning edge simmering just under the skin.

  Of course. What did I expect? A girl just starting the shift, no prep, no guidance, head still stuck in her old life... Yeah. Freak-out was inevitable. He glanced at the table. The stub of a stranger's cigarette. Cheap tobacco. And apathy.

  Chris narrowed his eyes. A second later, the cigarette flared up, smoke curling, disintegrating into ash. He snorted, stood up. Stupid girl. Lost little pup. Drama queen...

  He was already headed down the stairs, slow, thoughtful. Planning. This is a problem. For all of us. New shifter, no handler, unstable, power ramping up. Perfect. I can already see the damn headlines.

  He brushed his fingers over the inside of his wrist where a thin implant pulsed beneath the skin. Should've tagged her... Thank God tech these days lets us do that without even a twitch. Missed my shot.

  Then again... I still know where she lives. So, my wild little Gerda. Looks like you're getting a late-night visitor. He smiled. Not quite amusement. More like intention.

  This time, I'm stepping through the door. Let's see how you handle that. Just hope she doesn't have an alarm system. Last thing I need is extra noise. Plenty on my plate already.

  At the club's exit, he pulled a tiny device from his pocket—clear as glass, pulsing with a faint light.

  Good thing I grabbed one tracker. Just in case. Finding her's not the issue... Convincing her I'm not crazy, not a cultist, not a threat? That's the real game.

  He tucked the device away and made his way down to the bar. There was time. He just needed to wait for her to fall asleep