The pain came first. It always did.
He pressed his hands to his ribs, feeling something shift beneath the skin. Like splinters of bone knitting themselves into something new. Something wrong.
The town lay quiet behind him, windows dark, doors locked. They knew. They always knew. His father had warned him—When the moon rises red, you run. Don’t stop. Don’t turn back.
He ran now. Feet pounding against damp earth. Breath sharp, too fast. The forest swallowed him whole, shadows curling around his frame. The scent of pine and rot filled his nose. A heartbeat, distant. Not his.
Hunger.
His legs buckled. He crashed to his knees, fingers digging into the dirt. His skin burned. Splitting, tearing, reshaping. The thing inside him clawed its way out.
Memories blurred. A child’s laughter. His mother’s hands, soft against his cheek. The preacher’s voice, heavy with fear. Abomination. Curse. Monster.
The hunger grew.
A howl shattered the night, raw and endless. His throat ached from the force of it, but it wasn’t his voice anymore. His world narrowed to the scent of prey, the thrill of the hunt.
Somewhere deep inside, the last piece of the man he had been whispered a single word.
Run.
But the wolf had already taken the reins.
And it was starving.
