The moment Zeke hit the dirt, the world tilted.
His ears rang. Blood blurred his vision. He felt bark embedded in his back, ribs cracked from the impact, a metallic taste pooling in his mouth.
The clearing was no longer a quiet forest—it was a war zone.
Alishba was dodging between slashes, claws ripping through the air around her like blades through paper. The five black-furred werewolves descended like sharks in a feeding frenzy. No tactics. No mercy. Just violence. Every time she moved, another attacker tried to flank her. One claw nearly ripped through her shoulder—another clipped her thigh.
Zeke roared and pushed himself up.
He could barely hear himself over the sound of snarling, panting, and crashing bodies.
One wolf charged at Alishba from behind.
Zeke blurred forward.
His fist collided with the werewolf's skull, the sound like a watermelon cracking under a hammer. Bone shattered. The creature spun, teeth snapping wildly before collapsing into a tree trunk. Alishba turned toward Zeke with a thankful glance, only for another wolf to ram her from the side, sending her flying across the clearing.
Zeke's chest tightened.
He snapped.
What happened next wasn't just a transformation.
It was an awakening.
Zeke let the fury inside him flood out—his spine cracked, bones stretched, fur exploded from his skin. His hands turned to massive claws, legs to digitigrade limbs. He doubled again in size, eyes burning golden like twin suns. His jaw unhinged wider than humanly possible, teeth lengthening into ivory blades.
This wasn't a teenager anymore.
This was a predator.
And he was pissed.
Two werewolves lunged at him at once.
Zeke caught one mid-air by the throat and slammed it spine-first into the ground, shaking the earth. The other tried to bite his side—but Zeke spun and raked his claws across its chest, slicing through ribs like butter. Blood sprayed in a dark arc. The wolf howled in agony and stumbled back, intestines dragging like ropes through the dirt.
Another came from behind.
Zeke heard it coming.
He bent forward, letting the werewolf leap over him, and then reached up—grabbing it mid-jump by the legs—and swung it into a tree so hard the bark exploded. Its body crumpled, twitching violently before going still.
His claws were red. His face was soaked.
And he hadn't even looked at the leader yet.
Across the field, Alishba was struggling.
Two wolves had cornered her. Her thigh was bleeding heavily, her breath ragged. She parried a swipe with her claws, then bit down on another's arm—but the second one tackled her to the ground, snarling into her face, pinning her down.
Then came the moment Zeke would never forget.
The leader—the massive one who had struck first—walked calmly toward the downed Alishba. Its claws gleamed in the moonlight. She hissed and tried to crawl back, but her leg gave out beneath her. The leader loomed over her.
And then it slashed.
A deep, brutal gash opened across Alishba's side. Her scream ripped through the clearing like a siren. Blood gushed out in streams, staining the grass beneath her silver fur.
Zeke saw red.
He charged, not caring about tactics or numbers.
Just rage.
Just her.
One wolf tried to block him—Zeke grabbed its head and twisted.
There was a crack. Then silence.
Another dove at him. Zeke caught its arm and ripped it clean off, using it as a club to bash its face in until it was just a pulp of shattered bone and exposed brain.
The leader turned just in time for Zeke to collide into him like a freight train. They crashed through trees, tearing a bloody path through the forest until they hit a boulder. The leader slashed Zeke's chest open—blood poured—but Zeke didn't flinch.
He grabbed the werewolf by the muzzle and punched it in the eye repeatedly, crushing the socket.
The leader kicked him off.
Zeke hit a tree, bark gouging into his back.
They circled each other, panting. Growling. Blood dripping from both bodies.
The others had either fled or were unconscious—twitching, broken, missing limbs.
Only these two remained.
The leader lunged.
Zeke ducked. Spun. Sank his claws into its gut and dragged them upward, carving a line straight to its chest. The leader screamed, tried to fight back, landed a few deep swipes—but Zeke didn't stop.
He climbed onto the beast's chest and began punching.
Over. And over. And over.
The sounds were disgusting—wet crunches, cartilage snapping, blood spraying in heavy drops across his arms and face.
He didn't stop.
Not until a soft hand touched his face.
"Zeke," Alishba whispered, her voice trembling.
He froze, claws still raised.
Her hand was shaking, pressed against his cheek, smeared in her own blood. But her eyes—God, her eyes—were still soft. Still hers.
"You're scaring me."
Zeke's breathing slowed. The golden glow in his eyes flickered.
And then—she kissed him.
Right there, bloodied and broken, she pulled him down into her arms and pressed her lips to his. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was grounding. It was the one thing that could cut through all the madness, rage, and pain.
When they pulled apart, the silence returned.
The leader's body was twitching beneath him—barely alive. The other wolves… were gone. Vanished into the woods like ghosts. No sign of footsteps. No scent trail. Just disappeared.
Zeke stood slowly, lifting Alishba into his arms.
Her head rested on his chest. She was weak. But she was alive.
He looked into the trees, still half-transformed, still heaving. Somewhere—someone had been watching. He could feel it. A gaze just out of reach. A presence beyond the physical.