The trees thinned just enough for the old factory to come into view.
Rust covered most of the structure, the metal walls stained dark from years of rain and neglect. Parts of the roof had collapsed inward. Massive smokestacks loomed above the forest like dead towers.
Dylan crouched behind a cluster of bushes near the treeline, binoculars pressed against his eyes. "Movement," he muttered.
The others immediately lowered themselves further.
Harry crawled beside him carefully. "How many?"
Dylan stayed quiet for a second, tracking the figures moving between the broken loading docks. "…Six outside. Maybe more inside."
Maurice adjusted the strap of his rifle nervously. "You sure this is their camp?"
Victor frowned from beside a fallen log. "I know this place. This is where they keep storage."
Maurice glanced over. "Storage?"
"Yeah," Victor said quietly. "Like a giant meat freezer. Except it's not meat."
A beat.
"It's humans."
Dylan's jaw tightened. "Fucking bastards."
Maurice leaned in slightly. "Dylan, remember the plan. We scout first."
Dylan didn't take his eyes off the factory. "What else is in there, Vic?"
Victor hesitated. "Weapons. Military grade. Heard some of them used to be soldiers."
That got Dylan to shift slightly. "Soldiers?" His voice dropped. "You know what unit?"
Victor shook his head. "No. I just saw one of them once wearing an old army uniform. That's it."
Silence followed.
Dylan exhaled slowly and raised the binoculars again. His posture changed—less anger, more focus.
The factory became the only thing that mattered. The guards, the movement, the gaps between them. Every detail locked in quietly behind his eyes.
Harry opened his mouth to speak—
A cold pressure pressed against the back of his head.
"Hands above your heads."
The voice was close. Too close.
Behind them.
All four froze.
Harry's breath caught as he slowly turned his head, just enough to confirm what his body already knew.
A man stood behind him. Rifle already leveled. Finger steady on the trigger like he had done this too many times for it to mean anything.
Dylan didn't move immediately.
He slowly lowered the binoculars.
Maurice and Victor followed, hands rising slightly—not surrender, just survival instinct.
The man stepped closer, eyes locked on Harry. "Now," he said again, colder this time. "Don't make this hard."
His finger hovered near the trigger.
Dylan's eyes didn't leave him.
Measuring.
Waiting.
The man shifted slightly, adjusting his stance to keep control of all four of them at once.
A fraction of focus drifted—just for a second—toward Maurice's movement.
That was enough.
Dylan moved.
Fast.
He stepped in and knocked the rifle sideways with a sharp strike of his forearm—metal jolting off target just as it began to swing toward Harry.
The barrel snapped away from Harry's head.
Before the man could correct—
Dylan drove a kick into his knee.
The joint buckled with a sharp break in posture. The man stumbled forward, losing balance.
Dylan didn't give him time to recover. He grabbed the rifle strap, yanked it free of control, and drove the stock hard into the man's ribs—dropping him to one knee.
Maurice moved instantly, ripping the rifle free and bringing it up, aimed downrange.
The man tried to reach for his knife.
Dylan was already on him. A sharp forward step—blade out in a clean motion.
The knife went into the man's shoulder. Not deep enough to kill. Deep enough to stop everything.
The man let out a strangled gasp, body jolting hard as pain locked him in place. Before he could even draw breath to scream—
Dylan struck him once, heavy and precise, straight to the side of the head.
The man dropped like a cut wire. Stillness.
Harry stood frozen, staring at the body, sweat already forming at his temple.
Maurice kept the rifle trained for a second longer, then slowly lowered it, scanning the treeline.
Dylan exhaled through his nose, eyes already shifting back toward the factory in the distance. He tilted his head slightly toward Harry. "You alright, kid?"
Harry swallowed, then nodded quickly. "Yeah." Even though his hands were shaking.
Dylan didn't comment on it. He just turned. "Let's go," he said quietly. Rough voice. Flat. "They heard that."
A pause.
Then, colder—"Let's take this bastard with us."
~~~
(sound of vomiting)
Yve moved in immediately, steadying Jenkins by the shoulder. "Here. Drink this."
His body jerked forward again over the bucket, retching harshly, breath ragged and broken. "I feel like I'm dying," Jenkins rasped, voice rough, barely holding shape.
"You're not," Yve said firmly.
Another wave hit him. He doubled over again.
The contents in the bucket were dark—wrong-looking even to him.
He stared at it weakly, breathing hard. "Why is it black?"
Yve didn't hesitate. "Dead cells. Old genetic residue. It's normal."
"Nothing about this feels normal," he muttered.
"Drink," she repeated, pressing the cup back into his hand.
He obeyed, barely. A few sips. Then he collapsed back onto the bed like his bones had given out. "My skin…" he murmured, voice fading. "It feels tight. Dry. Like it's shrinking."
Yve paused for half a second. "…I forgot to tell you that part."
His eyes snapped slightly open. "About what?"
"Yeah," she said quietly. "You're going to shed your skin. Entire layers. Your body's rebuilding itself."
Jenkins gave a strained laugh that turned into a groan as another wave of pain hit him. "Great. Fantastic."
Yve took a wet towel and began wiping his forehead, careful but firm, trying to bring down the fever.
His breathing stayed uneven, his body twitching slightly with each pulse of pain under his skin. Every inch of him felt like it was being rewritten while still awake.
"We'll get through it," Yve said, steady but softer now.
Jenkins stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. "I just… want to be done with this," he whispered.
Yve's hand paused for a moment. Then she resumed wiping his forehead. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "The Black Doctrine book said it could take up to a week. Your body is… doing what it needs to do."
Jenkins groaned, shifting restlessly on the bed, curling slightly as another wave of pain hit him. His hand pressed against his stomach, then his head, as if he could physically hold himself together.
Yve moved in quietly and pulled the blanket up over him, tucking it in with careful hands. "I'll let you rest," she said softly. "I'll come back later."
As she turned to leave, his hand shot out and caught her wrist. "Stay." The word came out broken. Raw. Barely controlled. "Please."
Yve froze. She looked back at him.
Jenkins wasn't meeting her eyes. His grip was tight, but unsteady—like he wasn't even fully aware he was holding on that hard. But his expression said enough anyway.
A moment passed.
Then Yve exhaled slowly and nodded once. "Okay."
She adjusted the blanket again, making sure he was comfortable, then gently eased her wrist free without forcing him to let go. She pulled the chair closer and sat beside the bed. Quiet settled between them.
Jenkins slowly loosened his grip, but didn't fully let go of the edge of the blanket.
Yve studied him for a moment before speaking again. "How are your auditory senses?"
Jenkins's eyes were squeezed shut. He hands lay limp at his sides, as if even the effort of touching his own head was too much. "It's… better," he muttered. "Your voice doesn't… hit like a hammer anymore."
"That's improvement," Yve said, a note of forced optimism in her tone. "We'll start physical therapy once you're better."
A beat of silence, thick and suffocating.
"Yve…"
She glanced at him. "Yeah?"
He opened his eyes, but they didn't seem to focus. They stared at the ceiling, at a point somewhere beyond it. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Silence stretched again, heavier this time.
"You could have let me die." The room went still. The air itself seemed to solidify. "Why didn't you?"
Yve opened her mouth—then closed it. The usual words felt hollow, insulting. After a few seconds, she exhaled, the sound barely disturbing the heavy quiet. "I—" she started, the words feeling inadequate. "I just… couldn't stand losing another friend."
A short, sharp sound escaped Jenkins. It wasn't a laugh. It was the air being forced from his lungs in a spasm of pure, weary disdain. "What you did to me," he said, voice roughening, "was horrifying on multiple levels, Yve. Even if it saved my life."
He finally turned his head, his eyes finding hers. They were bloodshot, but the look in them was terrifyingly clear. "I can feel it, Yve. Everything inside me." He coughed, a dry, rattling sound that seemed to tear at his throat. "I don't know what I am anymore."
Yve leaned forward, her own composure finally cracking. "You're still you. Human or siren, it doesn't matter. You're still Doctor Malcolm Jenkins."
He gave a faint, tired chuckle that was more painful than his cough. "Doctor? Doctor Malcolm Jenkins, the virologist. That man is gone."
"It still means something," Yve insisted, her voice trembling slightly. "It's your identity. Don't let what I did take that from you. I only changed your body. Not your mind. Not your heart. Not your passion."
Jenkins stared upward again, his jaw tight enough to be a line of stone. "And yet…" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, "I still feel like a monster." He turned over, slowly, the movement stiff and unnatural, like a machine whose gears don't quite mesh. He faced the wall, presenting her with his back.
Silence settled in the space he left behind. It wasn't empty. It was full of everything he had said.
Yve didn't speak. She just watched him, her shoulders slumping as the full, crushing weight of what she had done—what she had made—finally settled on her.
Her voice was a fragile thread in the suffocating silence. "I'm sorry… truly I am." The words felt clumsy, inadequate. "I can't tell you that I know what you feel. That would be a lie. And the last thing you need right now is me lying to you."
She took a steadying breath, her own composure fraying at the edges. "But I want you to know that I will be here. Every step of the way. I'm not going to let you go through this alone. Whether you want me close or not."
Jenkins didn't move. His fingers tightened around the blanket until the fabric bunched under his grip.
Yve's gaze softened, the hard shell of her authority dissolving into raw, aching regret. She continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, a promise meant only for him. "And I'll wait for the day where you can look me in the eyes again without fear, and pain. I'll wait… even if it takes my whole life."
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. It fell without a sound, disappearing into the fabric of her clothes, a secret offering for a debt she could never repay.
~~~
Dylan's fist came down again—hard.
The man's head snapped to the side, blood spilling from his mouth as he coughed, choking on it. His face was already swelling, skin split at the cheekbone.
Dylan leaned in close, voice low and rough. "You don't tell me what I wanna know," he said, "I'm gonna rip your teeth out and feed 'em back to you."
The man laughed through the blood. A wet, broken sound. "Go ahead," he rasped. "You don't have it in you."
That got him another hit.
Dylan drove his boot into the man's side. The chair scraped violently as it toppled, the man still bound to it, crashing sideways with a dull thud.
Lucas stepped into the room witnessing the scenario. "Woah—woah, stop." His tone sharpened. Controlled, but firm. "We need him alive."
Dylan didn't even look at him at first. "He ain't talking."
Lucas exhaled through his nose. "Yeah, because you're not letting him breathe. Step out. Take a break. I'll handle it."
Dylan slowly turned his head. His eyes met Lucas'. For a moment, nothing moved.
Then Dylan nodded once. "Alright." Then he turned —
—and drove his boot into the man's stomach again before anyone could react.
A sharp, ugly impact.
Lucas snapped forward. "Hey! I said out—David!" He barked. "Get him out of here."
David was already moving, grabbing Dylan by the shoulders from behind. "Come on, man. You're gonna kill him."
Dylan resisted for half a second, muscles tight, breathing heavy. Then he let himself be pulled back.
As David pushed him toward the door, Dylan didn't take his eyes off the man on the floor. Low voice, almost a mutter as they exited: "Don't care if he dies."
They stepped out of Jenkins' lab.
Dylan immediately shrugged David's grip off his shoulder like it burned. "I was gonna make him talk," he muttered, jaw tight.
David didn't move. Just watched him. "You've been in there for hours," David said flatly. "And he's still not talking."
Dylan let out a sharp, humorless breath. "That's 'cause you lot won't let me bring a weapon inside."
He kicked at a pile of trash near the grass edge. It scattered across the ground.
David's voice dropped, firmer now. "Will you calm down."
Dylan turned on him instantly. "I am calm." A beat. "I'm gonna go back in." He started forward again.
David stepped into his path, blocking the door. "Woah—woah." His hands came up slightly, not aggressive, just firm. "You had your turn. Chill out."
Dylan stopped. For a second, it looked like he might push past anyway. His jaw flexed once, hard. Then he exhaled through his nose, long and controlled, like he was forcing something down. "…Whatever," he muttered. He turned away from the lab instead, walking off into the yard.
Taylor walked up fast, boots pressing into the ground with urgency.
David turned slightly at the sound, giving her a quick nod. "You need something?" he asked.
Taylor didn't slow down. "You seen Lucas?"
David hesitated. "I—uh…"
Her eyes narrowed immediately. A beat. "Is he inside?" she asked, voice sharpening. "With that cannibal? Alone?" She moved instantly toward the lab door.
David stepped in front of her, blocking it. "Woah—woah." His hands came up. "He's fine. The guy's tied down tight. He ain't touching Lucas."
"That's not the point," Taylor snapped. "Why would you let him go in there alone?"
David exhaled, trying to keep his tone even. "Alright, alright. Just calm down. I'll go in as soon as I see you head back to the manor."
Taylor blinked once. Then stared at him, her expression tightening.
A long pause.
"…Fine," she said through her teeth. "Go in first."
David shook his head immediately. "That's not the deal."
Taylor exhaled hard, frustration breaking through. "Are you serious right now?"
David didn't move from the doorway. "Yes," he said simply. "You think he'd let you walk in there with that criminal inside?"
Taylor exhaled sharply through her nose. "I'm going in." Her hand went to her belt—blade sliding free in one smooth motion.
That made David pause. "…Alright, alright," he muttered, raising both hands slightly. "I'm going."
Taylor didn't lower the knife until he moved.
He opened the door, slipped inside, then shut it behind him before she could follow. Locking her out.
Inside, the lab was dim and still. Lucas stood near the restrained man, elbows resting loosely.
David leaned in slightly as he entered. "Luke," he called out casually. "Your wife's outside. She's mad."
Lucas gave a quiet laugh. "I bet she is."
David stepped closer, glancing at the prisoner. "What happened?"
Lucas didn't hesitate. "He fell asleep."
David crouched, checking the man's pulse with two fingers against his neck. "...What'd you do?"
Lucas tilted his head slightly. "Nothing."
David's eyes flicked up. Then down. A grin slowly formed. "You made Dylan go outside just to beat him up as well, huh."
Lucas finally looked at him. "No. I just punched him once. He insulted Dylan—then passed out." A pause. "Dylan did most of that."
David let out a short breath through his nose. "He's missing teeth."
Lucas nodded once. "Maybe he swallowed it. He still won't give us any information."
David stared at the mess for a second longer. Then he spoke low. "I've got an idea."
Lucas turned his head slightly.
Silence.
David looked at him. Lucas looked back.
A beat passed.
Then both of them smiled at the same time—small, knowing, identical in implication.
~~~
A car rolled to a stop in the driveway.
Ysa stepped out first, scanning the surroundings immediately. Duncan followed from the back seat, already tense, eyes moving like he was reading the air itself.
Both of them paused at once. Their expressions shifted.
"Something's wrong," Duncan said quietly.
Ysa didn't answer immediately. She inhaled once, slow and sharp. "…Something unfamiliar," she added.
Lucas was already walking toward them from the house.
Ysa turned her head slightly.
Lucas gave a short, tired breath. "Yeah. About that."
Ysa's gaze snapped to him. "Explain."
Lucas held up a hand, calm but direct. "We've got someone captive in Jenkins' lab."
Ysa blinked once. "Huh. Why?"
Lucas didn't sugarcoat it. "He's a cannibal."
That landed differently. Duncan's posture shifted instantly. Ysa's eyes narrowed, focus sharpening.
"Oh…" Ysa said slowly. "Like those people you told me about."
"Yeah," Lucas replied. "And he's not talking. So we were thinking if—"
"I'll make him talk," Ysa cut in immediately. No hesitation. No question.
Lucas glanced sideways at David beside him, as if confirming he heard that right.
David didn't respond. Just watched.
Ysa stepped forward. "Wait outside."
Lucas exhaled once, then lifted both hands slightly in surrender. "He's all yours."
They moved fast. Boots hit the ground in a controlled jog, not rushed—but urgent.
The lab door came into view. It was slightly ajar.
Ysa reached it first, pushed it open—and stopped.
Dylan was already inside, kneeling near a gasoline can. Uncapping.
The sharp chemical smell hit her immediately. "…Woah," she said slowly. "What are you doing?"
Dylan didn't even flinch. He just glanced over his shoulder, his voice a low, flat gravel. "Somethin' useless, you burn it. He shifted his weight, eyes on the man in the chair. "He ain't talkin'. Time for fire."
Ysa's expression was a mask of indifference. A slow exhale through her nose was her only tell. "That's one way." Her gaze slid to the prisoner, cold and sharp. "Dylan. Step aside. I'll get it."
The man in the chair let out a wet, broken laugh. "Four of you… couldn't make me talk." He spat a glob of blood on the floor. "Little girl thinks she's got a better way?"
Ysa tilted her head, a gesture so slight it was almost predatory. "Oh, I do."
Another laugh, weaker this time. "What are you gonna do? Seduce me? Gonna bat your eyes at me?"
Dylan's eyes narrowed, flicking between them.
Ysa didn't even blink. "I got something better." Her eyes, still on the man, flicked toward Dylan. A slow, chilling smile spread across her face, one that didn't reach her eyes.
Dylan paused. He took a deliberate step back, hands up in mock surrender. "…Alright," he grunted. "He's all yours." He moved to the table, arms crossing over his chest, a silent, interested observer.
The silence that fell was different now. It was heavy, expectant. The air itself seemed to thin.
The man kept running his mouth, a last desperate grab at control. "Come on then, sweetheart. Sit on my lap and—"
"Maybe I will," Ysa said. But the voice that came out wasn't hers. It was deeper, resonant, with an undertone like stones grinding together at the bottom of the sea. It was a sound that vibrated in your bones.
The temperature in the room plummeted. The single overhead light seemed to dim.
The man's bravado evaporated. He stared, his eyes widening as Ysa's form began to unravel. It wasn't a quick shift. It was agonizingly slow.
Scales, dark as the abyss, rippled to life beneath the skin of her neck, pushing through in a silent, wet tearing. Her nails elongated, fins like shattered glass unfurling from her forearms. She dropped forward, her spine curving, her posture sinking into a crouch that was utterly inhuman.
And then he saw her eyes. They weren't just luminous. They were thin slits. Pupils of absolute horror. In their depths, there was no rage, no humanity, only the cold, patient certainty of death. It was the look a creature gives its food a moment before the feeding begins.
In that instant, the man didn't just see a monster; he saw his own obituary. He knew, with a soul-shattering certainty, that he was already dead. His breath hitched. "What… what the f—"
She dropped to all fours. The sound wasn't a thud. It was a soft, liquid patter, like something slithering out of the deep. Her eyes, now luminous pits, locked onto his.
He didn't scream. He made a choked, strangled gasp, a sound of pure, primal terror as his mind shattered. The chair scraped violently as he thrashed, his body trying to flee a horror that was already on him.
Ysa moved. A blur of unnatural motion that ended with her pinning him to the floor. The chair splintered under the impact. He was trapped.
She leaned in, her face inches from his, and her mouth opened. It wasn't a human smile. It was a widening, revealing needle-sharp teeth that glinted in the low light. "I wonder," the grave-deep voice rumbled, "how you taste."
The man finally found his voice. A piercing, animal shriek tore from his throat as he thrashed, a frantic insect pinned by a god.
Ysa's tongue snaked out and slowly, deliberately, lapped the blood and terror from his cheek.
He broke. Completely. "PLEASE! I'LL TALK! ANYTHING! JUST DON'T—DON'T HURT ME!"
A low, wet chuckle vibrated from her chest. Her clawed hand, which had been resting on his chest, tapped a single, sharp nail against his sternum. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each touch was a promise of agony. "Who's the little girl now?"
The man's scream was a raw, shredded thing. It was the sound of sanity itself being torn apart. He sobbed, blubbering, a disgusting mess of snot and tears and pleas. "I'll tell you everything! Please don't kill me! God, please!"
Ysa tilted her head, the beast in her eyes studying him as if memorizing his fear. She let him writhe for another ten seconds, letting the terror marinade, letting him feel the full, crushing weight of his powerlessness.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the predatory aura receded like a tide, leaving just the girl. The scales and fins sank back into her skin with a series of soft, sickening clicks. She rose to her feet in one smooth motion, her posture human once more.
Ysa turned her head slightly toward Dylan, who hadn't moved a muscle. "You're welcome."
Dylan pushed off the table. He gave a single, slow nod. "Appreciate it." He walked toward the sobbing, broken man on the floor, his boots loud in the sudden, ringing silence.