Rain.
That was the first thing Elias noticed.
Not the cold—because there wasn't any. The rain slid down his face like oil, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone, soaking through his torn clothes. But his skin didn't flinch. His breath didn't fog. His chest didn't rise.
He was still.
Too still.
He sat up, body moving without stiffness or pain just quiet fluidity, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. His palms pressed into the wet earth, but there was no sting, no soreness where there should've been bruises, fractures, blood.
No limp. No broken leg.
He touched his chest. No bullet wound.
He raised a hand hesitating then brushed it against the side of his neck. His fingers lingered there for a moment.
No cut. No bruises
But something had happened. He could feel it.
His eyes snapped toward the treeline and he saw him.
The hitman.
Or what was left of him.
A twisted heap of flesh and cloth lay crumpled a few feet away, blood pooling around him, steaming against the cold earth. The body was still warm. His throat had been torn open, savaged by something feral. His expression was locked in a final moment of confusion and terror.
Elias stared.
But no nausea came.
No panic.
No revulsion.
Just a faint flicker of recognition.
He crawled closer. Something inside him wanted to feel something anything. Horror. Guilt. Fear. He looked into those lifeless eyes, searching
Nothing.
He rose to his feet and backed away. His breath came shallow, automatic.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he whispered.
He clenched his fists.
Then without warning he drove one into his own jaw.
Pain flared but not enough.
Again.
A punch to the ribs.
A dull crack.
Still nothing.
No tears. No sobbing. No rage.
Only silence.
He dropped to his knees, gripping his hair, pulling hard yelling into the empty forest.
"WHY CAN'T I FEEL ANYTHING!?"
His voice cracked into the trees like a broken match.
He clawed at his face, at his arms, at his chest trying to tear the numbness out of himself. His body shook, not from fear, but from the absence of it.
"This isn't me. This isn't me. This isn't me…"
But the words felt wrong.
False.
He slammed a fist into the mud and saw the red run down his knuckles, mixing with the rain.
It should've hurt more.
It should've mattered.
He turned his eyes back to the hitman's corpse, and that's when he noticed something else.
He was hungry.
Not for food. Not for warmth.
But for what was inside that man before he bled out.
The scent clung to the corpse like perfume sweet and metallic.
His mouth watered.
"No…" he muttered, staggering backward.
He turned, trying to run anywhere but his legs took him in a different direction.
Through the trees.
Toward something… living.
He didn't think. He moved.
---
The forest blurred around him again. His muscles moved like they remembered things he'd never done before. Speed came naturally. Balance. Focus. Animal instincts without the animal panic.
Then he found it.
A deer.
He struck hard and fast.with no hesitation. No guilt.
He fed.
---
But this time… when he saw his reflection in the deer's eye
Blood dripping from his chin, breath shallow but controlled, glowing eyes staring back at him like glass
He saw a lie.
This wasn't new.
This wasn't sudden.
This felt like it had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. Like he'd always been a little closer to this beast than he ever wanted to admit.
And now the mask was off.
He crawled back toward the stream and stared at his reflection, rain mixing with blood on his cheeks.
"Was I always this thing?" he whispered.
His voice trembled but it wasn't with fear. It was with the memory of fear.
Because he didn't feel it now.
Not really.
And that that terrified him more than anything else.
---
A howl echoed in the distance.
Not wolf.
Not human.
Something old.
Elias didn't flinch. He just watched the trees. Waiting.
This world didn't feel foreign anymore.
It felt like home.
And that scared him most of all.