“Name?” I ask, though I already know it.
“Marco,” he says, voice small now. “Marco Velez.”
He closes his eyes like maybe that’ll soften me.
And for a second, I feel it.
Hesitation.
Not because of what he said. Something in the way he’s holding himself, trembling but not broken.
I raise the knife anyway.
It’s old, the one I always use for cleanup. Not my ceremonial blade. This one’s steel and bone, nothing poetic about it. I grip it tight, the leather hilt warm in my palm, and I step forward.
Marco’s eyes snap open.
“Don’t,” he says, voice rising. “Please, man. Just don’t.”
Then he says something that makes the beast inside me freeze.
“You don’t want this on you.”
I stop.
“What’d you say?”
His chest heaves. “You kill me, it won’t go away. The weight. You think it’s just another job, but I see it in your eyes. You’re already drowning.”
The knife trembles.
“You don’t know me,” I say, but the words come out hoarse.
“I know guilt,” he says. “It eats the same way, no matter who you are.”
Something snaps.
Not outside. Not from him.
Inside me.
The shift comes fast, violent, and not by choice.
Bones stretch. Muscles tear and regrow. Skin ripples, heat exploding across my shoulders as the bull surges forward, taking the space I usually keep locked down. I hear myself growl—no, bellow—and the sound rattles the walls.
Marco screams.
It’s not a long scream. It cuts off with a wet crunch as my horns connect with his ribs, sending him flying into the crate. I don’t remember crossing the distance. Don’t remember slamming into him. All I know is the rush, the heat, the fire in my blood demanding more.
More violence. More pain. More silence.
I throw him again, harder this time. His body hits the wall, collapses. He’s coughing blood, trying to crawl, but one leg is twisted beneath him and his arm hangs limp.
I snort, paw the ground, breath steaming even in the warm air.
Then something flickers. A noise.
Not his voice. Not a word.
