For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I exhaled fully. I didn’t even bother with a shower. Exhaustion crashed over me like a wave, heavy and sudden.
I barely managed to kick off my jeans before collapsing onto the bed. The mattress creaked under my weight, but I didn’t care.
Within minutes, sleep pulled me under, and dragged me straight back to that horrible moment.
I bolted upright in bed, lungs heaving like I’d just run for miles. My chest was slick with sweat, the thin sheets tangled around my legs like vines trying to hold me down.
For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.
The room around me was unfamiliar. It was dimly lit, worn at the edges, with soft creaks from old floorboards and a faint smell of cinnamon and yeast lingering from the bakery downstairs.
But that wasn’t what I saw. In my mind, I was back there. Back in that cold, gleaming kitchen where everything had gone to hell.
I closed my eyes, hoping to push it away, but the images hit me like a tidal wave. I saw it all again, in brutal clarity.
The elite baking institute had been everything I dreamed of.
The shining countertops, the clatter of mixing bowls, the endless scent of sugar, spice, and something becoming beautiful. I was good at it. More than good. I was rising.
Teachers noticed. Classmates envied. My future had been baking itself into something bright and warm. And then… one night… it shattered.
I’d gone back after hours, just to grab my notes. I’d forgotten them in the rush of cleanup, and with midterms looming, I couldn’t afford to be unprepared.
The building was locked, but I had a key. I’d interned long enough to be trusted with one. I slipped in quietly, not wanting to draw attention.
I remember thinking how strange it was that the hallway lights were off. The security system should’ve been active.
But I told myself it was nothing. Maybe maintenance had come through. Maybe Chef Orin was working late again. The kitchen was dark. Still.
I didn’t turn the lights on. I didn’t need them.
I knew every inch of that space, the gleaming counters, the coolers humming softly, the polished metal shelves stacked with pans and mixing bowls.
I moved on instinct, counting steps. Then I heard it. A low, feral growl. It froze me in place. Not a sound I should’ve heard. Not in that kitchen. Not in any kitchen.
There was a crash, metal slamming against tile, and a horrible wet sound, like something soft being crushed. Then… a choked-off scream. Short. Sudden. Terrifying in its finality.
I crept forward, the breath stuck in my throat. I peeked around the center island, and everything inside me turned to ice. Chef Orin stood over a man sprawled on the floor.
A homeless guy. I recognized him from the corner café, the one who always muttered to himself and tried to trade paper flowers for change.
He was bleeding out, his limbs twisted unnaturally. He’d crawled in, probably just looking for scraps.
Orin wasn’t fully shifted. Not yet. His hands, now paws, were furred and tipped with claws. His mouth stretched too wide, teeth too long, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.
Blood slicked the front of his apron. He looked up and saw me, and smiled.
“Didn’t know you’d be pulling an all-nighter, Sean,” he said calmly, like he hadn’t just murdered someone on the floor.
I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. I backed up slowly, pulse roaring in my ears.
My wolf stirred in my chest, but I forced it down. Shifting would only make noise. Get me noticed. Get me killed.
Then I ran. Through the side exit. Down the alley. Into the night, into the cold, into the unknown. I didn’t stop running. Not until I was too far to hear the city traffic. Not until my legs gave out.
Not until I realized that he knew my face.
Now, curled up in a strange bed in a town that barely existed on maps, I could still hear the sound of that man’s scream. I could still feel Orin’s eyes on me.
