Aaron's transformation was over, but it hadn't brought him the relief he had hoped for. Instead, it left him hollow—shattered into pieces that barely held together. The feral rage had passed, but its consequences remained etched into the sterile walls of the lab, into the blood dried under his claws, and worst of all, into his memory.
He sat slumped in the far corner of the containment chamber, his mutated form hunched over, tail wrapped tightly around his body as if it could shield him from the truth. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his face buried, breath shallow and trembling. His claws—once a tool of survival—were now symbols of destruction. They had taken a life, and no amount of apology could undo that. His fur was matted with blood, not all of it his. The body had already been removed, but the ghost of it lingered. The stain. The silence. The weight.
In the observation room, David stood motionless, phone still in hand, staring blankly at the floor. His colleague—his friend—was gone. Killed by his own son, even if unintentionally. He had known there were risks, had known things could spiral, but not like this. Never like this.
He finally found the strength to call Catherine. His voice cracked as he spoke, as if the words themselves resisted being said.
"He's done transforming," he told her, "but... something happened. I—I couldn't stop it."
There was a pause on the line. Then, sharp and unwavering:
"I'm coming. Now."
David didn't argue. He knew there was no stopping her.
Half an hour later, the elevator doors hissed open at the lab entrance. Catherine stepped out, fury and fear clashing behind her eyes. She didn't wait for David to speak. Her pace was swift and purposeful, heels clicking against the polished floors like a countdown. David moved to meet her in the lobby, his face pale, his shoulders heavy with guilt.
"I'm sorry," he said before she even asked. His voice was quiet, broken. "I never meant for this to happen. I thought we were ready."
She didn't speak. Just looked at him—eyes puffy, lips tight—and nodded for him to lead the way.
They made their way down through the hallways in silence, past locked doors and blinking status panels. The walls were too clean. Too white. The kind of clean that tried to cover up what had happened here, but couldn't.
Finally, they arrived at the observation room. Catherine's breath hitched the moment she stepped inside.
There, in the adjoining chamber, was her son.
Aaron looked... alien. His body had changed, tall and powerful, his fur disheveled, glowing lines running faintly along his arms and back. But it was the way he sat that broke her—curled up like a frightened child, hiding from a world too cruel to face. His head was tucked down between his knees, tail curled around his legs protectively. He looked small again, like the boy she used to rock to sleep after nightmares. Only now, he was the nightmare—at least in his own mind.
Catherine gasped and instinctively reached for David's hand, her fingers trembling. "What... what happened in there?" she whispered, already seeing the smears of blood on the floor, the faint outline of something that had been dragged away.
David swallowed hard, voice raw. "He lost control. Someone went in to try and wake him up from the dream-state. I didn't authorize it. I should've stopped it. He was—he was still fighting the alter-self. He thought he was still dreaming when it happened."
Catherine turned to face him slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You're telling me he killed someone while dreaming?"
David looked down. "No. He wasn't dreaming anymore. But his mind didn't know the difference. He came out mid-transition... still in a rage. He didn't recognize them. He didn't know what was real. By the time he regained control—" his voice cracked, "—they were already gone."
She turned back to the glass, tears now rolling freely down her cheeks. She approached the divider slowly, placing her palm against it.
Inside, Aaron stirred. He'd felt the weight of a gaze, something that pierced through the fog of guilt and pain.
He looked up.
His eyes—glowing faintly, still ringed with fear and exhaustion—locked onto hers. His breath caught in his throat.
He hadn't seen her in what felt like years.
The room seemed to shrink around him.
The blood on the floor.
The smell of antiseptic failing to cover the coppery stench.
The chill of the reinforced walls.
And now—his mother.
Aaron's lips parted, but he couldn't speak. His throat felt tight. The last words he'd screamed were "No, no, no—" over and over, as if he could turn back time by force. And now... this.
Catherine saw the recognition in his eyes, and more—fear. Not of her, but for her. As if he was afraid that even looking at her might hurt her somehow.
"I'm here, baby..." she whispered, though the glass kept her words from reaching him.
Aaron pressed his back harder against the corner, claws gripping his own arms so tightly they threatened to break skin again. "Don't—" his voice rasped, barely audible. "Don't come in here..."
Catherine turned to David. "Let me go in. He needs someone."
David shook his head. "It's not safe. Not yet."
"I don't care," she snapped, but her voice faltered. "I have to—he needs to know he's not alone."
"He knows," David said quietly. "But he doesn't believe it."
Inside the chamber, Aaron was rocking slowly. His breath came in quiet gasps. Tears trailed down his face, soaking into the fur on his cheeks. The weight of what he'd done pressed down on him like gravity had grown stronger.
He whispered to himself, again and again, as if trying to anchor reality back into place.
"I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to..."
"I didn't want to hurt anyone..."
His claws dug into his arms. The pain helped. It grounded him. It reminded him he was still here. That he hadn't woken up into another nightmare. No matter how much he wanted to.
From behind the glass, Catherine couldn't hear the words, but she saw the pain, raw and unfiltered. She turned back to David, wiping her eyes roughly.
"He's going to tear himself apart in there."
"I know," David replied. His voice cracked. "And I don't know how to stop it."
They both stood there for a long while—watching. Waiting. Hoping he'd come back to them.
But Aaron remained in the corner, eyes glassy, arms locked around his knees, rocking gently as the weight of guilt settled deeper into his bones.