The first one didn't scream.
Loup hit him mid-run — claws out, steel slicing through leather and bone. The man dropped like a sack of meat, drone short-circuiting midair.
The others hesitated. That was their mistake.
They always think the change is slow. That I need time. Nah. The wolf don't wait. The wolf don't ask.
The flamethrower guy lit up the canyon wall, fire licking the ribs of the Vault Spine. Loup ducked low, sprinted through the smoke, and came up behind him.
One swipe. Mask gone. Second swipe. Throat gone.
The kid screamed behind him. Loup didn't turn.
He ain't my problem. Not yet.
Three left. One had a shock baton. Another had a scattergun. The last one just ran.
Smart.
Scattergun fired. Loup twisted midair, felt the pellets graze his shoulder. Pain flared, but
the metal in his blood hardened on instinct — a living armor.
He landed on the scattergunner, drove him into the dirt. The baton guy charged, yelling something stupid.
Loup grabbed the scattergun, spun, fired.
One shot. One body.
Silence.
The canyon was quiet again. Smoke drifted. Blood soaked the sand. The Vault Spine pulsed faintly — like it had a heartbeat.
Loup stood over the bodies, breathing hard. His fur receded. Steel melted back into skin. The change always left him cold.
The kid crawled out from behind a rock, eyes wide.
"You… you killed them."
Loup didn't answer.
"You saved me."
Still nothing.
I didn't save him. I saved the gas. The Vault Spine's got clean gas. That's what matters.
He walked to the ribs, placed a hand on the metal. It was warm. Alive. A vent hissed open — old tech responding to his blood.
Inside: a chamber. Tubes. Tanks. One marked with a blue sigil.
Clean gas.
Loup stared.
She could breathe again. She could live.
Behind him, the kid spoke. "We should report this. To the Core. They'll pay big."
Loup turned. "It's mine."
"But—"
Loup stepped forward. "You wanna walk outta here, you forget this place."
The kid nodded fast.
I ain't sharing. Not with suits. Not with scavvers. Not with anyone.
He loaded the tank onto his bike. Heavy, but worth it. The ride back was quiet. The desert didn't speak. It just watched.
Back in the slums, he climbed the stairs. His mom was still breathing — barely.
He hooked up the tank, cracked the valve. The gas hissed out, pure and clean. She inhaled. Her chest rose easier.
She opened her eyes. "You found it."
Loup nodded.
She smiled. "You always do."
Not always. But this time, yeah.