The moment Wolf was awakend it wanted nothing but chaos.
It wanted to rip everything apart.
Then the wolf smelled the robed figures it recognized them as Their prey.
The chamber door exploded inward as the wolf hit it at full force—stone cracking, iron hinges tearing free. The impact alone crushed the man behind it, his body folding against the wall with a wet, final sound.
The first robed figure didn't even get a scream.
The wolf didn't slow.
It learned.
Blue eyes tracked movement faster than thought. A second cultist raised his hands, glyphs flaring to life—
Too late.
The wolf was already there.
Claws went through his chest, ribs shattering like glass. She lifted him off the ground, slammed him into the floor once, twice—then tore his throat out with a single, savage motion. Blood sprayed across the ceiling in an arc.
The facility erupted into chaos.
Shouts.
Spells half-cast.
Boots scrambling.
The wolf moved like a storm given shape.
A fire sigil struck her side—magic searing into flesh. She roared, staggering for half a step, smoke rising from the wound.
It didn't heal.
The burn stayed.
Her head snapped toward the caster.
That man tried to run.
She pounced.
The force alone shattered his spine before her jaws closed around his skull. She crushed it—bone, thought, and identity gone in an instant.
Another robed figure unleashed a binding spell. Chains of glowing energy wrapped around her legs, digging deep, biting into muscle.
The wolf howled—not in pain, but offense.
She tore forward anyway.
The chains ripped chunks of flesh from her legs as they snapped one by one, blood streaking the floor behind her. She didn't regenerate. The injuries stayed. The cost piled up.
And still—she advanced.
They tried numbers.
That was their mistake.
She waded through them, claws disemboweling, jaws ripping, bodies thrown aside like broken furniture. She learned how to kill each spellcaster faster than the last—aim for the throat, the heart, the hands.
Magic could hurt her.
But fear slowed them.
And fear was fatal.
In the central corridor, a group tried to flee together.
The wolf leapt.
She landed in their midst and tore them apart in seconds—screams cut short, blood pooling, organs scattered across ritual markings that would never be finished.
Silence followed.
Not peace.
Silence born of absence.
The wolf stood in the middle of the corridor, chest heaving, grey fur soaked dark with blood—some of it was hers. Burns smoked along her side. Deep cuts lined her limbs. None of it healed.
She lifted her head.
Scented the air.
Her hunt wasn't over yet.
The car lurched forward the moment Sam slammed the accelerator.
Tires screamed against wet concrete as they tore out of the facility's underground exit, headlights slicing through the night like panicked eyes.
Behind them—
A metal door exploded inward.
The sound followed them.
Not just noise.
Chaos.
Screams—short, cut off too fast.
The crunch of steel folding like paper.
A howl ripped through the air, low and monstrous, shaking the windows of the car.
Simon turned in his seat.
He shouldn't have looked.
He did anyway.
A shadow crossed the floodlights behind them—huge, fast, wrong. Another howl echoed, closer this time, layered with something wet and final.
The car fishtailed as Sam corrected the steering.
"Don't look," Sam said, voice tight. "Don't—don't look back."
Simon couldn't stop shaking.
"That was Iris," he whispered.
No one answered him.
The screams behind them blurred into distance, but the sound of destruction didn't fade. It followed—like the night itself was chasing them.
Clara's hands were already trembling as she fumbled for her phone.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," she muttered. "This wasn't—this was not an awakening."
Another howl tore through the air, closer to the surface now.
Sam's knuckles were white on the wheel. "Tell me," he said, not looking at her, "tell me she's going to stop."
Clara didn't answer.
She hit call.
Once.
Twice.
"Pick up," she whispered. "Mark, pick up—please."
Mark's body hit the asphalt hard.
Steam rose from his skin as bone slid back into bone, fur burning away like ash in reverse. The giant wolf collapsed inward, shrinking—until only a broken, bleeding boy remained in the middle of the road.
He couldn't scream anymore.
Magic wounds did not close.
Not for him.
Not for anything born of magic.
His ribs screamed every time he breathed. One arm refused to respond. His vision swam, the world tilting sideways.
Then—
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
A faint vibration against the road.
Mark's eyes shifted.
His phone lay a few feet away, screen lighting the dark, skidding slightly with every vibration.
He dragged himself forward.
Fingers clawed at the pavement. Nails cracked. Blood smeared the road in thin lines as he crawled, teeth clenched so hard his jaw shook.
The phone buzzed again.
Clara.
Mark reached it at last, hand shaking violently as he pulled it closer. He couldn't lift it. Not fully.
So he leaned down and pressed it to his ear.
"Mark—" Clara's voice broke instantly. "Mark, listen to me. You have to—"
"I'm here," he rasped. "Talk."
Her breath came fast, panicked. "Get to the underground facility. The abandoned service tunnels under 5th Avenue NE, Northgate sector—the old transit access near the closed substation."
Mark's eyes sharpened despite the pain.
"What happened?" he asked, already knowing the answer would hurt.
"It's Iris," Clara said. "She turned. She fully turned. And she's not stopping."
For a moment, Mark said nothing.
Something in his chest went cold.
"I see," he whispered.
In the background of the call, he heard it—sirens, wind, chaos, something distant and animal.
Mark forced himself onto one elbow.
"Listen to me carefully," he said, voice low, steady despite the agony. "You all leave. Right now."
"But—"
"No," he cut in. "You leave the area. As far as you can get. Do not come back for me."
Silence on the other end.
Then Clara asked quietly, "are you okay why are you breathing so hard"
Mark glanced at his twisted arm, the blood pooling beneath him, the magic still burning inside his wounds like poison.
A slow smile pulled at his lips.
"I'm okay don't worry about me," he said.
He ended the call.
Mark rolled onto his back, staring up at the night sky between the buildings. His chest rose and fell—slow, controlled.
Pain was familiar.
Fear was not.
"Hold on, Iris," he muttered.
Somewhere deep inside him, the beast stirred again—angry, focused, ready.
And this time—
He wasn't fighting to survive.
He was coming to stop a monster.