Rain had been falling for hours, drumming against the cracked asphalt of the abandoned street. Rain in New Orleans was no surprise, but tonight felt different; the sky seemed to pour an entire winter over the low alleys, clouds thickening around the flickering streetlights, casting watery halos on everything.
Adam stepped through puddles forming at the edges, his worn gray shoes squeaking weakly with every step. His fingers fumbled with the zipper of his coat, trying to block the chill that crept through the thin fabric. Water dripped from his shoes as he made his way home after another long, exhausting shift at Saint Mary's Hospital. The neon lights no longer offered comfort—they only highlighted the fatigue etched on his face.
Fourteen hours of disinfectant smells, beeping machines, and faces shifting between fear and hope. The fluorescent light of the hallways no longer felt clean; it reflected the dark circles under his eyes. He remembered the last patient in the ER: an elderly man with a lung disease, gasping as if climbing endless stairs. Adam held his hand, silently saying, "You are not alone." These small acts didn't go into the reports, but they were the reason he kept going.
He took a shortcut through an old alley, where exposed bricks jutted out and the roots of an ancient oak split the asphalt like giant fingers. There, under a flickering lamp, he saw a figure leaning against the wall—a body soaked to the bone, a dark coat open at the chest, revealing a pale white beneath… at first glance, it seemed like a doctor's shirt or a lab apron.
Adam hesitated. "Keep walking," his cautious voice said. But another voice—the one that had driven him to study nursing, to sit beside strangers in their worst moments—whispered: "Go closer."
He stepped forward.
"Hey… are you okay?"
The man raised his head slightly. His face was pale, flour-dusted, a beard unshaven for days, and his eyes gleamed strangely in the rain. He pressed a hand to his side, and as Adam bent closer, he saw blood seeping from beneath the coat—thick, dark, unnatural.
"I'll call an ambulance."
"No," the man said, his American English broken, coming in ragged breaths. "No ambulance. They're watching."
Adam went into action, as always: first, he pressed the wound, knee on the wet ground, opened his ever-present bag, and wrapped a compress tightly around the gash.
"Breathe. I'm Adam. Tell me: where does it hurt most? Head? Chest? Any allergies?"
A faint, bitter smile appeared on the man's face.
"You're… a nurse."
"Yes. And that's exactly why you'll survive if you let me help and call for an ambulance."
"If they come… they come." The word they fell heavy, his gaze drifting to the alley's shadows.
Adam pressed harder. "Who are they?"
"Organization… blood… serum…" He swallowed. "Ancient strains. King's line… and the Old Wolf."
Adam didn't understand. It was a mix of delirium and keywords. Yet something in the man's eyes was sharp behind the haze—an awareness shining through the pain.
A car's headlights pierced the alley like a spear of light and water. Adam waved instinctively, but felt a sudden iron grip pulling him down. The man's hand forced him still, lips curling in a grim smile:
"Don't. You'll get us both killed."
Then Adam saw it: a short, matte steel cylinder in the man's hand, with a wide button and three transparent chambers, each filled with differently colored liquid. He'd never seen anything like it—like an experimental auto-injector used in lab emergencies.
"What is that?"
"The only way," the man said. "If I die, the cure dies. If they take it, we all die."
"You won't inject me with anything." Adam tried to push it away, but fatigue weighed him down, and desperation lent the man sudden strength. The injector plunged into Adam's arm. Three metallic clicks—tick… tick… tick—then a flash of heat coursed through his veins.
He screamed, half falling backward. The night fractured into shards of glass. Streetlights trembled. The ground stretched and shrank. Rain's smell thickened, almost tasting metallic.
The man pressed against Adam's chest, speaking fast:
"Listen. They'll come for you. Don't trust clinics. Blood banks—labs—they're all theirs. If you feel the hunger—fight it. Do not feed. Do you hear me?"
"What… did you inject me with?"
"A bridge," the man said. "A bridge between what hunts and what protects." Then in a whisper: "Run. Survive. Prevent the serum from falling to them."
Adam wanted to shout Stop! but a roar erupted from within him. Shadows converged at the alley's edge, and the man… disintegrated.
It wasn't a normal death. His body collapsed into fine gray ash, forming a small cloud that rained down over Adam's hands, knees, and coat.
Adam staggered back, gasping, body alive with a new, feverish energy, like an engine had just ignited in his chest.
Outside the alley, a cat scuttled across the street. For the first time, Adam heard it clearly. He smelled old motorcycle oil, distant conversations, a woman laughing, a TV broadcasting weather. He didn't understand how he could sense all this—but he ran.
At the apartment, his mother opened the door, unsurprised by his soaked state.
"You're wet! I told you to take the umbrella!"
"Sorry," he muttered, hiding his red arm as he entered. He washed the injection site; faint, thin veins beneath his skin shimmered in the light—was it a hallucination, or something else?
He sat on the bed, closing his eyes. Darkness rushed in, not sleep, but a void. Inside, he saw a roar, a winged shadow, a massive wolf, a child—himself—crying, sensing them. Then a voice: Step closer.
He did. With each step, he grew—child to youth, youth to man. They paused before him, and he commanded:
"Kneel."
The creatures obeyed. Not fear, but law older than struggle.
Adam woke suddenly, heart racing, sweat cold on his neck. His body felt different—muscles firmer, senses sharper. He stepped outside, umbrella in hand. The city smelled of wet earth and distant river salt. Shadows followed, watching.
He opened his old notebook, writing:
Alley — 1
Cylinder — three chambers — man said Organization — King's line — Old Wolf — no ambulance — trust no one.
He didn't know the path yet, but he felt he was no longer alone. Something was listening, watching, waiting with him. Not friend, not enemy—but certainly not weak.