Breakfast felt almost normal. The eggs, the toast, the coffee—it was the same routine I'd always had. The only difference was the sheer amount. My appetite had nearly doubled, maybe even tripled, and I couldn't seem to get enough. At least I didn't crave raw meat like I had in wolf form. That seemed to stay locked away with the beast.
Still, I needed answers. If my appetite had changed, what else had? How much stronger, faster, tougher had I become? There was only one way to find out.
I laced up my shoes and hit the road.
The moment my feet touched the dirt path, I felt the urge to push myself, and before I knew it I was flying. Wind whipped past me, the trees became green blurs on either side, and I realized with a jolt—I was running at least sixty miles per hour. Maybe more. It was exhilarating, but also terrifying. Out here, in the woods around my property, no one would see me. But as I neared the main road, I forced myself to slow down. A man running that fast in broad daylight would be a headline I couldn't afford.
The gym was my next test. I tried to act casual, like I wasn't buzzing with nervous energy, but I could feel eyes on me the moment I walked in. New faces always drew attention.
I headed straight for the weights. Two hundred and fifty pounds went up like nothing, as if the bar were empty. I could've pushed more, I knew it, but I stopped there. Drawing attention to myself was the last thing I needed. Better to leave with questions unanswered than to have strangers whispering about the new guy who bent barbells in half.
Once I left the gym and made sure no one was around, I opened up again. My legs stretched, my muscles sang, and this time I knew I was hitting at least eighty miles per hour, maybe more. It took half the time to get home. My lungs should've been on fire. My legs should've been dead. But instead, I felt alive.
And then the thought hit me—if I hadn't pulled the trigger that night, if the shotgun blast hadn't connected, I'd be dead. No second chances. That memory chilled me more than the wind.
Back home, I decided on one last test.
The transformation.
It came easier this time, though still painful. Bones cracked, muscles tore and reformed, my skin stretched, and fur pushed through. In two or three minutes, the man was gone and the wolf stood in his place.
Shifting back was another story.
Half an hour. That's how long it took. Half an hour of grinding concentration, of clawing my way back to myself, until finally my hands replaced paws and my voice returned.
There were other discoveries too. Silver wasn't my weakness. But weapons, knives, bullets—they could hurt me. Just not for long. Cuts closed in seconds, deep wounds in minutes. The healing was fast, almost frightening in its speed.
And then there was the matter of clothes. When I shifted earlier, I'd ripped through them like tissue paper. Lesson learned. Next time, the clothes come off first.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The man who looked back wasn't the thirty-eight-year-old Daniel I'd always known. He was younger—stronger. He looked like a man in his prime, built like he lived in the gym.
I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or panic.