The meds didn't work.
Loup sat in the corner of the room, watching his mom sleep. Her chest rose slow, like every breath was a fight. The air stank of rust and old blood. The fan above them spun lazy, doing nothing but making noise.
I brought her the wrong ones. Again. Wrong dose, wrong brand, wrong price. Ain't like I got options. Ain't like I got time.
He stood, cracked his neck, and grabbed his jacket. The metal in his spine clicked with the motion. His joints always made noise now — like old machinery that never got oiled.
"Where you goin'?" her voice rasped from the bed.
"Out," he said.
"You always out."
He didn't answer. Just pulled the door shut behind him.
The streets of the slums were alive — not in a good way. Kids ran barefoot through puddles of coolant. Vendors shouted over each other, selling fake tech and real bullets. A preacher screamed about the end times from a rusted speaker tower.
Loup moved through it like a ghost. People saw him, but they didn't look long. He had that kind of face. That kind of walk. The kind that said: don't.
I used to run with a crew. Bone Rats. We jacked convoys, hit black market trains, sold scrap to the wrong people. Then I got too strong. Too weird. They said I was cursed. Said I'd bring heat. They were right.
He ducked into a back alley, knocked twice on a steel door. A slit opened.
"Password?"
Loup stared.
"…Right. Forgot who I was talkin' to."
The door creaked open.
Inside was dark, lit by flickering neon and the glow of old monitors. A man sat behind a desk, goggles pushed up on his forehead, fingers tapping a cracked keyboard.
"Loup," he said. "Heard you got into it with the Gold Hand crew."
Loup shrugged. "They started it."
"Yeah, and you finished it. Word is you broke Kree's arm. The gauntlet guy."
"Didn't like his face."
The man grinned. "You never do."
This is Vetch. Info dealer. Tech scav. Used to be a coder before the world went sideways. Now he sells secrets and buys favors.
"I need a job," Loup said.
Vetch leaned back. "You always do. What's the rush?"
Loup didn't answer.
Vetch sighed. "Alright. Got something. High risk, high pay. You ever hear of the Vault Spine?"
Loup raised an eyebrow. "That a myth."
"Not anymore. Word is, someone cracked it. Leftovers from the old world. Pre-collapse tech. Maybe even clean gas."
Loup's jaw tightened.
Clean gas. Stuff that don't choke. Stuff that don't kill. Stuff that could keep her lungs from turning to dust.
"What's the job?"
"Escort. Some rich kid from the imperial peopel wants to see it. Needs muscle. You in?"
Loup nodded. "When?"
"Now."
They met at the edge of the slums. The client was soft — clean boots, fresh coat, eyes too wide. He looked at Loup like he was a wild animal.
"You're the… uh… guide?"
Loup didn't answer. Just walked.
I don't talk to tourists. Especially ones who smell like money and fear.
The desert stretched out ahead — endless sand, broken towers, bones of cities long dead. They moved fast, silent. Loup's senses were sharp. He could smell heat, hear the wind shift, feel the ground hum beneath his boots.
They reached the canyon by nightfall. The Vault Spine was real. A jagged line of metal ribs sticking out of the earth like a buried god.
The kid gasped. "It's beautiful."
Loup didn't see beauty. He saw danger.
Places like this don't stay secret. Not for long.
A sound behind them. Footsteps. Too many.
Loup turned. Eyes glowing faint.
Stay down," he said.
The kid dropped.
Figures emerged from the dark — six, maybe seven. All armed. One of them had a drone buzzing over his shoulder. Another had a flamethrower.
"Yo," the leader called. "That your pet mutator?"
Loup stepped forward. "You lost?"
"Nah. We're right where we wanna be."
They raised their weapons.
Of course. Can't ever be easy. Can't ever be clean.
Loup cracked his knuckles. The metal in his arms pulsed. His spine locked. The change came fast.
Fur. Steel. Fangs.
The wolf was loose.