Belfast didn't make the decision immediately.
He gave it three days.
Three nights of sitting cross-legged on the floor of the guest room—formerly Monroe's meticulous storage space, now partially reorganized to accommodate a Grimm with a pocket dimension problem.
The Bauerschwein card lay in front of him each time.
Bauerschwein – Captured
Inside the two-dimensional prison, the creature paced endlessly across the inked landscape. Its thoughts bled outward in fractured pulses whenever Belfast opened the channel.
Pain.
Hunger.
Noise.
Make it stop.
It wasn't just violent.
It was deteriorating.
On the second night, Belfast reached deeper—probing the structure of the containment layer carefully. The Hexenbiest current responded with clinical detachment, unraveling threads of memory and instinct without breaching the boundary fully.
He saw flashes.
A meeting near the docks.
A vial.
A coercion.
Drink.
Then burning.
The sickness hadn't been natural.
But it had progressed too far.
Neural pathways shredded. Impulse control gone. Identity fragmented beyond repair.
By the third night, Belfast closed the connection and leaned back against the wall.
"There's no coming back for you," he murmured softly.
Not redemption.
Not rehabilitation.
The Bauerschwein's consciousness flickered in response—more static than thought now.
He could release it.
It would rampage again within hours.
He could collapse the card.
Erase it entirely.
That would be mercy.
Or—
He could convert it.
Not into a tool.
Not into raw energy.
But into something stable.
Contained.
Directed.
He thought about control. About power twisted by instability.
Then he thought about something else.
Structure.
Hierarchy.
He remembered cardboard decks spread across childhood tables. Strategy games. Monsters bound by rules. Creatures that were dangerous—but only within defined parameters.
A form surfaced in his mind.
Small. Aggressive. Contained.
Feral Imp.
He almost laughed at the absurdity.
"You're going to hate this," he muttered to the card.
He waited until Monroe left for work deliveries before beginning.
The backyard felt heavier than usual, as if the air understood something permanent was about to occur.
Belfast placed the Bauerschwein card on the table.
Drew three blank ones beside it.
Insurance.
He inhaled slowly and let the Grimm flare rise—not outward, but inward, compressing power into precision rather than presence.
Then he reached into the card's core.
The containment barrier dissolved partially, revealing the chaotic interior landscape. The Bauerschwein's image writhed violently as he peeled back the layers of corrupted instinct.
"Not destruction," he whispered. "Refinement."
The Hexenbiest blood surged.
Cold.
Methodical.
It didn't care about morality. It cared about function.
Belfast separated the unstable consciousness from the primal energy fueling it. It felt like pulling thorns from living flesh.
The card screamed.
Not audibly—but across the psychic thread connecting them.
He gritted his teeth and continued.
Memories disintegrated first.
Then identity.
What remained was raw feral essence—rage without direction, hunger without target.
He compressed it.
Smaller.
Denser.
Contained within a tighter framework.
He reshaped the outline on the card's surface—the bulky boar frame shrinking, limbs thinning, tusks retracting into sharp fangs. The ink reformed into a hunched, winged creature with clawed hands and burning red eyes.
Compact.
Predatory.
Bound.
The symbols along the card's border shifted, locking into a new configuration.
When the transformation stabilized, Belfast sagged slightly, sweat dripping down his neck.
He lifted the card.
The image stared back at him.
A small, snarling demon with batlike wings and exaggerated claws.
At the bottom, new text etched itself in silver:
Feral Imp – Bound
He exhaled slowly.
"Alright," he murmured.
Time to test loyalty.
He turned the card over.
Instead of Release, the back now displayed two words:
Summon – Recall
He pressed his thumb against Summon.
The air in front of him rippled.
Black ink spilled outward and condensed into three-dimensional form.
The Feral Imp landed lightly on the grass—no larger than a medium dog. Its skin was charcoal-gray, eyes glowing faintly crimson. Wings flexed once before folding neatly against its back.
It looked up at him immediately.
Not with madness.
With focus.
It bowed its head.
"My Grimm," it rasped, voice gravelly but coherent.
Belfast studied it carefully.
No chaotic mental noise. No fragmented identity.
Only tethered awareness.
"Do you remember what you were?" Belfast asked quietly.
The Imp tilted its head.
"Before is irrelevant," it said simply. "I serve."
No hesitation.
No resistance.
He felt the bond clearly—a thread linking its existence to his will. Not enslaved in agony.
Structured.
Purpose-built.
He circled it once, testing.
"Fly."
The wings snapped open. It lifted several feet into the air, hovering steadily.
"Land."
Immediate compliance.
"Attack."
The Imp spun and shredded a fallen tree branch into splinters with surgical precision.
"Stop."
It froze mid-motion.
Belfast nodded slowly.
"Recall."
The creature dissolved into ink and snapped back into card form in his hand.
Silence returned to the yard.
He stared at the card for a long time.
This was different from capture.
Different from destruction.
He hadn't just converted matter.
He had redefined essence.
And he had enjoyed the precision of it more than he wanted to admit.
That evening, Monroe noticed immediately.
"You feel… heavier," Monroe said from the kitchen doorway.
Belfast leaned against the counter, drying a dish.
"I made a decision."
Monroe's eyes narrowed slightly.
"The Bauerschwein?"
"Yes."
A tense beat.
"You killed it."
"No."
Monroe's brow furrowed.
"Then what?"
Belfast pulled out the new card and placed it carefully on the table.
Monroe stepped closer.
His eyes widened slightly at the image.
"That is not a pig."
"No."
"What is it?"
"A stabilized form."
Monroe stared at him.
"You turned it into something else."
"Yes."
"Is it suffering?"
"No."
"Is it conscious?"
"Yes."
"Is it loyal?"
"Completely."
Monroe went very still.
"That," he said slowly, "is an entirely new category of disturbing."
Belfast didn't argue.
"I couldn't save what it was," he said quietly. "But I could prevent it from hurting anyone again."
"And now it hurts people for you?"
"No."
Monroe's eyes snapped up.
"It hurts who I tell it to."
Silence stretched thin.
"Belfast," Monroe said carefully, "you're not just containing threats anymore."
"I know."
"You're building something."
Belfast held his gaze steadily.
"Yes."
Monroe studied him for a long, searching moment.
"And you still believe you're not becoming a monster."
Belfast didn't look away.
"Monsters act without choice."
A beat.
"I choose."
Monroe exhaled slowly.
"That's not as reassuring as you think."
Maybe not.
But Belfast felt the difference.
The Bauerschwein had been chaos.
The Feral Imp was order.
Bound.
Directed.
Purposeful.
As he slid the card back into his pocket, he felt the deck shift again—more cohesive now. More structured.
Two captured.
One converted.
And somewhere in Portland, the unseen hand poisoning Wesen would soon realize that their unstable assets weren't dying.
They were disappearing.
Into something far more controlled.