As Glen stepped out of the old man's house, a prickling sensation crept up his spine—the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
His gaze shifted instinctively, settling on the second-story window of the house directly opposite. All was silent and still, the panes reflecting only darkness.
"Who dwells there?" Glen murmured, the words half a question to the air, half a query to himself.
He delved into the memories of his new flesh, finding no recollection of the owner of that dwelling.
A dry, rasping chuckle sounded from behind him. He turned to see the old man, seated within the shadows of his own doorway.
"That one across the way is a man of considerable means," the old man said, his voice a gravelly whisper. "You might find it worthwhile to pay him a visit."
Glen offered no reply, merely a cold, dismissive glance. "I will consider it."
...
Leaving the town behind, Glen made his way toward the forest clearing where he had been attacked the night before. His purpose was singular: to retrieve the revolver.
Now that he had been thrust into this new world, securing his own survival was paramount. Comfort could come later.
The people worth remembering from his former life had already passed into memory, and his ambitions there had largely been fulfilled. His life before this crossing had been complete, so he felt little resistance to his new circumstances.
By day, the town retained its eerie pallor, but it held no overt danger; otherwise, the original owner would have perished long ago.
On the road, Glen saw no other souls, only himself, and the silence was broken only by the rare, distant call of a bird.
When he arrived at the spot where he had awoken, the scene before him sharpened his alertness.
The revolver was there, unmistakable.
But the corpse was gone, reduced to a scattered mess of gore and hair still clinging to fragments of scalp.
Predators, Glen thought, a chill tracing his spine.
He stepped forward to retrieve the weapon, intending to leave swiftly, but a sudden scent assailed him—an odor that triggered a primal unease.
Unsure of its source, Glen stood motionless, his eyes sweeping the surroundings, his fingers tightening around the stock of the hunting rifle he had taken from the old man.
He had checked it earlier; the rifle held three shots, sufficient for most beasts.
The scent intensified. Something terrible was approaching.
This place, Glen thought, his surface calm but his inner senses alight with caution.
A faint sound reached him—the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.
It drew closer, subtle and precise. Only Glen's unnaturally sharp hearing could have detected it.
Each footfall seemed to land in rhythm with his own heartbeat, drawing beads of sweat to his brow.
He could not pinpoint the direction, nor see any movement. This passive waiting for danger was maddening.
Shhh…
The sound ceased. Silence returned, deeper and more ominous than before.
In an instant, every hair on Glen's body stood on end, his back turning to ice.
Damn! Behind me!
He cursed inwardly, his body twisting sideways with preternatural speed—but the expected attack never came.
Puzzled, he crouched and looked back.
The danger was indeed behind him.
It was a black beast the size of a horse, vaguely lupine but with a single, lidless eye centered on its forehead. Its head was disproportionately large, its maw split wide to its neck, exposing rows of serrated fangs. The sight was horrifying.
The beast watched Glen, its single eye gleaming with caution.
Glen silently raised the hunting rifle. He did not know if the weapon could kill such a creature—his memories held no record of it—so he held his fire unless it attacked.
Transparent saliva dripped from its jaws like liquid pearls, and the beast constantly licked its snout, as if tasting the air.
Man and beast stared at one another for several long seconds.
Finally, the beast moved, creeping closer. Its teeth bared fully, a low growl rumbling from its chest.
Glen knew that against such a massive creature, he stood no chance in a direct confrontation. He squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Blood spurted from the beast's forehead, and it let out a piercing howl.
But Glen saw clearly that the bullet had not penetrated; the gleam of metal was visible in the flesh above its eye.
He did not pause, working the action and firing a second shot.
But the beast gave him no time.
Before Glen's wide eyes, the creature twisted with impossible speed, the bullet grazing its hide.
"Blast!" Glen took aim again, preparing the third shot, but a wave of putrid stench—of raw, animal musk—blasted toward him. Those stark-white fangs were inches from his face.
"Back!" Glen threw his weight backward, twisting his torso with all his strength, and delivered a spinning kick straight upward into the beast's jaw.
Years of combat training were etched into his soul, even in this unfamiliar body.
Upon impact, Glen felt as if he had kicked solid iron, a numbness shooting up his leg.
But the kick had been full-force. Under Glen's enhanced physique, the beast—easily eight hundred pounds—was hurled backward, flipping end over end.
Glen lost his footing and fell prone, but swiftly executed a rolling rise to his feet.
Having taken the blow, the beast hesitated, pacing warily.
Glen panted, his kicked leg trembling, but he dared not show fear, or the beast would unleash its full ferocity.
Whether it had tasted human flesh before or was simply savage by nature, the beast paused only a moment before lunging at Glen again.
Glen tried to dodge, but their speeds were unequal. The beast's jaws clamped onto his ankle, and with a violent shake, the world spun.
His body crashed to the earth, pain surging through him. As his vision cleared, he saw the bloodied maw descending—death's presence was palpable, his heart pounding against his ribs.
In that instant, the substance filling his blood vessels surged violently. Glen felt it was instinct, his body transforming as his right arm swung out instinctively.
A tearing sound rang out, accompanied by the beast's agonized wail, echoing through the forest.
Glen felt a blood-red veil cover his vision; his mind was consumed by a craving for blood, a thirst for destruction.
He had always intended to kill this opponent, and now he lunged at the beast, the two locked in a savage struggle.
Their strength was matched, but Glen retained his combat instincts, easily overpowering the beast.
In no time, the beast's flesh was torn open, bone exposed, its body a ruin.
After several more blows, the beast was pinned beneath Glen, emitting whimpers of submission.
Glen was about to finish it, but a sliver of clarity returned to his wild eyes, and then complete rationality took over.
He stood frozen for a moment, feeling the violent rage churning within him, a look of confusion crossing his face.
He looked down at the hand pinning the beast—covered in black, needle-like fur, with sharp claws gleaming coldly. Below, he saw a wolf's snout in his field of vision. It was undeniable.
He had become a werewolf.