Steven stood in the shadows beside the sliding door that led into the right wing of the dilapidated facility. His stance was tense but measured, each breath steady as he waited for Kael's signal to move. The cold of the metal wall pressed lightly against his shoulder, grounding him in the moment.
The comms crackled softly in his ear. Kael's voice came through, low and composed. "I've cased the facility—no exits in the back. Just a few broken windows."
Steven gave a quiet nod, then responded. "Copy that."
With practiced precision, he reached out and slid the heavy door open. The mechanism groaned slightly in protest, but he kept the movement slow to minimize the sound. He raised his sidearm and stepped through the threshold, his body low, every step deliberate.
The room beyond greeted him with a musty stillness. It was wide, with high ceilings that once might have been functional but now only amplified the hollow echoes of his quiet steps. Old medical crates were scattered across the floor—some cracked open, their contents long pillaged or rotted. A few plastic chairs, mismatched and brittle with age, were pushed against the walls or knocked over entirely.
Overhead, a single fluorescent strip flickered, casting a wan, uneven glow across the space. The light buzzed faintly, its dim illumination barely enough to cut through the gloom. Shadows clung to the room's corners, stretching long across the dust-caked floor.
Broken windows dotted the far wall—jagged glass still clinging to the frames in places, letting in narrow slivers of the city's cloud-diffused night light. The air smelled faintly of rust, mildew, and the chemical sting of long-evaporated antiseptics.
Steven's eyes swept the space, clearing each blind spot with calm, measured movements.
He moved forward in slow, silent steps, eyes narrowing as the sliding door behind him sealed shut. With a subtle flick of his fingers, Steven reached back and triggered a pulse of energy through the control panel—his ability surging briefly to short out the locking mechanism. No way out now.
A man with a hunched, brutish frame stood in the middle of the room. He had his back to Steven, rifling through a half-zipped duffel bag, his posture relaxed, unaware.
"So, did y'all deal with that con-woman yet?" the man muttered, voice rough and careless, still mistaking Steven for one of his own.
Steven didn't answer.
Instead, his pistol slid smoothly back into its holster. His fingers found the compact baton at his waist, drawing it in one fluid motion. With a sharp flick—
Snap
The baton extended with a clean, metallic clack, locking into place with a satisfying finality. Steven pivoted his stance—left foot back, baton angled low and ready. Then he struck.
The arc of the strike was perfect—fast, silent, precise—but Trask moved like he'd been waiting. He brought up his right hand at the last possible moment, absorbing the blow meant for his skull. The baton cracked against his forearm with a dull thud, jarring but not disabling.
In that same breath, Trask whipped his left elbow backward.
Steven reacted instantly, catching the strike along the shaft of his baton, bracing it horizontally with both hands to absorb the impact. The hit landed, sharp and jarring, but he held firm.
He shifted tactics. Releasing the upper end of the baton, Steven caught Trask's forearm with his left hand, holding the limb in place. His right arm tensed, coiling for a follow-up. With practiced motion, he drew his elbow back, baton aligned for a punishing jab to Trask's half-turned face.
But Trask wasn't idle.
He threw his full weight forward in a sudden surge, slamming into Steven's chest and forcing space between them. Steven stumbled back, boots scraping against the dusty concrete as he quickly regained balance.
Trask turned, now face to face with his attacker. Recognition flashed in his eyes—rage following right behind. His mouth opened wide, about to yell—
"It's a fucking co—!"
The baton flew.
Steven hurled it with a sharp snap of the wrist. The steel rod hit Trask square in the face, silencing him mid-word. The impact snapped his head sideways and staggered him. Steven lunged forward, catching the baton as it bounced back.
The room had gone from still to frenzied in less than a few seconds.
"Let's not invite your guests in here yet," he said, voice low and sardonic. "Look at the state of this place. What would they think?"
He moved in close, swinging the baton in a clean, horizontal cut toward Trask's neck.
Trask's arm shot up.
The baton met his forearm again, caught just inches before impact. The fight wasn't over, but Steven had seized momentum.
Steven swung his left arm, the baton sweeping toward Trask, only to be blocked again. But he didn't let up. Steven's other hand shot forward the instant his strike was halted, locking around Trask's forearm. He coiled his right arm around the wrist, baton still in hand, and forced the limb straight with a sharp jerk.
In one smooth motion, Steven grabbed the back of Trask's head and slammed it into the edge of a nearby old medical crate.
Crack
The old polymer groaned under the impact, its surface denting with a dull, metallic thunk. Trask's body slumped forward, momentarily dazed, shoulders sagging against the crate's cold surface.
Steven moved quickly, arms pulling back to cuff him.
Then—
A barbed tail lashed out from behind.
Steven reacted on instinct, ducking low as the spike whipped over his head, slicing the air with a hiss. It struck the crate where his head had been seconds before, gouging a groove into the casing.
Steven tried to retreat, stepping back to create space, only for another tail to flash in from his left. This one came fast and low. He pivoted on his heel and brought his baton up just in time, smacking it away with a heavy crack reverberating in his arm.
He staggered back a few paces, breath catching in his throat, and steadied his stance.
Across from him, Trask straightened.
His skin now bore a faint, unnatural yellow tone. Three tails writhed from his lower back—two thick and barbed, the protrusions pale and jagged like bone. The third, in the center, ended in a sleek, needle-like stinger, twitching with lethal intent.
Scars on his arms and face were more pronounced now, stretched tight against his shifting skin. His hair thinned visibly, falling away in strands, and his posture took on a crouched, animalistic edge.
'Shit.'
Steven's eyes narrowed.
Trask had partially shifted, and he wasn't stopping with just that.
'He's trying to do a full shift. This just got more complicated.'
Trask stared at the strands of hair slipping from his scalp, falling in clumps to the floor. His breathing grew heavier, the shift still crawling through his limbs like a sickness trying to force its way out.
"This is why I don't fully shift," he muttered, voice gravel-thick. "But you just had to piss—"
Steven didn't wait for him to finish.
He hurled the baton again.
This time, Trask caught it mid-air, eyes flashing as he sneered. "That won't wor—"
Crash
A metal chair slammed into his side with brutal force, silencing him mid-sentence.
The hit sent Trask stumbling hard to his right, entirely thrown off balance. He staggered, his heel catching the edge of the medical crate behind him—the same one he'd used as a makeshift table. His bag, perched on top, tumbled down with the impact.
The contents spilled across the floor: loose clothes, scraps of gear, an old leather-bound book with frayed corners—and a handgun.
Steven barely blinked.
Trask lunged for the weapon the instant it hit the floor, scooping it up and twisting to aim.
But Steven was already in motion.
The chair came down again, slamming into Trask's wrist just as his finger found the trigger.
Bang.
The gun fired—wild and high.
The bullet ripped through one of the broken windows behind Steven, followed by a sharp metallic ring as it ricocheted off something outside. The gun flew from Trask's grip and skittered across the floor.
Trask scrambled for the gun, fingers stretching toward the cold metal.
Steven didn't give him the chance.
The edge of the chair came down fast, aimed squarely at Trask's reaching hand. Trask yanked it back just in time, the chair slamming into the floor with a jarring crack. One of Trask's barbed tails whipped out in retaliation, cutting through the air like a thrown spear.
Steven swung the chair up and caught the strike mid-arc, metal clashing with bone as the tail rebounded off with a sharp crack.
Trask moved again, shifting weight to dart for the weapon, but Steven was already a step ahead. He twisted with the block and kicked the gun hard, sending it skidding across the floor, out of reach. Steven raised the chai, breathing hard, circling slightly to keep himself between Trask and the weapon. Trask's transformation had stalled—his skin still an unhealthy pallor, eyes sunken, three twitching tails dragging across the floor like the ends of a broken whip. The shift hadn't fully taken hold.
Steven waited, tense, watching for the slightest movement—a twitch, a flick of the ear, the fall of another strand of thinning hair.
He wouldn't let him fully shift.
The standoff barely lasted three seconds.
Trask lunged.
Instead of retreating, Steven stepped into him, swinging the chair low and flat, slamming it hard from right to left. Trask managed to block with his forearm, the blow rattling through his bones, sending him crashing sideways into the crates again.
Steven didn't stop.
He surged forward and slammed the chair across Trask's chest, pinning him back against the crates. This time, Trask faced him directly, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. The chair pressed between them, groaning from the force.
Snarling, Trask gripped the chair and shoved. The metal screeched against the floor as he hurled it to the side.
Steven let go of the chair mid-throw and lunged, closing the gap instantly. His shoulder slammed into Trask's torso, pressing him back with full force. With one hand braced to keep Trask pinned, Steven raised the other, two fingers pressed together, driving toward Trask's neck.
"Sleep tight, you three-tailed fuck!"
A surge of electricity burst from Steven's fingertips, arcing into the side of Trask's neck.
Trask twitched—but only slightly. His face contorted in pain, then… confusion.
Nothing.
Steven froze. His eyes widened.
Trask's brow furrowed, and he looked down at Steven's hand. "What was that?"
Steven blinked once, expression flattening into embarrassed disbelief.
"…Well," he muttered, dryly. "Looks like your nerves aren't where they're supposed to be."