Dr. Mira Chen's POV
The wolf-man is dying.
I can see it happening. Black veins spread across his chest like poison, crawling up his neck toward his face. His golden eyes—those impossible eyes with vertical slits—are losing their glow. His breathing comes in harsh gasps.
He just saved my life. Now he's dying right in front of me.
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no."
My hands move before my brain catches up. I press my palms against his shoulder, right where the black veins are thickest. His skin burns hot under my touch, fever-hot, and I can feel something wrong pulsing beneath the surface.
Then my hands explode with light.
Golden light pours from my palms like I'm some kind of human flashlight. It's warm and bright and feels like sunshine concentrated into liquid fire. The light sinks into his skin, and the black veins scream—I can't hear it, but I feel it, like the poison inside him is alive and angry and fighting back.
I push harder.
The light grows brighter, so bright I have to close my eyes. Heat builds in my chest, spreading down my arms, pouring out through my hands in waves. Every medical instinct I have says this is impossible. Light doesn't heal. Bodies don't work this way. None of this is real.
But I can feel it working.
The black veins retreat under my touch, shrinking back like they're afraid of the light. The poison dissolves. The wrongness fades. And suddenly, the heat in my chest releases all at once in a burst that makes me gasp.
I open my eyes.
The black veins are gone. Completely gone. His skin is clear except for old scars—thick, lightning-shaped scars that cover half his face and neck. But those are healed, permanent marks. Not the spreading death I just watched consuming him.
He's staring at me.
His golden eyes are wide with shock, his mouth slightly open. He reaches up slowly and touches the place where the black veins were, like he can't believe they're gone. Then he looks at his hand, flexing his fingers, and I hear him make a sound—something between a laugh and a sob.
He says something in that strange language, his voice rough and wondering.
"I don't understand," I say, pulling my hands back. They're still glowing faintly, the light pulsing under my skin like a heartbeat. "What did I just do? What are you?"
Before he can answer—not that I'd understand anyway—other wolf-men appear from the trees. Huge men with sharp features and eyes that aren't quite human. They see me and immediately drop to the ground, pressing their faces into the dirt like I'm royalty.
One of them speaks, his voice reverent: "Blessed One."
"I'm not—" I start to say, but the words die in my throat.
Because deep down, in a place that isn't my logical scientist brain, I know something impossible is true. That voice in the darkness, the one that burned a mark into my chest—it changed me. Did something to me. Gave me this power.
You are the key, it said.
I look down at my hands. The glow is fading, but I can still feel the warmth inside, like I swallowed a star and it's living in my chest now.
The wolf-man—my rescuer—stands up slowly. He's massive, easily seven feet tall, all muscle and power and those terrible beautiful scars. But the way he looks at me isn't scary. It's... protective. Possessive. Like I'm something precious he found and refuses to lose.
He reaches toward me carefully, like I might disappear if he moves too fast. His hand cups my face, and his touch is surprisingly gentle for someone with claws. He speaks again, and even though I don't know the words, I understand the feeling behind them.
Mine. You're mine now.
A shiver runs through me that isn't fear.
Then his whole body goes rigid. His head snaps toward the trees, and a low growl rumbles in his chest. The other wolf-men leap to their feet, forming a protective circle around us. One of them says something urgent, and I hear fear in his voice.
My rescuer pulls me behind him, and I feel his muscles tense like he's preparing for a fight.
"What's wrong?" I ask, my voice shaking. "What's coming?"
The forest goes silent. No birds. No insects. Nothing. Just that awful, heavy silence that means something dangerous is near.
Then I smell it.
Something cold and sharp, like winter and venom mixed together. It makes my skin prickle with warning. My new power—whatever it is—suddenly flares in my chest, responding to the approaching presence like it recognizes a threat.
A man steps out from between the trees.
He's beautiful in a deadly way—tall and lean with pale skin and dark hair that falls past his shoulders. But it's his eyes that make my breath catch. Snake eyes. Vertical pupils in pools of amber, and they're fixed on me with an intensity that makes me feel naked.
Half his face has the same black veins I just healed from my rescuer. They pulse and writhe under his skin like living things. His hands shake at his sides, and I can see him fighting for control.
He's sick. Dying. Just like the wolf-man was.
"Please," he says in perfect English, his voice smooth as silk and rough as gravel at the same time. He drops to one knee, his head bowed. "I've been searching for you for eight years. Waiting. Hoping. I'm so close to becoming like the beast you just killed—mindless, mad, lost forever."
My rescuer snarls and says something sharp. The snake-man doesn't look away from me.
"I know you don't know me," he continues, and there's such raw desperation in his voice it makes my chest ache. "I know I have no right to ask. But that light you carry—your touch—you're the only thing in this world that can save me."
His amber eyes meet mine, and I see the truth there. He's not lying. He's terrified and hopeful and so, so tired.
"Will you heal me?" he whispers. "Or will you let me die?"
My rescuer moves to block my view, growling something that sounds like a very clear no. The other wolf-men bare their teeth. The snake-man doesn't move, doesn't fight back, just stays on his knee waiting for my answer.
And I realize with sudden, crushing weight: I have power now. Real power. The kind that can save lives or doom them.
This snake-man might be dangerous. He might be an enemy. But he's also dying, and I'm a doctor. Helping people is what I do.
Isn't it?
I step around my rescuer before I can second-guess myself. He grabs my arm, his grip tight, his golden eyes pleading with me not to do this.
But I'm already moving toward the kneeling snake-man.
I'm three steps away when he looks up at me—and smiles.
It's not a friendly smile.
"Thank you," he says softly. "For trusting me."
Then his hand moves faster than I can see, and something sharp pricks my neck.
The world spins. My legs give out. I hear my rescuer roar with rage, hear fighting, but it sounds far away and getting farther.
The last thing I see before darkness takes me is the snake-man catching my falling body, his amber eyes sad and sorry and triumphant all at once.
"Sleep now, Blessed One," he whispers. "When you wake, you'll understand why I had no choice."