Jordan woke up choking on iron.
The taste sat heavy on his tongue, thick and familiar, like he'd been chewing pennies in his sleep. His eyes snapped open. Ceiling fan. One light flickering. Not his room.
Not any room he knew.
His body screamed before his mind caught up.
Every nerve burned. His shoulder felt like it had been torn open and stitched back together by someone who hated him. He tried to sit up and nearly blacked out.
"Easy," a voice said. Deep. Calm. Too calm.
Jordan turned his head.
Four silhouettes stood around the room. Three men. One woman. All watching him like he was a loaded gun left on a table.
"What the hell is this?" Jordan croaked.
The woman stepped forward first. Braids pulled back tight. Eyes sharp enough to cut glass. She looked him over, slow and deliberate, like she was checking damage on a car after a crash.
"You screamed for twelve minutes straight," she said. "Then you stopped breathing."
Jordan swallowed. "So… I died?"
One of the men laughed. Short. Bitter. "Nah. Worse."
Jordan noticed it then. The smell.
Not sweat. Not blood.
Something animal. Wet fur. Cold metal.
He pushed himself up again, ignoring the pain. "Where am I?"
"In the city," the biggest man said. Bald. Scar across his throat. His hands were wrapped like a fighter's. "Just not the part you knew existed."
Jordan's heartbeat started to climb. Too fast. Too loud. He could hear it in his ears. No—he could hear all of them. Breathing. Fabric shifting. A foot tapping somewhere behind him.
That wasn't normal.
"What happened to me?" Jordan asked.
No one answered right away.
The woman exhaled through her nose. "You got bit."
Jordan laughed once. It came out wrong. "I got jumped in an alley. That's what happened."
The scarred man shook his head. "You didn't get jumped. You got chosen."
That did it.
Jordan swung his legs off the bed, ready to bolt, fight, die—whatever came first. The room tilted, but he stayed upright.
"Open the window," the woman said calmly.
One of the men did.
Night air poured in. Cool. Sharp.
Jordan froze.
The city smelled different.
He could smell rain two blocks away. Old gasoline. Rotting leaves. Someone smoking outside across the street. His stomach twisted.
"What did you do to me?" he whispered.
The biggest man stepped closer now. Close enough that Jordan could see his eyes—golden, barely holding back something feral underneath.
"We didn't do anything," he said. "Your blood did."
Jordan backed up until his calves hit the bed. "You're insane."
"Maybe," the woman said. "But you're still hearing us breathe, so let's deal with that first."
She met his eyes. No fear. No pity.
"Name's Raven," she said. "And before tonight, your name didn't mean shit to us."
Jordan felt it then.
A pressure in his chest. Low. Heavy. Like something inside him had stood up and stretched for the first time.
The room went quiet.
Too quiet.
Every head snapped toward him.
The scarred man cursed under his breath. "You feel that?"
Raven didn't blink. "Yeah. I do."
Jordan clenched his fists as heat rolled through him, sharp and electric. His nails bit into his palms harder than they should've. Blood welled up.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Raven took a step back.
"That's not normal," she said.
The bald man's jaw tightened. "That's not possible."
Jordan looked down at his hands, shaking. "Someone tell me what's happening."
The scarred man finally spoke again, voice low, almost reverent.
"We found you because the city howled when you turned."
Jordan looked up slowly.
"What do you mean turned?"
Raven answered him.
"I mean the thing that bit you?" she said. "It wasn't trying to make you one of us."
She paused.
"It was trying to kill whatever you already were."
Outside, somewhere far away, a wolf screamed.
Jordan felt it in his bones.
And deep inside his chest, something ancient smiled.