Chapter 403

The first time the fox felt it, it was just an itch.

It scratched, paws against fur, its claws too small for the sensation, but it didn't care. It was used to the discomfort. Used to the oddity of it. The fox had been alone in the woods for so long, it had become familiar with strange things.

The world had always been a blurry, forgotten place for him, much like a dream fading as soon as he opened his eyes. When the itch started, it was small, like the first drop of rain before a downpour, and he ignored it. But it kept coming back, gnawing at him, like hunger that couldn't be satisfied.

He turned in circles, his tail brushing against the undergrowth, but the sensation only grew. His paws, small and delicate, twitched. He could feel it now—something was shifting inside. The itch wasn't a simple discomfort. It was something more, deeper, like the wrong shape growing inside of him, making him feel strange in his own skin.

The fox stumbled over a rock, his paws stumbling, legs stiffening in unnatural ways. His breathing, sharp and quick, was the only sound now, cutting through the stillness of the trees.

The trees were all he knew—long, silent watchers. They didn't talk. They didn't turn away. The fox, for all his confusion, could only rely on them.

But now, there was a strange pull, an undeniable force that sent his senses into a spiral. His body began to ache, like a bruise that had been there too long, but this was different. This was hunger. He didn't understand it at first, but it became clearer as the days passed.

At first, it wasn't noticeable, not to others. But to him, he could feel it. The first change. His legs stretched too long, the fur thinning where it shouldn't. The once-perfect balance of his form was off, his paws no longer matching the rest of his body.

It was as though the fox was splitting at the seams, growing out of his own skin, and all he could do was run. Run further, faster, from whatever it was that he had become.

One evening, he found himself near the village—a place he'd never been. He had always stayed far away from them, from people. But tonight, the urge to see them, to understand them, pulled him in. They were not like him. They were different. They walked upright, their eyes full of strange things. They were unlike the animals he knew, the creatures of the forest.

The fox watched them from the trees, his body stiff, trembling. His eyes, too human now, scanned their movements. He wanted to join them. He wanted to understand, to be a part of their world.

The change in him was far too obvious now. His paws weren't paws anymore. His claws were no longer the soft things of an animal, but rough, stubby, the shape of fingers.

At first, they noticed nothing. They saw only the strange creature watching from the edge of the forest, too strange to be a fox, too human to be an animal. They laughed, thinking him nothing more than a trick of the light, a fool. But the fox couldn't help himself. He took a step forward.

A child, laughing, caught sight of him. She stepped closer, innocent, full of wonder. "What are you?" she asked, her voice full of curiosity.

He could see her clearly now. Her small hands, her blonde hair. Her eyes wide with the innocence of youth. The fox, or whatever he was becoming, reached out. His fingers—still strange—touched her cheek. The girl giggled, not understanding, and tried to run.

It was then that the change fully revealed itself. The fox's fingers curled into claws, longer than before. They dug into the girl's soft skin, as the thing that had taken root inside him took over.

Her laughter stopped. There was no scream. No cry. Only the quiet terror that spread through her eyes. The fox didn't want to do it. He didn't want this. But the need, the hunger, the force in his body—he couldn't stop. His form contorted, painfully shifting as the child crumpled at his feet.

He did it quickly. Too quickly for her to comprehend what was happening. He didn't want to, but there was no choice.

The fox looked at his hands—now fully human—and then at the mess he had made. His body, broken and twisted, wasn't a fox anymore. He was something in-between, and he was alone.

People gathered soon after. They shouted and screamed, their fear palpable. The fox, no longer a fox, no longer human, ran again.

He didn't know where he was going. Just running, away from the village, away from his past. His mind was racing, confused, full of an emptiness he couldn't explain.

But he was hunted now. People followed him. He heard their footsteps, sharp and urgent, their torches cutting through the darkness. He didn't look back. He couldn't.

The world was turning against him, rejecting him. His body, once soft and familiar, was now too large, too human, and his mind was struggling to keep up. He didn't belong in either world. The fox, the thing he had been, was no more.

One day, the changes grew worse. His skin pulled and stretched in places it shouldn't, and his legs twisted unnaturally. His eyes, human now, couldn't see the world the same way anymore. He couldn't run fast like he used to. He couldn't be the animal anymore. He was neither man nor beast.

When he tried to join with the other humans, to be part of their world, they screamed. They threw stones. They shouted curses. "Monster," they called him.

And so he killed again.

The next day, his hunger was stronger, his body trembling as the urge came over him. This time, it was a man. A man who had seen him in the woods before, a man who knew something was wrong. His hands—no longer delicate—reached out, clawing at the man's chest, feeling the blood spill through his fingers.

He didn't know why. He didn't know what it was that drove him. All he knew was that when the man's eyes went empty, when his body went limp, the fox—if he could still be called that—felt nothing. No remorse. No grief. Only relief.

By the time the villagers found him again, he was nothing more than a creature caught in-between two worlds. He didn't fight them. He didn't scream. He didn't run. His eyes were hollow, empty. His body was too big now, too human, but still far from what it should have been.

They dragged him to the center of the village, their torches dancing in the night. They threw him to the ground, bound him. He lay there, helpless, knowing that he had crossed a line. That he was no longer anything they could understand.

They set the fire, and the flames began to lick at his skin.

But the fox—if he could still be called that—felt nothing as the flames ate at him. He didn't scream. Didn't fight. He just lay there, staring at the stars, knowing they would never come for him. Knowing, finally, that the world had rejected him completely.

And he was still alone.