The Butcher

The world had narrowed down to one sound—footsteps. Rapid. Desperate.

Dr. Grimm ran.

His lab coat snagged against crumbling bricks and low-hanging pipes as he bolted through the outer ruins of the facility. The cold night air hit him like a slap, and the ground beneath his boots felt uneven, alive, like the earth itself was rebelling against him.

Behind him came the thunder—not of machinery, not of men—but of something wild, massive, predatory.

Brendon.

That monstrous wolf, primal and unstoppable, was closing in.

Grimm didn't dare look back.

Each breath he took burned his lungs. His legs screamed. Sweat poured down his face. He weaved between broken walls and collapsed corridors, seeking an exit he wasn't sure existed anymore.

Suddenly—he burst out from the skeletal structure of the ruined building into open space. The jungle that once surrounded Lagooncrest lay in tatters. The moon bathed the chaos in pale light, and fires crackled in the distance, fed by destruction.

His foot slipped. He stumbled—but didn't stop.

The howls had stopped.

That was worse.

Silence was never mercy. Silence was judgment.

And judgment descended.

With a crash, Brendon landed behind him—four massive limbs hitting the ground in perfect rhythm, claws scraping against concrete and bone. His yellow eyes blazed with primal fury. Blood soaked the fur on his arms, his fangs glistened in the dark.

Grimm whipped around just in time to see him pounce.

"NO!"

The beast lunged, tackling him to the ground like a force of nature.

Grimm rolled, scrambling, reaching into his coat—the syringe—his fingers wrapped around it, his body moving on instinct. As Brendon raised a claw to strike, Grimm jammed the syringe deep into his arm and injected the full dose.

Brendon reeled back, staggering, a confused snarl escaping his jaws.

Grimm lay on the ground, panting, dazed. Then—he laughed.

At first, a soft chuckle. Then, a madman's cackle.

"Heh… ha… HAAHAHAHAHAHA!"

He climbed to his knees, blood streaming from a gash on his head, but it didn't matter now. The moon reflected off his glasses, cracked and crooked on his face.

"YES! YES! Finally! You're mine now!" he screamed. "You will be the weapon, the gate, the godhood I deserve!"

Brendon stood still. He swayed. His knees buckled for a moment, the drug taking effect. His claws scratched at his own skin, muscles tensing. His breathing slowed…

Grimm took a step forward, a twisted grin splitting his face.

"Yes… Sleep, beast. Sleep."

But Brendon didn't fall.

He lifted his head. His pupils were gone—replaced by a blinding, golden glow. A low, guttural growl shook the air, making Grimm's grin twitch.

"…What…? You… You should be unconscious! Why… why are you still awake!?"

Brendon took one slow step forward.

"I am mad," he said, his voice a guttural snarl.

Another step.

"REALLY, REALLY MAD."

And then—

He struck.

A blur of claws, teeth, and wrath exploded forward. Grimm's scream barely left his throat before Brendon slammed into him with the force of a meteor. Bones shattered. Blood exploded into the air.

Grimm was hurled into the wall of a collapsed building, his spine cracking against the concrete. He coughed blood, slumped against the rubble, limbs twitching.

Brendon approached with terrifying calm. His body seemed to pulse with energy, the drug barely suppressing the fury surging through him. His face twisted—not with rage alone—but with judgment.

Grimm tried to crawl back, blood trailing from his mouth. "Wait… Wait! You don't understand! You're not supposed to—!"

Brendon grabbed him by the throat.

"I am not a tool," he growled. "I am not your puppet. I am not your goddamn experiment."

Grimm gasped, struggling. "You… can't… kill… me. You need—control—!"

Brendon leaned in, yellow eyes glowing inches from Grimm's face.

"If you don't have a brain," he said, voice low, "how are you supposed to control me?"

Before Grimm could scream, Brendon's clawed hand struck.

Crunch.

He plunged his fingers straight through Grimm's skull.

Bone cracked. Blood burst like a geyser. The sound was sickening—a mix of wet tearing and bone being reduced to splinters.

Grimm's eyes bulged. A final spasm shook his body.

Brendon twisted his hand—and pulled.

He tore Grimm's brain out, still warm and pulsing with the last sparks of twisted thought.

Dr. Grimm didn't scream.

He just stopped.

Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped existing.

Brendon stared at the organ in his hand with a deep, slow breath. Then he growled and hurled it aside, where it splattered against the shattered wall like discarded garbage.

Grimm's body slumped forward, twitching once, then going still.

Silence returned—but this silence was not judgment.

It was peace.

The beast swayed again. The drug finally caught up.

Brendon's monstrous form began to shrink, bones realigning, fur receding. Muscles shrank back to his usual anthro-wolf physique. Blood coated his arms, chest, face. His breathing slowed.

He dropped to his knees.

And then collapsed.

The world tilted.

Darkness crept in.

But before it took him completely, Brendon heard it—the distant hum of rotor blades.

Wump-wump-wump-wump…

A helicopter.

Then—boots. Heavy, synchronized. Shouts in a language he couldn't recognize. Metal clanking. Orders barked.

Then—

"Target located! We have a downed Anthro! Requesting medical evacuation—!"

Everything went black.