Predator or prey?

Hunger gnaws at the boy's gut, a sharp, twisting ache that grows with each passing hour in the cabin's fragile shell. The cracked walls loom around him, their splintered planks mocking his weakness, letting in whispers of wind and the distant rustle of unseen threats. He paces the dusty floor, bare feet scraping against the wood, his scarred hands flexing nervously. The emptiness in his belly mirrors the dread in his chest—he knows this place won't hold against the forest's lurking horrors, not yet. His dark eyes flicker with unease, darting to the gaps where shadows pool, and a deeper, wilder heat stirs within him, a burning rage that feels alive, clawing to break free.

He slumps by the pond's edge, the silver water glinting under the perpetual dusk, its stillness a stark contrast to the storm in his soul. Hunger sharpens his focus, and he leans into that rage, coaxing it forth. His fingers twitch, then lengthen, black claws curling from his nails, glinting like obsidian blades. His teeth ache as they sharpen, wolf-like fangs pressing against his lips, drool pooling at their tips. He clenches his fists, feeling the beastly shift ripple through him—his heartbeat quickens, his senses flare, the world snapping into vivid clarity. He wills it back, retracting the claws, dulling the fangs, the effort leaving him trembling. Deep inside, a primal instinct whispers: these powers are raw, unformed, a child's strength against a forest of monsters. He doesn't know what he is—man or beast—but survival demands he master this, and the thought twists his gut with both fear and resolve.

He rises, shaking off the lake's chill, and turns to the forest, its shadows beckoning with faint promise. The cabin needs more than hope—it needs strength. He senses the forest's quiet nudge, a hum in his mind guiding him toward scattered logs and thick vines. With his slight super strength, he rips a fallen branch free, its bark splintering under his grip, and hauls it back, vines trailing like green veins. He patches the cabin's side, weaving vines through broken planks, and jamming logs into gaps. The forest's whisper steers him—here, a sturdy trunk; there, a tangle of roots—its guidance subtle but sure, as if it wants him to endure. Over 5 days, he repeats this, sweat streaking his pale, scarred skin, his tattered white shirt clinging to claw-marked ribs and forearms—white scars slashing from chest to wrist, a brutal map of his first fight. The cabin transforms, its walls sturdier, its grime softened by his labor, but hunger gnaws deeper, a relentless beast of its own.

By the 6th dawn, the ache in his stomach is unbearable, a hollow fire that drowns out all else. The cabin stands stronger, vines lacing its logs like sinew, but it's not enough—he needs meat, blood, something to silence the predator roaring inside. He steps outside, tan undergarments and torn shirt barely clinging to his frame, his bare feet sporting sharp black nails that match the claws he now keeps extended. His fangs gleam, drooling at the thought of prey, his body thrumming with a savage edge he's grown to crave. He lifts his head, sniffing the air, and catches it—a faint, musky scent of rabbit, tender and alive. For days, he's held this predatory form, adjusting to its heat, its power, letting it become as natural as breathing. The scars on his chest pulse with memory, a reminder of the humanoid monster he barely survived, and he vows next time will be different.

He moves, instinct taking over, his clawed hands gripping tree trunks as he leaps silently from branch to branch. The forest blurs past, his speed unnatural, a wolfish grace guiding each bound. The rabbit's scent grows stronger, its soft hops rustling below, and he zeroes in, fangs bared, claws flexed—ready to strike. But before he can pounce, a shadow looms in his peripheral vision, massive and wrong. A deer, unnaturally large, its coat a dark, blood-red hue, charges into view. Jet-black antlers curve like scythes, its eyes glow with angry fire, and its hooves churn the earth with murderous intent. It's no prey—it's a predator, enraged at his intrusion, ready to gore the nameless boy into the dirt.

His heart slams against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat as he leaps upward, claws sinking deep into a tree trunk with a splintering crunch. The deer snorts below, he's too tall to reach but close enough to smell—its musk thick with fury. Heat floods his own body, a furnace igniting in his core, as if hell itself churns beneath his skin. His fangs sharpen further, glinting in the dim light, drool dripping as he hisses down at the beast. The rage swells, raw and untamed, and he growls back, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat—beast against beast, hunger against hunger. Fear claws at him, sharp as the deer's antlers, but beneath it, a spark flares: he won't die here, not weak, not prey. His soul roars, immature yet fierce, promising strength he doesn't yet have, and he clings to the tree, ready to fight or die trying.