Become One (1)

The forest was always quiet this time of day.

Ollie stood at the edge of the trees, breathing deep, like the cold air could somehow push down the storm inside his chest. He didn't know why he came here—instinct, maybe. The place always gave him room to think. Or just rot in his own thoughts.

His fingers spun the butterfly knife lazily, the metal clinking softly between his knuckles. He stared at his reflection in the blade.

"What the fuck happened back there…" he muttered.

He remembered the feeling. The pain when he stabbed himself. The blood. Then that… thing. That thing that came out of him like a night terror with skin. His uncle shot it like it was normal. Like it wasn't the first time.

Everything felt off. His skin. His breath. The way his heart wouldn't calm down even now.

Snap.

He froze.

The knife stopped spinning. His head tilted slightly, one ear cocked. Another sound. Soft breathing. Not his.

He slowly tucked the knife into his hoodie and turned his head. Behind the tree line, standing in the half-light, was a beast.

It was taller than him by a solid foot and a half, hunched down on all fours, its limbs too long to look natural. Skin pale blue and sickly white. Tufts of fur clung to its patchy body like mold. One of its eyeballs hung out of the socket, swinging slightly as it tilted its head.

Its mouth hung open, tongue twitching. Teeth like railroad spikes.

It stared at him. Breathing heavy. Salivating.

But it didn't attack.

It backed away, slowly. Its long claws dragging in the dirt.

That's when Ollie felt it—adrenaline. Hot. Thick. Like something clicked inside his gut.

Then the pain came.

He grabbed his wrist. His right hand spasmed violently. Veins bulged beneath the skin. Then the skin started to peel away, layer by layer, like wet paper slipping off old bone.

He screamed. Dropped to his knees.

His bones twisted, expanded. Snapping under invisible pressure. The hand was growing—no, mutating. Pale, marrow-soaked bones twisted over each other, forming a thick gauntlet of calcified muscle and jagged edge.

Each knuckle extended, growing razor-thin spikes.

The beast snarled.

Ollie looked up. Blood ran down his forearm, dripping from his new monstrous hand. The beast smelled it. Something in its dead brain clicked.

It attacked.

The thing lunged, a blur of claws and teeth, letting out a roar that shook the branches.

Ollie didn't think.

He punched.

The bone-covered fist slammed into the creature's face. A sickening CRACK echoed as spikes tore through flesh. The beast let out a shriek, tumbling to the side, its dangling eyeball finally snapping off and flying into the trees.

It writhed. But got back up.

Ollie stood now, breathing hard, his right arm drooping slightly from the weight of the bone.

He took a step forward.

The wolf-beast circled him, limping. One leg dragged uselessly behind it. Its jaw dislocated, but it didn't stop. It dove again.

Ollie sidestepped and brought his elbow down. The spikes tore open the beast's back. Blood splattered across his hoodie.

"Come on then..."

"...You wanted this, right?"

The beast leapt one last time, aiming for his throat.

Ollie planted his feet. Growled through clenched teeth. Then drove his fist straight into its mouth.

The bones ripped through the back of its head, splitting the skull. The creature fell limp, twitching.

He pulled back his hand with a wet schlch, letting the body collapse.

Silence again.

Only the sound of wind through the trees and the heavy, broken gasps from his chest.

He looked down at his hand—still bone-covered, dripping with gore.

The realization finally sunk in.

"What the fuck... am I turning into?"

He fell to his knees, the mutated hand slowly retreating, skin painfully regrowing over the grotesque transformation.

He stared at the corpse.

And for the first time, truly understood.

This wasn't just some freak accident.

Something inside him had changed—and it wanted out.

Ollie was still on his knees, blood-soaked, staring at the beast's corpse. The mutated bone covering his hand had slowly receded, skin crawling back into place like a disgusting, reverse burn. His fingers still shook. His breath still wouldn't steady.

A crow landed on a nearby branch, cawing once before flying off.

That's when he heard it—a crunch behind him.

Footsteps. Slow. Calm.

Ollie turned his head sharply, instinctively reaching for his knife—even though it felt like a toothpick after what just happened.

A man stood just a few meters away, hands in the pockets of a long, dusty brown trench coat. His boots were worn, creased from years of travel. Slacks like they belonged in the wrong decade, and a loose button-up shirt under a gray sweater vest. He looked like someone ripped out of a '90s noir flick and dumped into the wrong world.

The man had stubble, a gaunt jawline, and tired, heavy eyes. But what stood out most was the smirk—lazy, lopsided, but not mocking. Just… entertained.

"Damn, kid," he said.

"That was one hell of a show."

Ollie got to his feet, wiping blood on his hoodie, scowling. "You were watching?"

"Sure was," the man said, stepping closer, not even flinching as he passed the mutilated beast corpse. "From the moment your bones started singing. Didn't expect to see a Beast Killer way out here in the woods, though. Usually you folks show up in cities... after the cleanup's already done."

Ollie blinked. "Beast Killer? The hell is that supposed to mean?"

The man's eyes narrowed, amusement flickering. "You're saying you're not?"

"No. I'm saying I don't know what the fuck I am."

The man whistled low. "You punched a Class 2 Wailer into the dirt with a bone-fist that burst out of your arm like some damn horror flick, and you're telling me that was your first time?"

"Yes!" Ollie snapped. "It just happened, alright? I wasn't trying to… summon anything! I stabbed myself a few days ago and some other freak popped outta me. Now this."

The man tilted his head. "Interesting. That changes things."

Ollie narrowed his eyes. "Who even are you?"

He held up a hand like he was calming a dog. "Relax. Name's Wells. Julian Wells. Independent contractor. Monster tracker. Sometimes cleaner. And right now, very interested in you."

Julian walked up to the corpse and knelt beside it, examining the ripped flesh with a practiced eye.

"You know how many rookies take down a Wailer solo?" he asked, poking the body with a pen-sized tool from his coat.

"None. Zero. Nada. That thing would've chewed most fresh bloods into mulch. But you? You turned its skull into a soup bowl."

Ollie looked away, trying to swallow down the rising anxiety. "I didn't mean to. It was instinct."

Julian rose to his feet again, brushing off his coat. "That's worse."

Ollie blinked. "Worse?"

"Yeah," Julian said, squinting. "Means it's in you. The power. The trigger. That 'something' that separates regular folks from Beast Killers. Most people need trauma, years of training, borderline suicidal missions. You? You bled and it answered."

Ollie's fists clenched.

"So what does that make me?" he muttered.

Julian smiled faintly. "That's the million-dollar question, ain't it?"

He pulled out a small, rectangular device from his coat. A scanner. He waved it near Ollie's chest. It beeped, then immediately started screaming with static and error codes.

"Thought so," Julian muttered, pocketing it. "You're not registered. Not tagged. You're a wild card."

Ollie stepped back. "You scanning me now? What, you gonna dissect me or something?"

Julian held up both hands, calm and slow.

"Look, kid—I don't work for the suits. I stay out of the agency games. But I do know this: if they find you before you figure yourself out, they'll lock you in a steel coffin and throw away the mountain it's buried under. You think this power makes you special?"

"It makes you a target."

Ollie went quiet.

"So what now?"

Julian lit a cigarette, even though he didn't look like a smoker. He took a drag, staring at the misty trees.

"Now? You come with me. I know people. Not the kind that tie you down and poke you with needles. The kind that can help you keep that beast in check. You've already got blood on your hands. Might as well learn how to use it."

Ollie hesitated, then looked down at the corpse again.

"Do I have a choice?"

Julian gave him a tired smile.

"Everyone's got a choice. But between getting ganked by some other freak tomorrow or figuring out what the hell you are?"

"I'd bet on the second one."

Ollie sighed, staring at his hand. The skin had healed, but it still felt… different.

He nodded slowly.

"Alright, Wells. Let's see where this shit goes."

Julian turned, coat fluttering as he headed down the path.

"Good answer, kid. Welcome to the fucked-up world of Beast Killers."

They disappeared into the woods, leaving the body behind as the crows returned.