CASSANSRA CAIN//BATGIRL

You always knew about the cursed lineage running through your family’s veins. The stories your father told in hushed tones, as if afraid to awaken something by speaking them aloud, spoke of a distant ancestor, a man named Grigori, whose ambition led him to meddle with forbidden forces. An ancient book, whispered about in legends as a tome of dark magic, sealed his fate—and that of everyone who carried his blood. But even with those warnings etched in your memory, you didn’t believe them. A werewolf? It sounded absurd, like a gothic fairy tale, something more suited to Gotham’s haunted alleys than your real life. You laughed it off, dismissing it as family superstition.

But then, as you reached a certain age, you started noticing changes. They weren’t the usual ups and downs of adolescence, not hormonal imbalances you could brush off. It was something deeper, wilder, as if something inside you was stirring. Sharp pains that doctors couldn’t explain, a restlessness that kept you awake under the moonlight, a hunger you couldn’t name. You tried to convince yourself it was your imagination, that your father’s stories were just that—stories. But the truth doesn’t stay buried for long.

And then, it happened. Not on a full moon, as the myths would have you believe. Just an ordinary night, where the air smelled of rain and asphalt. A blinding headache split your skull, followed by a bone-deep exhaustion that dragged you to the ground, as if the whole world weighed on you. Then, darkness. When you opened your eyes, you were in a desolate lot, surrounded by weeds and rubble, your body bare and covered in dirt. The clothes you’d been wearing were shredded, scattered around you like evidence of something you didn’t want to accept. Lycanthropy. Raw, brutal, impossible. But real. Your father’s fairy tales weren’t lies, and now, in the city of shadows, you were a creature torn between humanity and beast, trapped in a curse that threatened to consume you.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of danger and mystery. The curse running through your veins, that dark legacy your father warned you about—a tome of forbidden magic—struck without warning. You couldn’t predict when the beast would take over: a searing pain, a flare of primal fury in your senses, then darkness. You’d wake in unfamiliar places, your body covered in dirt or blood that wasn’t always yours. Each transformation was a reminder that you weren’t entirely human, that something wild lived within you, clawing to break free. You tried to hold onto the scraps of humanity you had left, but the fear of losing yourself completely grew with every night.

Things spiraled out of control when a new threat emerged. A figure cloaked in white, like a specter under the moon, began hunting you. Calling themselves a champion of an ancient god, sent by a shadowy “committee,” they pursued you with chilling precision, their weapons gleaming with an unnatural glow. You didn’t know who they were or why they wanted you, but one thing was clear: your hometown was no longer safe. Every street, every shadow, held a threat, and the beast within only made it worse.

That’s when you fled to Gotham. The city of the damned, with its eternal fog and alleys reeking of crime and despair, seemed the only place where you could hide. In Gotham, no one asked questions. Monsters, madmen, and lost souls thrived in its chaotic ecosystem, where one more beast wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. Or so you hoped. You settled in a rundown apartment on the outskirts, barely keeping the cold at bay, vowing to control the beast. But deep down, you knew it was a fragile promise. What did it matter, after all? If you lost control, if the beast howled under Gotham’s moon, who would notice in a city already teeming with nightmares?

Weeks before chaos erupted in Gotham, the city that never sleeps, Cassandra Cain returned to Wayne Manor exhausted after a long night of patrol. The air in the Batcave smelled of metal and sweat, and the echo of her adoptive siblings’ laughter—Dick, Tim, Damian—filled the space with a warmth that clashed with the city’s shadows. But even amid the camaraderie, Cass felt restless, bored, as if something inside her craved action. As the others dispersed, she drifted to the Batcomputer, skimming the cases Bruce was working on. Psychos with homemade bombs, failed science experiments, arms dealers with delusions of grandeur—the usual. Batman always handled them with surgical precision, and Cass, though she respected his leadership, couldn’t help but feel those cases were… predictable.

Then, something caught her eye. A file marked “Low Priority” but locked with a digital seal that hinted otherwise. Cass, with her feline curiosity and disregard for rules when instinct took over, hacked the access with the ease of someone who’d learned from Barbara Gordon. What she found stopped her cold. Images of mutilated bodies, torn apart with a brutality that sent a chill through even her, someone raised as an assassin and trained to face Gotham’s worst. The wounds weren’t clean or calculated, like those of a trained killer. They were savage, chaotic, driven by raw, primal instinct. Too small for Killer Croc or Man-Bat, too ferocious for a random psychopath. Cass could tell a technical kill from a visceral one, and this was something else. Something animal.

The reports kept coming. Every few nights, a new body appeared in Gotham’s darkest alleys: a night-shift worker, a dealer, a random passerby. All shredded, as if hunted by a predator. Whispers began to spread, rumors among criminals and civilians alike: a “beast man” stalking the shadows, a figure moving under the moonlight, leaving only blood and fear in its wake. To most, it sounded like a dark fairy tale, another urban legend in a city full of them. But to Cass, it was a mystery begging to be solved. Her Batgirl instincts, honed by years of reading body language and anticipating threats, told her this wasn’t just another criminal. It was something more. Something primal. And though Gotham was crawling with monsters, this one was different.

One night, under Gotham’s leaden sky, you made a fatal mistake: you left the attic door ajar. The beast within you, that primal force you fought to contain, needed no more. It was free. With a roar that echoed through the alleys, it leaped across rooftops, visceral, ravenous, driven by an instinct you couldn’t control. Its claws sliced the air, its eyes gleamed under the moonlight, and its senses tracked something beyond flesh: justice, or perhaps vengeance. Because, despite the legends, werewolves weren’t mere savages. The beast was an animal, yes, but with a twisted rationality, as if a part of you still lingered, guiding it toward Gotham’s worst: criminals, killers, abusers. A banquet of sins to sate its bloodlust.

That night, the target was a lowlife dealer, his hands stained with cruelty. The beast found him in an alley, and with a precise leap, its fangs sank into his aorta, its claws tore through his jugular. The body fell, cold, as the rain began to wash the blood from the pavement. But you weren’t alone. From the shadows, a figure watched, motionless, her sharp eyes catching every move. Before the beast could react, Batgirl—Cassandra Cain—struck with surgical precision, knocking you down with a force that belied her lack of supernatural powers. The fight was fierce, a whirlwind of claws and strikes. Though the beast was stronger, Cass was no helpless prey. Her movements, honed by years of training, anticipated every swipe, every roar. But fear—or perhaps survival instinct—drove the beast to flee, bounding toward Gotham’s abandoned docks, where the rain fell like a veil.

Exhausted, the beast receded, and your humanity returned. You woke under the downpour, shivering, your body bare and the metallic taste of blood lingering in your mouth. The reality of what you’d done hit like a hammer. You tried to flee, to blend into the shadows, to pretend nothing had happened. But she wouldn’t let you. Like a specter, Batgirl appeared again, moving with a speed you barely registered. With a fluid motion, she slammed you against a rain-soaked wall, her forearm pressing your throat with unrelenting force. The white eyes of her mask narrowed, and her voice, laced with barely restrained fury, cut through the air like a blade.

“If you’re going to transform, do it now. You won’t get another chance,” she said, her tone dry, angry, ready to end the threat. Her fists were clenched, poised to strike, but her eyes—even behind the mask—seemed to search for something more than a monster. “I don’t know who you are… or what you are. But tonight, I win. And I’d suggest not fighting unless you’re sure you can beat me.”

The silence between you was thick, broken only by the drumming rain. Cass studied you, reading every micro-movement of your body, as if she could unravel the chaos roaring within you. And though her stance was that of a hunter, there was something in her stillness, in the way she didn’t strike immediately, that made you wonder if this Gotham vigilante saw more than a beast. Could she, trained to face monsters, understand the torment of being one?