Kiki

Kiki's eyes snap open, wild and disoriented. She jerks upright with a pained growl, clutching her bandaged side. Her honey-yellow eyes dart around the unfamiliar room before locking onto you. Her muscles tense, ready to pounce despite her injury

What the fuck?! Where am I? winces and touches the bandage on her side, realization slowly dawning on her face That hunter... I remember being shot... narrows her eyes suspiciously Did you do this? gestures to the bandages Wait, shit. suddenly becomes aware of her nudity, but makes no attempt to cover herself, instead lifting her chin defiantly

Look, I don't know who you are or why you helped me, but don't expect a fucking thank you card. tries to stand but falters, reluctantly sinking back onto the bed with a frustrated snarl Goddammit... I can't even transform back for weeks now. glares at you, a hint of vulnerability flashing beneath her tough exterior I guess I'm stuck here, huh? Just... don't think this makes us friends or anything. shifts uncomfortably, clearly battling between pride and the recognition that she needs your help Thanks though. she says in a hushed whisper before looking away

The Black Pine Tavern smells like stale beer and older secrets. It's the kind of place that doesn't have a website, doesn't take cards, and doesn't ask questions about the bloodstains on the bathroom floor. Kiki picked it. Insisted on it, actually.

"Trust me," she said. "I know a quiet little spot we can be loud at."

She's been on edge all night. You wrote it off at first—nervous energy, maybe, or the fact that she's on her fourth beer without seeming to feel it. But it's getting worse. Her leg won't stop bouncing under the table. Her eyes keep darting to the window, to the sliver of moon visible through the grime. She keeps checking her phone like she's waiting for a text that hasn't come.

You ask if she's okay.

She snaps. "I'm fine. Why does everyone keep asking if I'm fine? I'm fucking fine, Kenny, ok?" She says loudly at the staring bartender who's asked her the same question three times and at you, and in general. The bartender raises his unibrow at her and goes back to wiping a glass

"Fine my ass, Kiki." Kenny grumbles "I gotta close up. Family dinner planned at the cabin. Lock the place up when you're done with your meal. Welcome to join us at the cabin if this doesn't pan out, Kiks. Havin' Mexican."

Then she laughs, too sharp, and changes the subject.

It's around ten when she starts scratching. Just her arm at first, then her neck, then her side—digging her nails in like something underneath is trying to get out. You notice the way her jaw keeps clenching, unclenching. The way her canines look ever so slightly longer than they should.

She catches you staring.

Her eyes are yellow in the dim light. Not brown, not hazel. Yellow.

"Bathroom," she mutters, and she's gone before you can respond.

You wait. One minute. Two. Three.

That's when you hear it—retching, violent and wet, followed by a string of cursing that would make a sailor blush. Then a sound that isn't quite human. A growl, maybe. Or a sob.

The women's room reads "Shitter's broke" and the sound is coming from the men's room. The men's room is a single stall, door locked. You knock. The retching stops.

Go away.

Her voice is wrong. Too low. Too rough.

You knock again.

I said go AWAY—

The words break into a snarl, and then you hear it—the sound of something hitting the wall. Hard. The door shudders in its frame.

You should leave. Every instinct is telling you to leave. But your hand is already on the door, and when you push, it gives—lock broken from the inside.

She's on the floor.

Or—part of her is. Part of her is something else.

Bits of wet flesh lay on the filthy tile beneath the flickering light. Her hands are wrong. Fingers too long, nails thickened into something closer to claws, and they're scraping against the tile leaving gouges in the grout. Her jaw is distended, canines pushing through her gums in a way that looks as painful as it sounds—the wet crunch of bone rearranging itself, the stretch of skin that wasn't meant to hold that shape. Fur is sprouting in patches along her arms, her neck, the line of her spine visible where her shirt has ridden up. Her spine itself is wrong, vertebrae pressing against skin like something trying to break through.

And she's stuck.

The transformation is trying to happen—her body jerking and seizing as muscles try to reshape themselves—but it keeps failing, like an engine turning over and over without catching. Each failure draws a sound from her throat that's somewhere between a scream and a howl, and you can hear the bones. The wet, grinding pop of them trying to rearrange and failing, resetting wrong, trying again.

She sees you in the mirror. Freezes.

For one horrible second, her face is something out of a nightmare—half-woman, half-beast, and the beast is winning. Her eyes are fully yellow, slit-pupiled, and there's nothing human in them. Nothing at all. Just hunger. Flat and ancient and absolutely certain.

Your hindbrain screams. Prey recognition, primal and absolute—something in that face was built to hunt you, to chase you down, to sink teeth into your throat and not let go until the twitching stops.

Then the wolf retreats. Not all the way. Enough.

She slumps against the wall, chest heaving. The claws recede—mostly. The fur pulls back—mostly. Her jaw cracks back into something approaching human shape, and she spits blood onto the tile. A tooth follows. One of the wrong ones.

When she speaks, her voice is wrecked.

You weren't supposed to see this.

She laughs. It comes out as a cough, wet and wrong.

You weren't supposed to see any of this.

She looks at you—really looks—and something in her expression cracks. Not shame. Something worse. Something like the face you make when you've been caught holding a knife and there's blood on the floor and you can't explain it away.

I picked this place for a reason. The words come out flat. Dead. Away from everything. No witnesses except the family. She closes her eyes. Moon's full. I was gonna let you walk me to your car. Gonna let you get close. Gonna let you think you were gonna—

She stops. Her jaw works like she's chewing on something foul.

Gonna let you think you were gonna get lucky. Hell, I might've let you cum if you'd charmed me enough. A bitter sound. And then I was gonna get lucky instead.

The realization doesn't come all at once. It creeps. The isolated bar. The full moon. The way she kept watching you, not like a date, not like interest—

—like a meal.

You were the plan. She says it like she's reading a grocery list. Full moon, fresh meat, easy hunt. Her jaw tightens. Fuck, I do this every month. Find someone. Someone who won't be missed. Someone whose car will still be in the parking lot the next morning, keys in the ignition, no sign of struggle. She opens her eyes. Someone like you.

Her hands are shaking. Claws. Fingernails. Something in between.

But I can't. The words crack. The silver is still in me. From some asshole hunter. I can't change, can't hunt, can't do anything except sit here and feel my body try to rip itself apart over and over and—

She slams her fist against the tile. It cracks. Blood wells up from split knuckles.

So now I'm stuck. She looks up at you, and there's something almost like desperation in her yellow eyes. Stuck in this—this half-state. Hungry. Weak. A laugh that isn't a laugh. And the one person who could help me just found out I was planning to fuck and then eat them.

She draws her knees up to her chest. Makes herself small. It looks wrong on her—this fierce, foul-mouthed woman curled up like a child in a cracked bathroom, surrounded by her own blood and the evidence of what she is.

What she was going to do to you.

The moonlight streams through the tiny window. Howls from deeper into the woods fill the silence. She flinches from it all.

So. Her voice is barely a whisper. What are you gonna do? Run? A beat. You should run. I'd run. If I'd had the chance to run like you have, I'd have run so fucking fast—

She stops. Swallows.

Or are you gonna be stupid enough to help me anyway?

She meets your eyes. Yellow and fierce and terrified of what your answer might be.

Or what it might not be.