(POV: Sebastian)

I stared at the coffee in front of me, it had already become lukewarm. My hand twitched, as if maybe I would grab it, but I didn't. I just clenched my jaw and crossed my arms.

"Sebastian," Mark started tentatively, "we all want the best for you."

Here we go.

"You punched a man on live television," the older rep went on, voice dispassionate. "Without provocation."

"He provoked me." I said.

Not technically, the younger one growled, not raising his eyes from his screen. I sank back in the chair. "So this is it? You're suspending me?"

Mark shifted uncomfortably. "They're offering you a choice."

"As a rehab program," the older rep went on.

I went pale. "I'm not an addict."

"It's not an addiction," the younger one responded quickly. "It's... a wellness retreat. Therapy and isolation. We place you with a local team, you remain off the grid, off the press, and you heal."

I snorted a harsh laugh. "Sounds like exile with extra steps."

Mark massaged his face with his hand. "Sebastian. Your reputation's running amok and sponsors are dropping off. Your temper's been on thin ice ever since the surgery and now this..."

"I don't need therapy."

The words were too harsh, I heard them ringing and almost apologized. Almost. The older rep folded his arms. "It's not what you want, believe me. It's a liability. If you ever hope to come back to the league, you have to do this under the radar. No press release, no interviews."

"And where are you shipping me off to, huh? Guantanamo?"

Mark shoved a folder down the table towards me. I opened it up.

"Duskpine?" I repeated the name, double checking that I'd spelled it right. "That's not even an actual place."

"It's a town in the mountains," Mark explained. "It's small, quiet and off season training with a Tier III team. You'll be anonymous, and safe."

There it was. There was that word again.

Safe. Safe from what? Them? The media? Or myself?

My jaw tightened. I wanted to slam the folder down on the table. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them I was fine, that I just lost it, that Halvorsen was asking for it, but...

But I smelled the blood. I remembered it. I envisioned my hands transforming and no chunk of sarcasm could mask that.

"Therapist," I muttered, turning the page. "Remote house. Mountain air. Lattes and long walks with myself."

The younger rep smirked. I looked directly at him. "What happens if I say no?"

The room went quiet for a moment. Then Mark spoke softly, "They'll cancel your contract and you'll be blacklisted."

And there it was. All the work I'd put in since I was thirteen, all the blood and broken bones, all the damn hours on the rink... it would be wasted if I didn't take their handout.

I scowled at the folder. The words faltered a little. The paper trembled in my hands, even though I wasn't shaking.

I detested this. I detested them. But most of all, I was frightened. And if I was honest, which I very rarely was, I didn't trust myself anymore.

I set the folder on the table and rose to my feet.

"I'll do it."

Mark exhaled. "Good."

"But it isn't rehab," I said, my voice low. "It's survival."

No one disagreed.

..........

The airplane smelled of recycled air and citrus cleaning solution. It was too clean and too silent. First class, but I hardly took note of the seat. My mind wasn't there. It was wedged somewhere between what I had witnessed and what I still couldn't even comprehend.

I looked out the window. Clouds blurred below us. The sky was marked with the signs of early dusk. I tried to shut my eyes, just for a second, just to cut off the noise in my head but as soon as I did...

I was running. Barefoot.

The ground beneath me was cold and rocky, but I wasn't cold. I was burning. Heat pulsed beneath my skin. My lungs scalded, my legs ran faster than they ought. Trees whizzed past in a haze. Branches swiped against my arms and my chest, but I didn't bleed.

Something was behind me. Or maybe I was chasing something. Then suddenly, there was a sound. A rumbling, guttural growl. Not quite human, not quite a wolf. It jumped off the trees and into my bones.

I ran harder, and the heat got hotter. It spread and crept up my spine, crawled across my ribs, until I was sure I was going to burst wide open from the inside out.

And then I looked and saw a reflection in the snow.

My eyes were no longer looking like mine. It was gold, blinding bright and glowing.

I suddenly jumped upright.

The seatbelt pressed into my ribs. My fists were clenched so tightly my nails had made bloody crescents in my palms. The flight attendant caught my eye down the aisle and looked at me strangely, but I waved her off.

My shirt was covered in sweat and my heart was pounding wildly. I wiped my hands against my jeans and tried to breathe. This was occurring too often. The dreams, the sweat, the scream of wind where there once had been silence.

And worst of all, the realization that some aspect of me derived pleasure from it. As if some switch within me longed to unleash something, to finally stop holding itself back.

I leaned my forehead against the window and closed my eyes again.

No dreams this time. Only the hollow pang of anticipation.

(POV: Sebastian)

The mountain air of Duskpine hit my lungs like a physical blow when I stepped off the small transport van. It was sharp, pine-scented, and biting. There was no bustling city noise here, no screaming fans, and no blinding arena lights, just an endless blanket of snow-draped evergreens and a that was quiet so oppressive it made my teeth ache.

A modern cabin sat at the edge of the tree line, isolated and grey against the white landscape. Smoke lazily curled from its stone chimney, the only sign of life against the vast, unforgiving expanse of the mountain pass.

Waiting on the porch was Dr. Iris Blackwell.

She wore a thick wool coat, her dark hair pulled back into a neat braid. She didn't offer a welcoming smile or a polite wave. She just watched me with those clinical, unblinking eyes as I lugged my single duffel bag up the wooden steps, each boot print heavy in the fresh powder.

"You made good time," she said, pushing the heavy oak door open. "Welcome to Duskpine, Sebastian. Leave your bags by the door."

"I thought I was getting a place of my own," I said, my voice rough from the long flight, the lack of sleep, and the sheer disbelief choking my throat. "Not a live-in cage."

"This isn't a cage. It's a controlled environment," Iris replied, stepping inside and letting me trail after her. The interior was warm, minimalist, and smelled faintly of cedar and sage. "And given that you nearly transformed into a feral predator in front of thirty thousand screaming fans, 'cage' is a generous word for the alternative. We could have opted for a concrete cell in a government black site, if you'd preferred."

I slammed my duffel down, the thud echoing sharply in the quiet, cavernous room. "Stop talking about that like it's a fact. It was a hallucination. Stress, a bad concussion, lack of sleep, take your pick. People don't just grow claws, Dr. Blackwell. Human beings don't hallucinate feeling their bones restructure themselves."

She turned slowly, leaning back against a sleek wooden desk stacked with leather-bound journals and old medical ledgers. Her gaze didn't waver.

"You broke a professional hockey player's jaw with a single, unmeasured strike, Sebastian," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "You smelled blood from ten yards away across a sheet of ice and described it as tempting. Do you honestly expect me to believe your mind is playing tricks on you, or are you just terrified of looking into the mirror and realizing the truth?"

Her words struck a raw, agonizing nerve. I clenched my fists tightly at my sides, half-expecting, and half-dreading to feel that strange, prickling heat beneath my skin. My knuckles still throbbed where I'd torn them open against Halvorsen's face in the arena, a dull, pulsing reminder that the violence hadn't stayed on the ice.

"You think you know me," I spat, taking a sharp step closer to her, invading her personal space to test if she'd flinch. "You think you can psycho-analyze me into believing I'm some kind of monster out of a fairy tale."

"I don't think you're a monster," Iris said softly, her voice remarkably steady despite my proximity and the towering height difference between us. "I think you're a wolf trying desperately to live in a world built for sheep. And the longer you fight your own biology, the more volatile and violent these outbursts are going to become. Next time, it won't just be a broken jaw. It might be more fatal."

The warning hung heavily in the air between us. I wanted to scream, to shatter something, to prove to her and to myself that I was entirely in control of my own body. But deep down, beneath the layers of denial I had built up since the incident, a cold fear whispered that she might actually be right.

She didn't back down an inch. Instead, she gestured toward a worn leather armchair sitting by a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark, looming woods.

"Sit down, Sebastian," she instructed gently, the clinical edge returning to her tone. "We have a lot of grounds to cover before nightfall, and sunset comes early in the mountains."

I didn't move immediately. My boots felt glued to the hardwood floor, anchored by a sudden wave of vertigo. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to turn around, to kick the door open, to run back out into the snow and pretend none of this was happening. But there was nowhere left to run. The league had locked me out, the media was baying for my blood, and my own skin felt like a prison cell waiting to break open.

With a heavy sigh that tasted like defeat, I crossed the room and dropped into the armchair. The leather groaned under my weight. Through the massive glass window beside me, the towering pines swayed in the bitter wind, their shadows lengthening as the sun began its rapid descent behind the jagged peaks.

Iris didn't immediately sit across from me. Instead, she walked over to a small kitchenette built into the side of the cabin and poured hot water from an electric kettle into two ceramic mugs. She moved with a quiet, practiced grace, completely unfazed by my simmering hostility.

"Drink," she said, carrying one of the mugs over and placing it on the small wooden side table next to my chair. "It's lemon balm and chamomile. It won't cure what's happening to you, but it will keep your nervous system from short-circuiting while we talk."

I looked down at the steaming mug, then up at her. "I didn't ask for tea, Dr. Blackwell. I asked for answers. You talk about biology, wolves, and shifting like we're discussing a medical textbook. Explain it to me in clear Scientific terms, blood tests, cellular mutations, and give me something grounded in reality."

Iris pulled up a straight-backed wooden chair, sat down directly opposite me, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Her dark eyes locked onto mine with a piercing intensity.

"You want science?" she asked with a dry tone. "Genetics are rarely as neat and tidy as standard textbooks make them out to be, Sebastian. For centuries, baseline humanity has coexisted alongside lineages that never fully evolved out of their predatory ancestry. Most carriers live entirely normal, mundane lives. The dormant traits pass down generation after generation, fading out until they're nothing more than an unusually fast metabolism, heightened senses, or a short temper."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"And then, every once in a while, a catalyst comes along. High-octane physical trauma, and extreme psychological stress, or an intense surge of adrenaline that cracks open the genetic vault. Your body didn't break down on the ice, Sebastian. It broke through. The man you punched—Halvorsen, he poked a sleeping bear. Literally."

"That's insane," I muttered, shaking my head as a humourless laugh escaped my lips. "You're describing a folklore. Werewolves."

"I didn't use the word werewolf," Iris countered smoothly. "Pop culture loves silver bullets, full moons, and howling at the sky. The reality is far more biological. It's about thermal regulation, predatory instincts, structural bone density shifts, and an adrenal output that modern human anatomy simply isn't built to contain. Your body has been fighting a civil war for years, trying to suppress an apex predator beneath the polite covering of a professional athlete."

The words echoed in the silent room, bouncing off the timber walls. I remembered the way the ice had felt under my skates, too small, too restrictive, like a cage built for something ten times my size. I remembered the way my muscles had bunched, the way the blood had smelled, the terrifying, intoxicating pull of power that had made my rational mind switch off completely.

"If this is real," I whispered, the defiance finally draining out of me, leaving a hollow, aching void in its place, "why now? Why at twenty-four? Why during a game?"

"Because hockey is war on ice, Sebastian," Iris said softly. "You spent your entire life channelling your suppressed instincts into the most violent, aggressive sport legally allowed. You used checking, fighting, and physical dominance as a pressure valve. But when you suffered that shoulder injury a few months ago, your physical outlet was ripped away. The pressure built up behind a dam that couldn't hold anymore. When Halvorsen taunted you, when he threatened you and brought up your past... your system simply stopped pretending."

She reached out, her fingers lightly tapping the edge of the wooden table to draw my wandering gaze back to hers.

"Tonight, the sun goes down early, and the temperature is going to drop well below zero. Your body is going to feel the urge to push back against the confines of this cabin. It's going to test you. And your job over the next few weeks isn't to fight it, Sebastian. It's to learn how to master it before it masters you."

I stared out the window as the last sliver of orange light vanished behind the mountain ridge, plunging the valley into absolute, consuming darkness. Somewhere out in the deep woods, a low, resonating sound echoed through the timber, a long, rolling vibration that made the glass in the windowpane hum.

It wasn't a hallucination this time. I felt it reverberate straight down my spine, calling out to something deep inside me that was finally beginning to wake up.