Chương 4: BloodLust

Crimson collapses onto his bed, head slamming into the pillow, wiped out, but grinning like he's just pulled off something incredible. His eyes flutter shut, and in seconds, he's gone, swallowed by sleep. But then, movement. A slow roll onto his side, only to sink into damp leaves instead of sheets. He jolts awake, heart kicking, where the hell is he? Back in the woods. Again. The next morning dawns grey and thick with mist as he stumbles, head smacking against stone. His hand flies up, rock. Cold, rough, real.

Now wide-eyed and half-naked in nothing but boxers, Crimson scrambles from under a rocky ledge, pulse hammering. He's not dreaming. He sleepwalked, deep into the forest, miles from home. Breath ragged, he pushes to his feet, shivering in the fog-choked silence. He turns, scanning the trees, then freezes. No birds. No rustling. No life. Just stillness. Too much stillness. Then, something. A shift in the mist. Close. Too close. He whips around, squinting through the haze. Branches sway. Leaves dance.

But that's not it. That's not what moved. Barefoot and trembling, he starts backing away. Then walking. Then jogging. Then running, legs pumping, breath tearing through his chest, then he sees it: a shadow. Sleek. Silent. Matching his pace. Every time he surges forward, it does too, effortless, fluid, hunting. Its eyes ignite, two white flames in the fog. It darts behind him, a blur leaping through the mist, vanishing, reappearing, always watching. Panic ignites.

Crimson sprints, limbs burning, the world blurring at the edges. He's not just running, he's flying, moving faster than should be possible. The shadow falls back, letting him pull ahead… but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. The ground vanishes beneath him. He's airborne, sailing over a wooden fence, then splash, ice-cold water swallows him whole. He erupts to the surface, gasping, disoriented, only to find himself in a suburban backyard pool.

And standing there, hose in hand, is the homeowner, staring down at him, stunned. Crimson treads water, soaked and breathless.

"Uh… Good morning," he croaks. The man blinks. Then nods slowly, a bewildered smile creeping across his face.

Later that day, in a silent, deserted hallway, Crimson slams his lacrosse bag into his locker with a sharp clang, only to freeze. Larch is standing right in front of him, blocking his path.

"Alright, little man," Larch growls, stepping in close.

"Time to talk. Where's your juice coming from?" Crimson blinks.

"What?"

"Where. The hell. Are you getting it?"

"My mom buys the groceries," he fires back, stunned.

"I don't even know what you're talking about." Larch studies him, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out if this kid's playing dumb or just clueless.

"Listen, Croft. You will tell me what you're on and who's supplying it. No way you're dominating like that on the field without something pumping through your veins."

"You think I'm on steroids?" Crimson snaps, voice rising in disbelief.

"Are you on steroids?" In one brutal motion, Larch lunges, slamming Crimson hard against the metal lockers.

"What's happening to you, Croft?!" he demands, voice raw and suddenly, Crimson cracks.

"You want to know what's going on? So do I! I see things, hear things, stuff no human should. I wake up three miles deep in the woods with no memory, doing things that shouldn't be possible. I'm losing it, man. I think I'm turning into someone, or something, I don't recognize." Larch pulls back slightly, suspicion still burning in his eyes.

"You think this is a joke? You're hiding something. And I will find out. Doesn't matter how long it takes." He hammers a fist into the locker beside Crimson's head, then storms off, leaving silence in his wake. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Meanwhile, on the lacrosse field, chaos erupts as players sprint into position. Churro bursts through the crowd, late and breathless, spotting Crimson just in time.

"Crimson, wait! You've got to hear this!"

"I've got the first elimination drill. Can it wait?"

"No, listen! My dad was on the phone. The FBI results came back from LA. They found animal hair on the body from the woods." Crimson adjusts his helmet, already turning away.

"Churro, I've got to go."

"You won't believe what kind of animal…" But Crimson sprints onto the field, helmet sealing over his face, cutting off the rest. Churro stands alone, whispering into the wind:"It was a wolf." On the field, the coach barks orders.

"Gather up!" Crimson glances toward the bleachers, Willow's there, waving with Scara beside her. He lifts a hand to wave back...

"Got a question, Croft?"

"What?"

"You raised your hand."

"Oh, no. Just… nothing. Sorry." The coach smirks.

"Right. Listen up, everyone. Miss the cut? You're riding the bench all season. Make it? You play. Parents cheer. Girlfriends swoon. Life's golden. Now, show me what you've got!" The whistle shrieks, game on. The field ignites with speed and fury. Crimson catches the pass, but Larch is already on him, slashing down with his stick. A brutal crack against Crimson's gloves sends him crashing forward, dirt exploding around him as he hits the turf. Play halts.

Larch stands over him, dark and dominant, snatching the ball while Crimson grits his teeth behind his mask, forcing himself up. Another sharp whistle. The team regroups. Tension crackles in the air. Back at the draw, Crimson and Larch crouch low, sticks poised, the ball a tiny battlefield between them.

"Set!" Silence. Then, explosion. At the whistle, Crimson explodes with lightning reflexes, yanking the ball free right from under Larch's nose. On the side-lines, Churro slips away from the bench, eyes locked on the action. Crimson rockets downfield, defenders swarming like hornets, sticks swinging. He deflects every strike, fluid, fearless. Larch closes in fast, lunging wildly to rip the ball away.

But Crimson spins, cradling the ball tight, then, unbelievably, launches into a full flip, soaring over the defence like a daredevil clearing a canyon. He lands hard, pivots in one motion, and fires an over-the-shoulder shot. The ball screams past the goalie and slams into the net. The bleachers erupt. Fans leap to their feet, Wilson screaming with joy. Everyone's celebrating, except Churro.

"Croft! Get over here, now!" He jogs toward the coach, the whole team watching. So is someone else, Autzee, shadowed behind the chain-link fence.

"What in God's name was that?" the coach barks.

"This is lacrosse, not the damn circus! You auditioning for gymnastics?"

"No, Coach."

"Then what was it?"

"I don't know. I just… went for the shot."

"Well, you made it. And guess what? You're in. Starting line-up. First line. You earned it." Cheers detonate. Teammates swarm him, pounding his helmet, shoving his shoulder, pure chaos, pure joy. Crimson grins wildly, lost in the moment, oblivious to Larch's seething glare… and Churro, standing frozen, face etched with dread.

Night falls over Churro's house, the dimming light swallowed by the glow of his laptop. Fingers fly across the keyboard, frantic, relentless. Screen after screen flashes with cryptic terms: Wolfsbane. Silver Bullets. Lycaon. Aconite. Sketches of snarling werewolves. A vivid purple flower labeled in bold: wolfsbane. Inside, the shadows grow longer. Outside, the sun dips below the horizon. And Churro? He's frozen, watching a single sheet spit out from his printer like a verdict.

It shows a haunting woodcut, a medieval hunter standing over a fallen beast, crossbow aimed true at a werewolf's heart. He rips the page free, pulse spiking, when, knock, knock, knock. He nearly vaults from his seat. Dashes to the door. Swings it open. Crimson stands there, calm, clueless.

"Get in. Now. You need to see this." Churro's voice cracks with urgency.

"I've been digging, sites, books, ancient texts, everything adds up." Crimson shrugs off his jacket, but his friend is already shovelling papers off the desk.

"How much Adderall did you take?"

"Too much? Doesn't matter. Just listen."

"Is this about the body? Did they catch the killer?"

"They're still questioning people. Even Autzee Tate."

"The guy from the woods?"

"Exactly. But that's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"That joke we made? The one about the wolf? It wasn't a joke. That bite in the forest, it's real. I started researching, and here's something you should know, Why does a wolf howl?"

"Should I care?"

"It's a signal. When a lone wolf howls, it's calling the pack. If you heard it… then others are out there. Maybe an entire pack."

"A pack of wolves?"

"No. Werewolves."

"You're kidding, right? I've got to pick up Wilsom in an hour. Don't waste my time."

"I saw you on the field, Crimson. That play? Not just good. Impossible. Speed. Reflexes. Hearing things no human should. And since that night, you haven't touched your inhaler. Not once." Churro rises, intensity building.

"I can't deal with this now. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? The full moon is tonight. Don't you get it? That's when it hits hardest. No control. No turning back. You're cursed, and it's not just the change. It's the bloodlust. The urge to kill." A beat.

"I… I'm already feeling it," Crimson admits, voice low.

"Then listen, anger, stress, anything that spikes your heart rate can trigger the shift. And nobody gets your pulse racing like Willow. You have to cancel. Now." He grabs Crimson's's jacket, yanking out the phone.

"What the hell are you doing? Give that back!"

"Just finding her number..."

"Give it to me!" Crimson roars. He snatches the phone, shoves Churro hard against the wall. Stops himself from throwing a punch, but not the chair. One furious swipe sends it crashing across the room like paper. Breathing ragged, trembling, he looks up, horrified.

"I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I didn't, I have to go. Party. I have to get ready. I'm sorry." He reaches to help Churro up, but his friend flinches away. Crimson grabs his jacket and bolts. Alone, shaken, Churro slowly pulls himself up. Drags the chair back. Then stops. With a trembling hand, he turns it over. Deep, jagged claw marks tear through the fabric, ripped open like it was nothing.