Inside the tent, the air crackled with a frantic, clinical energy. The four junior doctors were practically vibrating, their eyes glued to the monitors as they whispered in rapid-fire bursts.
"It's not just a surge," Dr. Sarah whispered, her fingers flying across her tablet. "It's a complete biological overhaul. Ryan Hunt's regeneration isn't just fast—it's efficient. A natural-born wolf would still have scar tissue at this stage, but he's already at ninety percent dermal closure." They were finally getting comprehensive data on all of the defectives, and Hunt was leading with the best scores.
Dr. Quincy stood with his arms crossed, his ego bruised but his scientific mind reeling. He felt a deep sense of irritation that he had to share this monumental discovery with Alana. To him, she was a political fixture, a woman of rank who lacked the decades of study required to truly appreciate what they were seeing. He couldn't view her as a scientist; she was just another part of the political machine, more worried about punishment and fear than scientific discovery—the betterment of the pack through innovation.
Even the pup, Ryan Hunt, didn't understand what this discovery meant for the pack, for the wolves. Quincy could still vividly hear his grandfather's voice in his head, telling stories of the Faye Wars—the time where their extinction was all but certain and how innovation had saved their species. His grandfather was a warrior and a scientist. For the wolf world to maintain its breath, you could never stop striving to make the wolf its best form.
This single-minded struggle—even these days of a parade of cruelty—had its place in their genetic awakening, and very few understood that the way he did. He was proud that his pack had made this remarkable discovery, and discovery always came with a cost. To him, the price wasn't as high as he'd imagined. A single dead pup and some spilled blood of defectives. Of defectives. It was a price he was willing to pay for a scientific breakthrough. You never knew who would be the next Faye, or if they would ever return. The wolves hadn't exterminated the Faye; they had just pushed them to the brink before they disappeared. But their absence did not stall his readiness.
"It defies every textbook we've written," Quincy muttered, more to himself than to her. "A latent shift shouldn't produce a stronger result. Evolution usually rewards the 'proper' path. But these defectives... once they break through that wall, their cellular recovery outpaces even the Elite Warriors. It's as if the years of being 'dormant' built up a reservoir of kinetic healing energy." He wasn't even sure if it was relegated to just healing; they could have higher stamina, and the tensile strength of their muscles could outpace the common wolf. All of it needed to be studied.
Alana didn't look impressed. She stood by the tent flap, her silhouette rigid. To her, this wasn't a "miracle of evolution"—it was a taunt. These doctors were no different than talking to Boris; they didn't get it. Her mind was far beyond what they could comprehend.
Who cared about scientific discovery? They were so worried about the greater picture without realizing the only reason they were gathered was because of her. The Alpha would never allow this project without her, and because of her benevolence, they owed it to her to see her vision come to fruition.
"So, what you're telling me," Alana said, her voice dripping with a cold, focused vitriol, "is that the prize at the end of the tunnel is a body that can't be broken. A body that is better than a standard wolf."
"Biologically? Yes," Quincy said, casting a side-eye at her. He felt a sting of resentment that she could command him so easily. "But the 'how' is still a mystery. We are watching the aftermath, not the spark." It was as if he were speaking to a child, needing to dumb down his scientific vigor for a woman without an ounce of curiosity.
"Then stop looking at the aftermath," Alana snapped, turning to face the room. Her Beta status radiated a silent pressure that forced the junior doctors to hunch over their screens. "I don't want to hear about Ryan Hunt anymore. He's already crossed the finish line. My daughter is still standing at the gate, and I am tired of waiting. You have one job. Make her a wolf!" Alana growled, her eyes flashing with a manic intensity. "If you want to put any of this data to use—if you want more money for your project—make my daughter a wolf. That should be your sole focus!"
She stepped toward the central table, slamming a hand down on a printout of George's flatlined bio-readings.
"If the reward for shifting late is this 'superior' regeneration, then the trigger must be equally extreme," she hypothesized, her eyes wide with a selfish, desperate hunger. She wasn't doing this for medical advancement; she was doing it because she couldn't stand her daughter being "lesser." Trinity was an extension of Alana's own status. "George. He's the most stagnant of the lot. If we can force him to shift, we find the key for Trinity."
"Alana, George has shown zero aptitude," Quincy argued, his voice rising. "Pushing him to the point of a shift via trauma is—"
"It's the only way," she cut him off with a dangerous, low hiss. "You want to marvel at the science? Fine. But you'll do it on my terms. I want to see exactly how much agony it takes to crack that 'dormant' shell. If the body heals this well after the shift, it can handle a little more 'encouragement' before it."
She needed to prove she was right—to Boris and to Trinity. Her real daughter needed to know she would do anything to bring her home. She wasn't satisfied with the broken thing Boris had welcomed through their doors. She was right! She knew she was right. And she would prove it today.
She stepped out of the tent, her heels digging into the soft earth with purposeful strikes. She didn't look back at the doctors, who exchanged looks of quiet horror and suppressed hostility. They hated her—hated her power and her obsession—but they were tethered to her rank.
"Warrior!" Alana called out, pointing a sharp finger at George, who was kneeling in the dirt, his gaunt face shadowed with dread.
"Bring him up. Do not stop until I tell you to. That is an order!"
The warrior frowned. He wasn't in a position to overrule her, but he hadn't heard they were increasing punishment to this level. Unused to questioning command, he gave a polite nod before calling to the warriors surrounding the kneeling defectives.
"Bring him!" he ordered, following the commands he had been given.
Jess was startled by Alana's words. Kneeling in the dirt with the others, she hadn't known Trinity's mother to be so cruel. She had thought Trinity was lucky to have Alana—that Trinity was being irrational because Jess wished her own mother cared about her. Alana had always seemed kind, to a degree. But this was unthinkable.
The whip whistled through the air before a sharp crack sounded across George's back. He barely had a second to breathe before the pain radiated through his spine. His fingers clawed at empty air as he screamed, wishing he could hold on to something.
Ryan flinched at the sound. His fists clenched, pressing hard into the soil until his knuckles went white. Beside him, Mariela felt the shift in the air. She watched Ryan, seeing the way his nostrils flared as the coppery scent of blood filled the grounds. She saw his strength and made a silent vow: No matter what happened, she would follow Ryan's lead. He was the strongest of them all. They would stand with him.
It was getting harder for Ryan to be here, to be silent and complicit while they tortured a boy who wasn't even old enough to drive. Because George had the nerve to fight back, he had become the abuser in their eyes—even though everyone kneeling had been victimized by the pack. No one cared about their suffering when it happened. It was a hard truth to accept.
"Four!" the warrior called out.
There was something about today that felt more wrong. He'd never whipped so many of his own kind before—wolves that had shifted and changed. It was hard to stomach, hard to sleep. But he didn't stop. He didn't do anything. He just counted and did what he was told, because they told him to.
"Five!"
He had to listen! To follow orders. So his arm kept rising and falling without fail. Without empathy.
"Ten!"
The warrior's voice cracked like the leather in his hand. He lowered the whip, his chest heaving in the sudden, suffocating silence.
A collective wave of relief rippled through the kneeling defectives—a silent, desperate breath. George wasn't dead. He was slumped forward, his body limp and trembling, but he was breathing. His whimpers were wet and shallow; his throat was too raw to scream. Everyone was bracing. Ten was the limit. No one was ever whipped more than ten times with silver. Ryan's fists, which had been clenched so tightly they drew blood, finally relaxed into the dirt. It has to stop now, he thought.
The defectives' eyes roamed back and forth, searching for confirmation. Beside Ryan, Diamond was a wreck. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and she wiped snot blindly on her sleeve. "Please stop... please, please, please," she mumbled, unaware she was making a sound.
Jess looked toward Ryan, wondering if it was over. But Ryan was staring straight ahead at George, his heart pounding furiously. Then, the flap of the tent was ripped open.
Alana stormed out, her eyes wild and glazy. She looked erratic, possessed. She pivoted toward the warrior. "Why have you stopped? I said keep going! We will tell you when to stop!" she screamed.
"You can't keep going!" Diamond shrieked, wrapping her arms around herself. She barely knew George, but she couldn't stand it anymore. From where she kneeled, she could see the bone beneath his shredded skin.
Alana looked at Diamond with cold indifference, as if the girl were merely complaining about the rain. "Silently wait for your turn," she said. "Continue!"
Dr. Quincy emerged from the tent, a troubled look on his face. "Dr. Carter, it's not working. At this rate, he will die. We cannot force—"
"Shut up!" Alana growled.
"You're supposed to be a doctor!" Ryan roared, pushing himself to his feet. His brown eyes began to glow with a fierce luminescence, the hues intensifying into a shimmering hazel. "That's supposed to mean something!"
"Back on your knees, defective!" a warrior named Cleveland spat, stepping forward. He didn't disagree with the sentiment, but his duty to the pack was absolute. The Alpha knew best, and Alana was the Beta female. She deserved loyalty without question.
"He's had enough! Let him go!" Ryan demanded. He looked at the warrior with the whip, who hesitated, his eyes shifting toward the Alpha's house. The house remained silent. To the warrior, that silence meant everything was fine.
He raised his arm and let the whip fly. Crack.
The eleventh strike landed. George didn't even scream; his consciousness was fading. The warrior couldn't deny the kid was tough, lasting through silver strikes that would have broken grown men. He thought of his own son, nearly George's age, but pushed the thought away. You cannot question the collective.
"I said sit," Cleveland growled, reaching for Ryan's shoulder.
His wrist was caught in a vice-like grip. Mariela bared her teeth, a feral snarl curling her lip. "Touch him and die," she threatened, tossing his arm away so hard he stumbled. She wasn't afraid anymore. She was a wolf, and she was ready to bite back.
The warrior with the whip raised his arm for the twelfth strike, but before it could land, a dark shape slammed into him. He was thrown to the side, rolling across the ground and shifting into his wolf form mid-motion. He let his guard down because of these filthy defectives, and they had attacked.
But Ryan was no longer a boy. He stood on four paws, a powerful wolf standing protectively in front of George. Mariela and the others who could shift followed suit, their bones cracking as they formed a growling circle around the fallen boy.
The clearing became a mosaic of violence. The younger defectives and the elderly, those who couldn't shift, scrambled to help. A teenaged boy threw wild, terrified punches at a warrior's leg. An old woman, who usually groaned just to stand, swung a heavy stone at a wolf's snout with a wheezing cry.
The warrior she hit recoiled in confused disdain. How can I even bite something so weak? He looked at the shaking woman, feeling no glory in the prospect of tearing into someone so fragile.
But Ryan was a blur of efficiency, dismantling any warrior who got too close. Mariela fought with suicidal aggression, taking bites to the ribs just to rake her claws across an opponent's eyes. They were a wall of fur and desperation.
At the center, George's world fractured. The whip had stopped, but the fire in his blood had begun. He saw the old woman with the rock. He saw Ryan. He saw the people he had doomed—and they were dying for him. The guilt he'd stifled finally burst. He was just a kid, and he didn't want this.
George screamed.
It was a visceral, jagged sound that made the battle halt. The defectives and warriors alike froze as the sound of snapping bone echoed across the Jade Stone. George's skin stitched together at a terrifying speed, only to be torn apart by the shifting skeleton beneath.
"Move! Move!" The warrior with the whip shifted back to human form, pushing through the crowd. "He's chained in silver! It'll kill him!"
Diamond tried to stop him, but Ryan signaled her to hold. With bare, unprotected hands, the warriors grabbed the silver shackles. They groaned in agony as the metal burned their palms, but they wrenched the pins free.
George fell to the blood-stained Jade Stone, his body contorting. The warriors held their burned hands up, pushing the defectives back to give him room. In the pack, watching a pup's first shift was sacred. They all watched with bated breath as the broken boy vanished and a wolf rose.
Alana stood at the edge, a wide, triumphant grin splitting her face. She didn't see the blood, the burned hands, or the mutiny.
"I knew it," she whispered, her eyes wide and manic. "I was right. This is how I make Trinity shift. This is how I make her perfect."