A FORBIDDEN PRIZE

"The boundary between madness and sanity is thin."

{MICHAEL'S POV}

I positioned myself beneath Basho Bridge — a concrete artery connecting two restless streets — waiting for my would-be attackers. The structure above was nothing remarkable in appearance, yet its design caught my eye: a sharp interplay of lines and asymmetry, balanced in quiet defiance. The dim light cast elongated shadows, draping everything in a cloak of silent anticipation. It felt as though the darkness itself was watching.

Beneath the bridge, the world shifted. What should have been a cold, utilitarian underpass had transformed into a lush oasis, broken only by scattered stones. The surreal greenery felt out of place, dreamlike. And yet, my eyes were drawn upward — to the moon, suspended high above like a sentinel. Its soft silver light was breathtaking, a private marvel that eclipsed everything else. For a fleeting moment, I believed nothing could surpass its beauty.

Then they arrived.

One by one, they dropped from the bridge with heavy thuds — five figures landing with predatory grace. Their footsteps echoed with finality as they closed in, a tightening ring of menace. So this was Augustus's plan: five werewolves, sent to eliminate me. Once, that would've spelled my end.

But that was before. I had changed.

Where fear once ruled, only fire remained — focused, relentless, unyielding.

Let them come.

Power, however, never comes without a cost.

Since childhood, I'd heard voices — unintelligible murmurs gnawing at the edges of my sanity, dragging with them an urge to kill. I kept them buried, locked beneath discipline and control. But on July 31st, the dam broke. The voices returned. And with them, the hunger.

The first to fall was an Omega — wrong place, wrong time. I remember his expression when I lost control: wide eyes, disbelief frozen into terror. Even in death, his face bore the grim imprint of what I'd become — a testament to the fury I could no longer restrain.

"You're supposed to be powerful, Michael," came a voice from the shadows. "Now you're just a fugitive. Surrounded. Finished."

Lincoln.

A Beta, like me — once my equal, always my rival. Augustus knew what he was doing. Lincoln's jealousy had always simmered beneath the surface, and now it had been weaponized. A perfect pawn.

The Omegas circled in, forming a deliberate ring. They left a gap, just wide enough for Lincoln to step through. He did so with a smile — smug, triumphant. This was his moment.

I hadn't spoken in days. No voices, no music, no warmth — only silence and motion. So when I opened my mouth, my voice came out like stone on steel. "Thanks," I rasped.

Owen, one of the Omegas, laughed. "He's thanking us? Like we're doing him a favor?"

Their laughter echoed coldly. I didn't flinch. I looked at Owen and adjusted my fedora.

He would be last.

The madness stirred again — familiar and corrosive. I wasn't the man I had been. I'd gone too far, shed too much. What remained was something other. Something unbound.

Lincoln gave the nod.

They attacked.

It was seamless — five shapes lunging in unison, half-beasts now, half-men. Fur bristled, claws extended, eyes glowed with feral hunger. They moved like shadows given form.

Lincoln was fastest. He came at me with vicious precision — a blur of motion. But to me, time slowed. My reflexes were sharpened by something unnatural. I moved with impossible grace, spinning out of reach and reappearing behind one of his pack.

One strike. Claws through the heart. The scream barely began before it was over.

Four left.

I surged forward. My body responded like a weapon — swift, fluid, lethal. Another blink. Another kill. A clean decapitation. Blood arced across my white shirt in violent crimson, painting it like grotesque art.

I ignored Owen — for now — and advanced toward the werewolf closest to Lincoln. But just as I closed the distance, a sudden force stopped me.

Lincoln's arms clamped around my waist, unyielding.

Mistake.

I gripped his wrists and peeled them apart with ease. Bones cracked beneath my fingers. With a roar, I hurled him backward. He hit a jagged rock with a wet crunch and collapsed.

No hesitation. I turned on the werewolf he had tried to shield. My hand closed around his throat. My fangs sank deep.

The sound — the tear of flesh, the rush of blood — was intoxicating. For a moment, I was drowning in it.

But I couldn't afford indulgence.

Lincoln recovered faster than expected, launching himself at me once more. His claws arced toward my chest — but I was faster. I twisted out of reach, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him into the ground.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The earth trembled beneath the blows. His skull cracked. Blood pooled. His face was no longer recognizable.

Then there was one.

Owen.

He stared at me, frozen, then stumbled backward and fell. "Please," he whispered. "Don't kill me."

But I was already there.

I pinned him beneath me, fangs at his throat. I bit down. His scream — high and broken — was a song I hadn't known I'd missed.

And still, the madness grew louder.