Chapter 5
1130words
"I destroyed its local nest, but it still has accomplices. I'm tracking its blood trail, eliminating all collaborators to ensure complete eradication." The lie rolled off his tongue smoothly after countless rehearsals. Azrael's gray eyes seemed to pierce through the signal directly into his soul. "'Nightwing,'" she began slowly, using his codename—a title synonymous with efficiency and ruthlessness, "your reputation is built on swift resolution…"
"Agent Grayson," her voice as cold as her face, "it's been forty-eight hours since your last report. Update me." "Sir," Dick replied evenly, each word measured, "the target is severely wounded. Confirmed advanced werewolf variant with exceptional regenerative abilities and evasive tactics."
"I've reviewed your records. The most troublesome vampire nest you ever handled took thirty-six hours. Yet this 'cunning' werewolf has consumed nearly a week?" "Its contamination potential is extremely high, Commander. Any oversight risks a new outbreak."
A chill crept up Dick's spine as Azrael's suspicion coiled around him. "Contamination?" Her lips curved into a cruel smile. "Or perhaps some 'qualities' of this creature have sparked unnecessary 'curiosity' in our ace agent? Remember, Grayson—our duty is to purify, not research. Don't let emotions cloud your judgment. I want a detailed action log—target location, injury assessment, and your plan. Within twenty-four hours."
"Yes, sir." The connection cut, Azrael's face vanishing. Dick slumped against the wall with a long exhale. The thin ice of his lies was cracking beneath him.
Twenty-four hours. That's all he had left. He spun around, eyes locking on the pile of musty tomes stolen from the Order's restricted section. He grabbed an ancient Latin text—"Studies on Lunar Metamorphosis"—and frantically searched for anything useful.
Time was running out. He needed to save Bruce before Azrael's patience snapped. In the corner, Bruce huddled in shadows like a statue, silently watching Dick's desperate search. His eyes held no hope—only empty desolation.
Every few hours, Dick drew another vial of dark blood from Bruce's arm. Bruce never resisted, barely acknowledging the needle's bite. He'd surrendered completely, letting Dick conduct his futile experiments.
His silence cut deeper than any words could, shredding Dick's fraying nerves. Dick mixed the blood with herbs and minerals, heating and distilling over an alcohol lamp. The basement had become a crude, eerie laboratory.
The air reeked of disinfectant, blood, and herbs. Dick's hands were stained with chemicals, his eyes bloodshot, his demeanor that of a man possessed. He tried silver salts, aconite extract, moonstone powder—each attempt ending with violent reactions in the test tubes. Failure after failure. Despair tightened its grip.
Then he found it—a passage about "wolfsbane and St. John's wort" in a worm-eaten tome. The mixture, in specific proportions, could "calm the beast's soul." His last hope. With shaking hands, he prepared a deep green potion according to the ancient formula. "Bruce," he called, voice cracking with excitement as he approached, "try this." Bruce slowly lifted his head, hollow eyes fixing on the beaker.
Wordlessly, he extended his arm like a condemned man. Dick injected the potion slowly. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Bruce's body convulsed violently! A heart-wrenching howl tore from his throat—pure agony. His skin flushed crimson, blood vessels bulging like writhing worms beneath. The herbs had triggered the curse!
Golden beast-eyes replaced human ones, fangs pierced through his lips, fingernails extending into gleaming claws.
He wasn't transforming but being torn apart—caught between human and beast in hellish torment. "Bruce!" Dick watched in horror. He'd done this—pushed Bruce deeper into hell! Guilt and panic crashed over him.
Without thinking, he lunged forward, ignoring the deadly claws to wrap his arms around Bruce from behind. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" He pressed his face against Bruce's burning back, apologies tumbling out as he tried to calm the beast with his own warmth.
But beasts aren't soothed by gentle touches—they respond to primal instincts. Dick's embrace, his scent and warmth, wasn't comfort to Bruce's agony but a lifeline to cling to.
He spun violently, overwhelming strength flipping Dick onto the examination table! Glass shattered as Dick found himself pinned again. But this time, Bruce's golden eyes held not predatory coldness but desperate yearning—a drowning man clutching at his only salvation.
Bruce didn't attack. He just held Dick down, forehead pressed against forehead, throat releasing broken whimpers like a wounded animal. His body trembled violently, each breath hot and copper-scented.
He wasn't attacking—he was begging. In that moment, all Dick's moral defenses crumbled. He stared at that face—twisted with pain yet still igniting his obsession—into those pleading, wild eyes. A single thought consumed him: if pain can't be cured, drown it in a stronger sensation. He surrendered.
He raised his hand, fingers threading through Bruce's sweat-damp hair, cupping his face with reverence. Then he claimed Bruce's mouth in a kiss that left no room for objection—not gentle but desperate, possessive, sacrificial. His tongue forced past Bruce's teeth, tangling with savage intensity.
He tasted blood, bitter herbs, and Bruce's soul-deep pain. Bruce stiffened momentarily before responding with savage hunger, pressing Dick harder against the table as if trying to absorb him completely.
Dick guided their chaotic passion, legs wrapping around Bruce's waist, body accepting Bruce's pain-driven frenzy. This wasn't about dominance anymore but a twisted dance—the most primal communication possible.
Cold metal, broken glass, gasps of pain, desperate pleas—all elements of their private, frenzied communion. Dick arched his neck, the scabbed bite mark barely visible in the dim light. Eyes closed, he surrendered to this scalding ocean of pain and desire. He would use his body to tame the beast, fill the void in Bruce's soul, and claim him completely as his own.
As desire and pain ignited the basement air, miles away in the forest, cold gray eyes peered through high-powered binoculars. They focused on an inconspicuous vent on the cabin roof where faint heat signatures escaped.
"Found them." Azrael lowered her binoculars, a cruel smile playing on her lips. Behind her, an elite squad materialized from the shadows in deep red combat suits, silver weapons gleaming. Their eyes burned with the same zealot's fire—hunters eager to purify heretics and traitors.
"The target is inside," Azrael's voice cut through the night like Death's pronouncement. "Remember—capture 'Nightwing' alive, purify the beast. Any resistance… kill without hesitation." She hadn't reported to her superiors. This was her personal hunt—her judgment on her "excellent" subordinate.
She would cleanse this filth herself—tear apart the beast that dared corrupt her elite agent and drag the contaminated traitor back for judgment.
