*Christopher "Chris" Jergenson*
Chris's dealer went by Neptune, which was stupid, but the guy had good product and didn't ask questions. They met in a McDonald's parking lot at 3 AM, because apparently drug deals had become Chris's life now.
"Rough night?" Neptune asked, passing the vial through the car window. He looked like an accountant—wire-rim glasses, nervous tics, probably had a day job at H&R Block.
"Rough week." Chris's hands shook as he took the amber liquid. Third purchase in five days. The shaking was new. "This batch the same as last time?"
"Better. My supplier says they're calling it Strain B now. Lasts longer, smoother come-down. Some users report enhanced healing stays active for up to twelve hours."
Enhanced healing. Chris touched his split lip where a customer had punched him yesterday for refusing a refund. It had healed in minutes after his last dose, but now it throbbed with very human pain.
"How much for two?"
Neptune's eyebrows rose. "That's a lot of Chance, friend. Maybe pace yourself?"
"Maybe mind your fucking business?" The anger surprised Chris. He used to be the calm one, the mediator. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Just... how much?"
"Eight hundred for two. But Chris, seriously—"
He handed over the cash, most of his savings. Rent was due next week. He'd figure something out. He always did.
The first vial went straight into his arm right there in the parking lot. Neptune made a disgusted sound and drove off, but Chris didn't care. The rush hit like coming home—strength flooding his muscles, senses sharpening until he could count the mosquitoes circling the streetlight forty feet away.
But something was different this time. The power felt hungrier, less controlled. His skin tingled like static, and when he looked at his hands, he swore he could see his veins glowing faintly amber.
"Strain B," he muttered, starting his car. "Sure, why not?"
He made it two blocks before the hunger hit. Not for food—for violence. His enhanced muscles screamed to be used, to prove their worth. A drunk guy stumbled out of a bar ahead, and Chris had to grip the steering wheel until it creaked to keep from pulling over.
*This isn't me*, he thought. But wasn't it? Wasn't this exactly who he'd always been, just freed from human weakness?
His phone rang. Jenna.
"Chris? Are you okay? Tom said you've been acting strange."
Tom. Fucking Tom with his perfect life and his parties and his smirk. Chris pulled over, engine running.
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine. Can we meet? I'm worried about you."
The old Chris would have said yes. Would have been grateful she still cared. But the old Chris was weak, pathetic, a fast-food manager who let the world walk all over him.
"I said I'm fine." His voice came out growling, almost lycanthrope-like. "Stop calling me."
He hung up and threw the phone into the passenger seat. It shattered against the door, spider-webbing the screen. Normal Chris would care about that. Enhanced Chris had bigger concerns.
Like the fact that his veins were definitely glowing now, pulsing with each heartbeat. And the hunger wasn't fading—it was growing.
Strain B. Neptune had said it was better.
Chris laughed, harsh and bitter, as he drove toward downtown. Toward the supernatural districts where someone with his new strength could find trouble, or purpose, or maybe just an ending that meant something.
Behind him, a detective's unmarked car started its engine, following at a careful distance.
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