Chapter 3
RAFE
The air inside the van smells like oil, iron, and the kind of silence that always comes before blood spills.
Nobody talks on the ride over, not even Mateo’s newest guy, that lanky bastard called Jan with a cigarette always stuck behind his ear and a laugh that sounds like he doesn’t give a damn whether he dies tomorrow or not.
He’s driving, tapping the wheel in a lazy rhythm, eyes on the road but head somewhere else.
The other two sit in the back with me. Luis, the stocky one with a toothpick and scars that crawl up his neck like vines, and Esteban, who’s built like a linebacker and hasn’t said a single word since I got in.
He just stares, jaw locked tight, like being in the same space with me is a test of his courage.
Maybe it is. Maybe it always is with me.
We’re headed to the port district, near the warehouses where the water smells more like fuel than sea salt.
That’s where Emil’s contact said the rat was hiding out.
Another shifter, according to the file. Panther blood, sleek and quick.
Used to work in the Syndicate’s courier ring, but turned coat last month, tried to make a deal with the wrong people.
Now he’s running scared and out of favors.
Mateo says he’s a liability. I don’t argue. Not because I care about the order. Because I need the noise in my head to go quiet.
Since yesterday, something’s been crawling inside me, and it’s not just the usual itch. It’s deeper, heavier. Like old chains rattling in the distance. The Seal hasn’t gone silent, not even when I drown it in whiskey or fists. It lingers behind my thoughts like a scent I can’t shake.
Darius’s voice, not in words but in weight. The Pact doesn’t whisper. It brands.
I told it to fuck off, but it didn’t listen.
“Target’s in Warehouse Twelve,” Jan says as he pulls up near the loading dock, cutting the engine but keeping the lights off. “Intel says he’s alone.”
I grunt, sliding the door open and stepping into the night. The concrete’s still warm beneath my boots, but the wind coming off the water carries a bite. Smells like rust, old rain, and something sour. The kind of scent that says bad things happened here and nobody bothered to clean it up.
I don’t wait for the others. I’m not here for company.
Inside, the warehouse is mostly dark, but one bulb flickers near the far wall, casting long shadows across stacks of shipping containers and rusted scaffolding. I move quiet, but I don’t hide. If he’s smart, he’s already gone. If he’s stupid, he’ll try to run.
I find him behind a crate marked Textiles, crouched low, hands shaking like he knows how this ends. He’s young, maybe mid-twenties, black hair matted with sweat, eyes wide and shining in the low light. His shirt’s torn, one arm bandaged with a piece of his own coat.
“Please,” he says before I even reach him. “I didn’t tell them anything. I swear it. I just wanted out.”
He starts to backpedal, palms up, voice cracking. “I have a brother. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t have anyone but me.”
I keep walking, slow and steady, not because I’m trying to scare him, but because I can feel the beast rising behind my ribs, pacing again. It’s like a drumbeat in my blood, thunder rolling closer, bone deep.
“I know who you are,” the kid says. “They call you the Bull. The Punisher. I heard stories, man. Said you once ripped a guy’s throat out just because he lied.”
“Lied about what?” I ask, and my voice sounds different here. Thicker. More gravel than words.
The kid swallows. “Didn’t say. Just… please. You don’t have to do this. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again.”
I stop three steps from him, staring down. He’s got that look I’ve seen a thousand times—too much fear to run, too much pride to beg. He wants to live, but he doesn’t want to crawl for it.
“Name?” I ask, though I already know it.
“Marco,” he says, voice small now. “Marco Velez.”
He closes his eyes like maybe that’ll soften me.
And for a second, I feel it.
Hesitation.
Not because of what he said. Something in the way he’s holding himself, trembling but not broken.
I raise the knife anyway.
It’s old, the one I always use for cleanup. Not my ceremonial blade. This one’s steel and bone, nothing poetic about it. I grip it tight, the leather hilt warm in my palm, and I step forward.
Marco’s eyes snap open.
“Don’t,” he says, voice rising. “Please, man. Just don’t.”
Then he says something that makes the beast inside me freeze.
“You don’t want this on you.”
I stop.
“What’d you say?”
His chest heaves. “You kill me, it won’t go away. The weight. You think it’s just another job, but I see it in your eyes. You’re already drowning.”
The knife trembles.
“You don’t know me,” I say, but the words come out hoarse.
“I know guilt,” he says. “It eats the same way, no matter who you are.”
Something snaps.
Not outside. Not from him.
Inside me.
The shift comes fast, violent, and not by choice.
Bones stretch. Muscles tear and regrow. Skin ripples, heat exploding across my shoulders as the bull surges forward, taking the space I usually keep locked down. I hear myself growl—no, bellow—and the sound rattles the walls.
Marco screams.
It’s not a long scream. It cuts off with a wet crunch as my horns connect with his ribs, sending him flying into the crate. I don’t remember crossing the distance. Don’t remember slamming into him. All I know is the rush, the heat, the fire in my blood demanding more.
More violence. More pain. More silence.
I throw him again, harder this time. His body hits the wall, collapses. He’s coughing blood, trying to crawl, but one leg is twisted beneath him and his arm hangs limp.
I snort, paw the ground, breath steaming even in the warm air.
Then something flickers. A noise.
Not his voice. Not a word.
A cry. Not his.
A woman’s.
Somewhere near the entrance, someone yells. I turn, bull eyes blazing, and I see them: three figures in the shadows, standing frozen, eyes wide.
Witnesses.
Wrong place, wrong time. One of them stumbles back, grabs the other by the arm, and they bolt. A door slams. A car starts outside.
Too late to chase. Too slow to care.
I shift back, the transformation slower now, the pain sharper. It always is when I lose control. I drop to one knee, skin slick with sweat and blood, hands coated in red. My own breath rasps in my ears, loud and empty.
Marco’s body lies twisted a few feet away. He’s not moving.
I stare at him for a long time.
The satisfaction that usually follows is gone. No sense of completion. No cold comfort. Just… space. A vast, aching space where the rage used to sit.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and walk out, footsteps loud against the metal floor.
Outside, the van’s gone. Jan must’ve bailed the second he heard the shift.
I walk.
No destination, no path. Just moving, because staying still feels like sinking.
The Seal hums again, quiet and steady now, like it’s waiting.
I don’t tell it to shut up.