Chapter 1 Intake

Chapter 1 Intake

Zachary enters from the far side of the room. A man in a white lab coat is already seated at the table opposite him, waiting. The room is plain, almost aggressively so.

Zachary sits down and adjusts himself in the chair, shifting until his tail has room to rest without being pinned. It flicks once behind him. His ears curl back slightly as he settles, eyes narrowing as he looks across the table. He doesn’t bother hiding the glower.

The man doesn’t react to it.

“I’m told you prefer to go by Zachary,” the man says calmly. “Or Zach, for short.”

Zachary nods once. “That’s correct.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Zachary exhales through his nose. “Some kind of institution,” he says. “That much I’ve figured out.”

“And do you know why you’re here?”

Zachary tilts his head, thinking about it. “I kind of did a thing,” he says after a moment. “And yeah. People noticed.”

The man reaches into his coat pocket and produces a small tape recorder, placing it carefully on the table between them. He presses a button; the faint click and soft whir confirm it’s running.

“My name is Dr. Jonathan Hunter, Senior Researcher, Applied Thaumaturgy Division,” he says evenly. “I’m with the SCP Foundation. This is SCP-1847’s first interview.”

The recorder hums quietly as the room settles into silence.

“SCP Foundation,” Zachary repeats under his breath. Then, a little louder, “What the fuck is that?”

Dr. Hunter clears his throat. “Please refrain from cursing, Zachary.”

Zachary’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t argue.

Dr. Hunter glances briefly at the recorder, then speaks again, this time with the careful cadence of someone addressing an unseen audience rather than the person across from him.

“For the record,” he says, “SCP-1847 has requested to be addressed by the name Zachary, or Zach. In accordance with behavioral compliance recommendations, I will refrain from using his Foundation designation during this interview.”

The recorder continues to hum, faithfully capturing every word.

Zachary clears his throat and asks in a more civilized manner, “Mr. Doctor Hunter, what is the SCP Foundation?” His ears twitch once. “You say it like I should already know what it is.”

The doctor leans back in his chair, pulling a pencil from his coat pocket and twirling it between his fingers. “That is a complex question,” he says calmly, “with an equally complex answer.”

Zachary leans back as well, absentmindedly mirroring the doctor’s posture—the same nonchalance, the same relaxed lean. “How is asking what something is a complex question?”

“You’re correct,” Dr. Hunter replies. “Asking what something is isn’t complex. I’ll grant you that. Answering it, however, is.” He pauses, pencil stilling. “There are more facets to the answer than you could reasonably comprehend in one sitting.”

He exhales quietly. “So I’ll give you the short version for now. The SCP Foundation is, in essence, a kind of law enforcement agency for the supernatural and the anomalous.” His eyes settle on Zachary. “You yourself are anomalous.”

Zachary smiles faintly. “I think that’s a compliment.”

“Your abilities make you unique,” Dr. Hunter continues. “What you did when we found you—”

Zachary cuts in. “You mean what I did before you found me?”

Dr. Hunter nods once. “Yes. That.” He doesn’t soften his tone. “If weaponized, those abilities make you quite dangerous.”

Zachary’s smile fades into a frown. “So we’re really going to talk about this.”

“Yes, Mr. O’Ryan,” Dr. Hunter says evenly. “We are.”

He lets the pencil rest on the table. “The hotspots you produced were visible from space.”

Zachary looks away. His posture closes in on itself, shoulders tightening, ears angling back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dr. Hunter’s tone hardens. He slaps one hand flat against the table, the sound sharp in the small room.

“When we found you,” he says, voice raised but measured, “you were a walking inferno in the shape of a fox. As big as a building. Nine tails. Claws and teeth. Hellfire.” He leans forward. “And then you turned into what’s sitting in front of me right now and asked for help.”

Zachary’s jaw tightens.

“We searched the wreckage,” Dr. Hunter continues. “So tell me—what does the Chaos Insurgency want with you?” A brief pause. “Besides the obvious.”

Zachary snaps his head back toward him. “I don’t know!” he shouts.

The recorder hums on, uncaring, as the silence rushes back in behind the words.

“Let’s go back a little,” Dr. Hunter says. “To what happened before the event. Before we found you.”

Zachary shifts in his chair. “Can I get a drink, please?” He glances at the doctor, one brow lifting. “And if you’re the good cop, where’s the bad cop?”

“That would be her.”

The door opens.

A woman steps in—tall, black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her expression makes it immediately clear she isn’t here to waste time. She’s built like someone who knows how to carry weight and isn’t afraid to use it. Without a word, she pulls a chair back, drags it into place, and sits beside the doctor.

The doctor speaks again. “Let the record show that Mobile Task Force personnel have joined the interview. Sergeant Jasmine, please state your affiliation.”

“Sergeant Maria Jasmine Cartwright,” she says evenly. “Mobile Task Force sergeant, fireteam leader. I was assigned to Theta-7 on the day SCP-1847 was brought into Foundation custody.”

Dr. Hunter nods once. “For the record, SCP-1847 has requested to be addressed by his given name—Zachary, or Zach.”

The sergeant looks from the doctor to Zachary.

“I’m aware,” she says.

The recorder continues to hum.

Zachary clears his throat. “So—about that water?”

Jasmine reaches to her side, produces a canteen, and sets it down on the table in front of him. Not gently. The metal hits hard enough to make the table give a dull thud. She doesn’t break eye contact as she does it.

Zachary glances at the canteen, then back up at her. “Yep. That’s definitely bad cop.”

He takes a breath. “So—you want to know what happened the day before the incident?” A pause. “Because I don’t actually remember it very well.”

The doctor speaks softly. “Yes.” He folds his hands on the table. “Take us back to those days.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Zach wakes to the sound of his phone alarm buzzing somewhere near his head. He groans, rolls onto his back, and squints at the cracked screen. A few hours before work. Enough time.

He gets up and pads into the kitchen. Turns the tap.

The pipes protest immediately. Red, murky water spits out at first, thick and rusty, before clearing up after a few seconds. He watches it carefully, then fills a pot once it runs clean enough to pass.

He twists the stove knob. Nothing.

“No gas,” he mutters. “Fuck.”

No one’s there to see it, but his eyes shimmer faintly for a second. He snaps his fingers. Blue fire blossoms in the air where the gas should be, steady and contained, licking upward just enough to do the job. He sets the pot over it like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He opens what barely qualifies as a refrigerator and pulls out eggs, bread, and butter. Sets them on the counter. Snaps again, coaxing a second low flame into place, and puts a frying pan over it.

That’s when there’s a knock at the door.

Zach pauses, then cracks it open just enough to see who it is. Erin, from 2B. He relaxes and opens the door wider, letting her in.

“Hey,” she says, already flustered. “Uh—my gas isn’t working either. Can I use your stove? Please?”

“Yeah, of course,” Zach says. His tail gives a small, unconscious wag and his ears perk up before he remembers himself.

She steps closer and hugs him, quick but warm. Then she pulls back just enough to look at him, holding his gaze a second longer than necessary before turning away.

She leans out into the hallway. “Sweetie, Zach’s going to let us use his stove.”

A small voice answers, and a moment later her daughter comes trotting in, eyes wide with curiosity.

While Erin cooks, Zach kneels down and entertains the kid, letting her chatter at him while she circles around, laughing and trying to grab his tail every time it swishes past. He lets her catch it once, just to hear her giggle.

When Erin finishes, she plates the food and sets it down in front of him.

“Payment,” she says, smiling.

Zach grins back, tired but genuine, as the kid darts past him again, chasing his tail like it’s the best toy she’s ever seen.

For a little while, it almost feels normal.

Erin finishing cooking make and cheese as he eats his lunch at the table pop up they leave He smiles as erin head to her apartment, zack clean up Finishes getting dressed. Brushes his hair, puts on his hat. Puts in a Spanish around his tail, stuffs it in his cargo pants. Trims his nails and puts on gloves up.

Outside, he climbs into his cheap, beat-up Honda. The engine complains before finally turning over, rattling like it’s held together by spite and duct tape. The drive is long and dull—industrial roads, rusted fences, the smell of salt and oil thick in the air as he gets closer to the docks.

Work is work.

He spends the day loading and unloading freight cars, hauling crates and pallets off trains and onto waiting trucks. It’s loud, physical, and thankless. The kind of job where no one asks questions and no one wants answers. Most of the guys there are felons, burnouts, or just desperate enough not to care. They keep their heads down, do the work, and get paid in cash.

Nobody snitches. Even if they notice something off, they don’t say shit.

Zach keeps his head down too. Lifts, carries, stacks. Sweat soaks through his shirt as the hours grind by, muscles burning in a familiar way. It’s exhausting, but it’s simple. Honest, in its own ugly way.

By the time the shift ends, he’s tired enough that thinking too hard feels optional.

The foreman, Steven, steps out of the small office near the tracks with a clipboard under one arm and a thick stack of cash in his hand. He flips the clipboard open, scanning the spreadsheet taped to it.

“Alright, boys—and girl,” he calls out. “Line up. Pay time.” He taps the stack of bills against his palm. “Boss man’s feeling generous today. Bonus for repeat workers. You know the drill. Name first, then you get your day’s pay.”

A loose line forms without anyone being told twice.

The first guy steps up and gives his name. Steven peels off the bills and hands them over. The man counts them carefully, thumb flicking through the cash like someone who knows exactly how many meals it has to last him.

No one talks much. They just wait their turn, boots scuffing against concrete, sweat drying stiff on their shirts. Cash changes hands. Names are spoken once and immediately forgotten.

When Zach’s turn comes, he steps forward, hat low, gloves still on.

“Zach,” he says.

Steven checks the list, nods, and counts out the bills—day’s pay, plus a little extra folded on top. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Zach says, slipping the cash into his pocket.

Steven grunts approval and calls for the next worker.

The line keeps moving. The docks keep breathing. And for the moment, everything stays exactly where it’s supposed to be.

The trip home is just as boring as the drive in—only now his pockets are a little heavier.

Zach parks his crappy car in the same crappy spot it’s always been, kills the engine, and sits there for a second before getting out. The building looms the same as ever. Peeling paint. Broken lights. Familiar.

He starts up the stairs.

That’s when he hears it.

Shouting. Slurred and angry. A man’s voice, loud enough to carry down the hallway. Something heavy thuds against a door—once, then again.

“Open the fucking door!”

Zach stops halfway up the landing.

From behind the door marked 2B, he hears Erin’s voice. Tense. Controlled. “Go away. I told you to leave.”

Zach exhales slowly.

For once, he breaks one of his rules.

He walks closer and sees the guy clearly now—unsteady on his feet, eyes glassy, breath sour with alcohol. The man’s fist is raised again, ready to pound on the door.

“Hey,” Zach says calmly. “What’s going on?”

The man turns on him, swaying slightly as he squints. “Mind your own fucking business.”

“I’m just asking,” Zach says, keeping his hands visible. “You should probably leave. You’re making a scene.”

That earns him a laugh. Short. Ugly.

The punch comes fast.

It catches Zach square in the face, snapping his head to the side. Pain blooms across his cheek as he stumbles back a step, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

He straightens slowly, one gloved hand coming up to wipe at his lip.

For a moment, the hallway is very quiet.

Zach’s hat hits the floor.

His ears are fully visible now, no longer hidden. The drunk stares at them, squinting as his alcohol-soaked brain tries to catch up.

“What the fuck—are you some kind of furry?” he slurs.

He staggers forward and throws another punch.

This one doesn’t land.

Zachary catches the man’s fist mid-swing, fingers closing tight. Too tight. His claws tear through the end of his glove, biting into the man’s hand before Zach can stop himself. He freezes for half a second, realizing what’s happened.

The drunk howls and tries to pull back.

Zach doesn’t let go.

His lips curl back, pointed canines now clearly visible as he forces himself to breathe, to stay in control.

“I’m asking you nicely,” Zachary says, voice low and steady despite the tension running through him. “Please. Piss off and go home.” He leans in just enough to make the point clear. “She doesn’t want your company. So fuck off.”

The grip loosens just enough to give the man a choice.

The man doesn’t argue.

He wrenches his hand free and bolts down the hallway, nearly tripping over his own feet. “You fucking freak!” he shouts over his shoulder as he disappears down the stairs.

The silence rushes back in.

A moment later, the door to 2B opens. Erin steps out first, her daughter right behind her. Erin doesn’t hesitate—she crosses the short distance and wraps her arms around Zachary, holding on tight. A second later, the girl joins in, hugging his leg like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you,” Erin says, her voice shaky.

Then she does something that catches Zach completely off guard.

She kisses him.

It’s quick, unplanned, more relief than romance—but it’s real. When she pulls back, she presses her forehead against his, breathing him in.

“He saw your ears,” she whispers. “Your claws. What if he tells people?”

Zachary swallows, forcing his shoulders to relax. “He’s drunk,” he says quietly. “It’ll just sound like rambling. Nobody’s going to take him seriously.”

Erin studies his face for a long moment, then nods, trusting him. She squeezes his hand once more before stepping back, keeping her daughter close.

The hallway slowly settles.

But something has shifted, and Zach can feel it—even if he doesn’t say a word.

Erin looks up at him, brushing her hair back over one ear. Her eyes search his face, tired and still a little shaken.

“The stove in my apartment’s still not working,” she says quietly. “Could we maybe… cook over at your place?” She offers a weak, hopeful smile.

Zachary nods without hesitation. “Yeah. Of course.”

A few minutes later, the three of them are back in his apartment. Erin sets things down on the counter while her daughter wanders the room, curious but comfortable, like she’s been there before.

Zach hesitates for only a second before deciding not to hide it.

“Hey,” he says to Erin, lowering his voice just a bit. “There’s something I should probably show you.”

She watches as he snaps his fingers.

A small, controlled blue flame blossoms above the burner—steady, contained, nothing wild about it. Erin’s eyes widen, then soften into something closer to wonder than fear.

“You’ve been doing that this whole time?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Didn’t really have a better option.”

She laughs softly, a sound that loosens something in his chest. “Figures.”

Her daughter claps like it’s a magic trick, delighted. Zach relaxes, unwinding the band at his waist and freeing his tail. It flicks once, then sways as the girl immediately goes after it again, laughing as she tries to catch it.

“Hey—careful,” Zach says, grinning as he lets her grab it for a second before pulling it just out of reach.

Erin watches the two of them, then glances back at him. “Why do you hide it?” she asks, nodding toward his tail.

Zach pauses, the smile fading just a little. “Because most people don’t react like you do.”

He reaches up slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. A clawed finger traces gently along the line of her ear. Erin doesn’t flinch. Instead, she lifts her hand and holds his there, grounding it.

Zach leans in and kisses her.

She returns it without hesitation—soft, careful, unhurried. When they part, neither of them rushes to say anything.

Erin nods slowly, understanding more than she puts into words. She turns back to the stove, the blue flame humming quietly beneath the pan, while her daughter’s laughter fills the small apartment.

For now, it’s enough.

The next morning comes quietly. Pale light filters through the cracked blinds as Zach slips out of bed, careful not to wake anyone. Erin’s daughter is still asleep, curled up in the blankets they’d piled together the night before.

Zach heads into the kitchen and starts breakfast—water tested, pipes coaxed into cooperation, a low blue flame flickering into place beneath the pan.

A few minutes later, Erin appears in the doorway, wearing one of Zach’s hoodies. It hangs loose on her, sleeves too long. She rubs at her arms and watches him for a moment.

“Morning,” she says softly.

“Morning,” he answers.

She glances back toward the bedroom, then lowers her voice. “I’m going to take a shower before she wakes up,” she says. “The water’s freezing again.”

Zach nods. “Yeah. That tracks.”

She hesitates, then smiles at him—tired, warm, a little shy. “You want to keep me company?” she asks. “Just… for warmth.”

Zach pauses for half a second, then shuts off the burner. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

She takes his hand and leads him down the hall. The bathroom door closes behind them, muffling the sound of running water.

The kitchen is left empty, breakfast waiting on the stove, the blue flame fading out on its own.

Some things don’t need to be lingered on.

A little while later, the two adults emerge from the bathroom, hair damp, clothes hastily changed, both looking warmer—and slightly more flustered—than when they went in.

At the pop-up table, Sammy is already awake and eating breakfast, swinging her legs as she shovels in a forkful of eggs. She looks up at them, eyes bright.

“I didn’t knock,” she says matter-of-factly. “Because i wnat a brother.”

Erin freezes.

Zach clears his throat.

Sammy tilts her head, studying them. “Are you guys together now?”

Erin exhales, then smiles gently. “Something like that, sweetheart.”

Sammy considers this for a moment, then nods, clearly satisfied. “Okay.” She takes another bite. “Can Zach still make breakfast tomorrow?”

Zach relaxes, a smile creeping back in. “Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”

Sammy grins and goes back to her food like nothing important just happened.

Erin meets Zach’s eyes over the table, something soft and relieved passing between them.

For a moment longer, it still feels normal.

Zach leaves the apartment on something close to cloud nine.

He knows he’s walking a fine line. The docks give him steady income. He’s respected there. No questions asked. And if he could somehow get legitimate papers—prove who he was, on paper—he could go legit. Real pay. Real hours. No more side jobs. No more living in the margins.

Erin is one of the few people who knows who he actually is. Knows what he is.

And it feels good.

Zach climbs into his Honda. For once, the engine doesn’t protest when he turns the key. He pulls out of the lot just as a black van rolls in behind him. He barely gives it a glance.

One block. Two blocks. Three.

A white Chevy slips in behind him.

Zach frowns. Paranoid, he tells himself. He changes lanes.

So does the Chevy.

He speeds up.

The Chevy speeds up.

His grip tightens on the wheel. He’s almost halfway to work when his phone rings.

“Zach,” Steven says on the other end, voice low. “You still on your way?”

“Yeah,” Zach says. “Why?”

“Man… why didn’t you tell me you were on parole?”

Zach’s stomach drops. “What? I’m not on parole.”

Steven exhales sharply. “Bro, we hire felons. You didn’t have to be slick about it. We could’ve put you on the books.”

“I’m telling you,” Zach says, heart starting to pound, “I’m not on parole. What are you talking about?”

“Your PO just stopped by,” Steven says. “Asked questions. Had paperwork. Looked official as hell.”

“That’s not possible,” Zach says. “Steven, I don’t have a parole officer.”

There’s a pause on the line.

“Just… get your ass into work,” Steven says finally. “We’ll take care of everything when you get here.”

The call ends.

Zach lowers the phone slowly.

Message received.

Do not come in.

Zach jerks the wheel into a hard U-turn, tires screaming in protest as he floors it. The Honda rattles like it might shake itself apart, but it keeps going.

“No, no, no,” he mutters under his breath. “That black van…”

In the mirror, the white Chevy doesn’t slow down.

It follows.

Zach cuts across lanes, ignoring horns, pushing the car harder than he ever has. The engine whines, furious and strained, but it’s all he’s got. The Chevy stays glued to him, steady and patient.

They know.

If they knew where he worked, then they knew where he lived.

Erin.

“No—no, no,” Zach says, louder now. His hands are slick on the wheel. “She’s still there. She was still in my apartment when I left.”

The black van flashes through his mind again—too clean, too deliberate.

This isn’t a coincidence. This isn’t paranoia.

Zach swerves down a side street, then another, heart hammering as he tries to lose them. The Chevy mirrors every move, unhurried, like it knows exactly where he’s going.

Home.

And suddenly the truth settles in, heavy and cold.

They aren’t chasing him.

They’re already there.

Zach swings into the parking lot of the shitty building with the broken windows and dead streetlights. He cuts the engine, doesn’t even bother locking the door, and bolts.

The black van is parked right by the front entrance.

Empty.

His stomach drops.

The Chevy screeches in behind him as he charges through the open doors. He hears car doors slam. Footsteps. Shouting. He doesn’t slow down.

Up the stairs, two at a time. His lungs burn. His heart hammers so hard it feels like it might tear loose. He hits his floor and turns the corner toward his landing—

Pain explodes across his face.

A fist connects hard enough to snap his head sideways. He stumbles, barely staying on his feet as stars burst across his vision.

“That’s him,” someone snarls. “The furry freak.”

Zach spits blood, ears ringing, and lifts his head.

Too late.

The man from the other night—the drunk—stands there, swaying slightly. He talked.

Hands grab Zach from behind and drag him into the apartment. He’s shoved into a chair and forced down into a corner. Across the room, Erin and her daughter, Sammy, are huddled together, pressed back against the wall. Erin’s arms are wrapped tight around the girl, her face pale.

A blond man pulls a chair around and sits backward in it, resting his arms across the backrest as he leans in close. Someone yanks Zach’s hat off, shaking it loose in his grip.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Zach,” the blond says pleasantly. “We’ve been looking for someone with your… unique talents for a while.” He smiles thinly. “We’re hoping you’ll come work for us.”

Zach spits a bit of blood onto the floor and lifts his head, eyes burning as he glares at the man.

Erin’s voice cuts in, shaky but firm. “They came in right after you left, Zach. They had guns. They knew your name. They knew what you are. They knew where you worked.” She swallows hard. “They said you’d be back shortly. I didn’t tell them anything. They already knew.”

A laugh comes from near the door.

“That’s ’cause I told ’em,” the drunk slurs. “That’s because I told them, bitch.”

The blond’s expression doesn’t change. He flicks his eyes toward the man by the door.

The man there raises a suppressed pistol.

There’s a sharp, muted crack.

The drunk collapses to the floor, words cut off mid-breath.

Sammy screams.

“I don’t care for crude language,” the blond says calmly, not even looking at the body. “And he was abrasive.” A small shrug. “A liability.”

The room goes very still.

Zachary feels something inside him start to give way.

The blond doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “You’re coming to work for us,” he says plainly. “You don’t have a choice.”

Zachary’s eyes flick to the patch stitched onto the man’s shoulder.

A stark spiral of black and white curves around a single red circle at its center—order pulled inward toward violence, everything orbiting a wound that never closes. He’s never seen it before, but something about it makes his skin crawl.

“Who are you people?” Zachary asks.

His gaze shifts to the body on the floor. His jaw tightens. “Did you really have to kill the girl’s father right in front of her?”

The blond glances down at the body, then at the child, as if both are equally unremarkable. “Collateral damage,” he says. “Unfortunate, but acceptable.”

He shrugs, casual. “Maybe it’ll change her. Make her into something sharper. Something that learns how ugly the world really is.” His eyes return to Zachary. “People like us don’t come from comfort.”

The air around Zachary feels tighter. Hotter.

Whatever has been holding him together is starting to crack.

“You people are monsters,” he snarls.

The blond chuckles softly. “Rich,” he says. “Coming from someone like you.”

He straightens, pushing himself up from the chair he’d been straddling. “Let’s try this again.”

He crosses the room in two long steps, grabs Erin by the arm, and hauls her forward. He forces her down into the chair he’d just vacated, planting her there before pressing the cold muzzle of a gun against the back of her head.

“NO!” Zachary surges up from his own chair.

Hands slam into his shoulders, forcing him back down. The chair skids across the floor as he struggles, legs kicking, chair legs scraping against concrete. He twists, tries to rise again—

—and is shoved down harder.

“Stop,” the blond says calmly, not even turning around. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

Erin’s breath comes fast and shallow. She grips the seat beneath her, eyes locked on Zachary. She doesn’t scream. She just looks at him, steady and terrified all at once.

The room holds its breath.

And something inside Zachary finally gives.

The change is immediate.

Heat rips outward from him as his body distorts, bones shifting, muscle surging. His human shape tears away in a violent, incomplete transformation—too much power, not enough room. A massive fox-like form forces itself into existence, filling the space where a man had been sitting only seconds before.

Three—no, four—tails lash behind him, wreathed in searing blue-white flame. Not the full thing. Not yet. But far more than he’s ever let loose.

The air screams.

The floor cracks beneath the sudden weight as he lunges forward, claws gouging concrete, jaws opening in a roar that rattles the walls.

The blond reacts on training alone.

The trigger pulls.

Everything happens at once.

Erin looks at Zachary as he lunges.

In that fraction of a second, she smiles at him. Blinks. Then blinks again.

Her eyes never open after that.

Zachary never allows himself to see, in his mind’s eye, what happens after the trigger is pulled. He only knows the sound—and the way her body goes limp as it falls to the floor.

Sammy screams.

Zach hits the blond like a living battering ram, slamming him into the ground with enough force to crack tile and splinter wood. There’s no thought left in it now. No restraint. Just instinct and fury tearing forward unchecked.

The child runs.

She doesn’t look back. She just runs, her footsteps fading down the hall as Zachary turns, snarling, toward the remaining men in the room. Red gore. Dripping from his jaws. Turning into Steam.

Three—four—tails whip behind him, trailing blue fire that bleeds into the air like heat distortion. The temperature spikes violently, pressure building with every breath he takes. His growl rattles the walls, deep and animal, vibrating through the floor.

The men raise their weapons.

The next shots ring out—

—and dissolve midair, metal softening and warping before it ever reaches him.

Zachary lunges again.

And this time, there is nothing left to stop him.

Powerful legs drive the beast forward. Jaws clamp down where a shoulder meets the neck, force and heat combined in a savage snap. There’s tearing—wet, final—and the man is ripped free and hurled across the room, hitting the wall hard and sliding down in a smear of red. His lifeblood spills out across the floor as Zachary turns away from him without a second glance.

Another man is still shooting.

Two long strides close the distance. Zachary slams into him like a battering ram, the impact blowing them both through the thin wall and into what used to be his bedroom. The space erupts in splintered drywall and shattered furniture. The fight ends there—short, violent, and messy—red streaking the walls as the man goes still.

The heat keeps rising.

Zachary lifts his head and scents the air. Footsteps. Panic. Crying.

Men are coming up the stairs.

Panic ripples through the building. Other vagrants scatter, doors slamming, voices rising into screams from down the hall. Someone shouts. Someone else runs. The place is coming apart.

Zachary bolts back into the hallway, claws scraping for purchase as he skids on blood and broken plaster. At the far end, Sammy is still there—frozen in place, sobbing, too small and terrified to move.

The men level their weapons.

They don’t hesitate. They don’t care about collateral damage.

Zachary plants himself between her and the stairwell and roars.

Tails lash behind him as blue flame bleeds off his body, heat rolling outward in visible waves. He lowers his head and growls, deep and thunderous, the sound vibrating through the concrete. It rolls down the stairwell like a warning—a promise written in fire.

Gunfire erupts.

The bullets tear forward and vanish into the wall of heat in front of him, metal softening and warping before it can reach flesh. The air screams as the barrier holds—

—and then the impacts hit.

Hammer blows slam into his back. One. Two.

Zachary grimaces, teeth bared.

He twists his head just enough to look—and sees more men flooding in from the far side of the hallway. They shove fleeing civilians aside like discarded refuse, boots kicking at bodies in their way as they fan out. Weapons come up immediately.

They don’t bother checking lines of sight.

Gunfire cracks through the hall. A civilian, unlucky and slow, takes a round to the chest and drops hard, the sound of the impact swallowed by the chaos. Screams spike higher. Someone falls. Someone crawls.

Zachary doesn’t look at any of it.

All he cares about is the little girl behind him.

He turns fully now, crouching low and wrapping himself around Sammy, his massive body curling in on itself as best it can. Tails coil inward, blue flame flaring brighter as the heat thickens around them. He lowers his head and hunches forward, becoming a shield—fur, muscle, and fire interposed between her and the storm of lead.

Bullets rip through the air.

They strike the heat wall and die there, warping and dissolving, the impacts shuddering through his frame like sledgehammers. He absorbs it all, growling through the pain, refusing to give an inch.

Sammy clings to him, crying into his chest.

Zachary braces, every instinct screaming to move—but he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Plaster dust fills the air. Smoke, screaming, and powdered drywall churn together as rounds tear through the hallway, chewing the building apart. Everything the place is made of comes loose at once, the space collapsing inward around him as all of it is aimed at one point.

At him.

He can’t break. If he runs too soon, she won’t make it.

And that is not an option.

“Hold fire!” someone shouts. “Hold fire, goddamn it—”

The smoke thins.

Zachary doesn’t wait.

The heat surges outward as he cuts loose, blue-white fire bursting down both ends of the hallway in rolling waves. The air distorts violently, pressure slamming outward as the flames force the attackers back, buying him the only thing that matters.

Time.

He lowers his head and gently takes Sammy up, careful despite the urgency, holding her as securely as he can without hurting her. She cries out once, then goes quiet, clinging to him as he moves.

Gunfire resumes—suppressed, relentless.

Zachary turns and runs, claws scrambling for traction as he barrels through smoke and falling debris, fire trailing behind him like a living shield. The building groans around them, alarms wailing somewhere far below.

He doesn’t look back.

Right now, all that matters is distance.

Right now, all that matters is getting her out alive.

As he hits the next level, more men pour in from below.

Too many.

Zachary makes a split-second decision and veers hard across the hallway, claws skidding as he runs the length of the building toward the opposite stairwell.

How many of them are there?

A door stands open ahead of him. He barrels through it without slowing.

Inside, another family is huddled together—silent, frozen. A mother, a father, two children. Their eyes go wide at the sight of him, bodies pressing back against the far wall in pure terror.

Zachary slows just long enough to kneel.

He gently sets Sammy down in front of them and nudges her forward with his muzzle, pushing her toward the family. His head dips once, sharp and urgent, then he steps back.

Sammy scrambles away from him.

Her eyes are wide with terror now, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as she trips over her own feet and crawls backward toward the family. She doesn’t understand—only that the thing in front of her is big, loud, and burning, and that everything she knew just broke.

The woman snatches her up, pulling her close, shielding her with her body. The other children cling to their parents, crying softly, the room thick with fear.

Zachary freezes for half a second.

Then he turns away.

It hurts more than any bullet ever could.

He bolts back into the hallway, claws striking sparks as he runs, leaving the room—and the girl—behind him.

Because staying would only make it worse.

And stopping isn’t an option.

Zachary barrels back down the stairwell he came from, claws hammering concrete as he throws himself straight toward the men closing in. His ears ring, head pounding, heat roaring through his veins—but beneath it all, there’s a cold clarity.

He knows exactly who this is for.

Gunmen are coming from above now. More from below. Shouts echo through the stairwell, boots pounding, weapons raised.

He could slip past them. He could break away.

But that would put everyone else in their path.

So instead, he commits.

Zachary roars and charges headlong into the space between them, blue fire flaring brighter as his tails lash violently behind him. The heat spikes, pressure slamming outward, forcing every eye—every weapon—to turn toward him.

Focus on me.

That’s the instinct driving him now.

Not escape. Not survival.

Containment.

He slams into the first wave like a living explosion, fire and force ripping through the stairwell as the building shakes around them. The air screams, alarms wailing louder now, the structure protesting the punishment being dealt inside it.

Zachary keeps moving.

Because as long as they’re chasing him—

No one else has to die.

The first asshole who gets too close pays for it immediately.

Zachary crashes into him, force and fire combined, and the man goes down screaming as Zach barrels straight through. Another steps in—too slow. Zach drives his head forward, slamming into the man’s chest and sending him flying back into his comrades in a tangled heap.

Zach pivots hard and unleashes fire up the stairwell, forcing the men above to scatter.

He needs space.

Claustrophobia is clawing at him now, walls too close, heat trapped and building. If he stays here much longer, he’ll burn the entire building down.

He bursts through the exit.

And stops.

Outside, a wall of men waits for him—rows deep, weapons raised, muzzles trained directly on him. More pour out behind him from the stairwell, closing the gap.

There’s nowhere to run.

Zachary’s chest heaves. His ears ring. Something hot and sharp burns along his side—one of the rounds got through. He drops back onto his haunches, claws digging into asphalt, and closes his eyes.

Breath in.

Breath out.

If this is where he dies—

Hell is coming with him.

Zachary throws his head back and roars.

The sound shakes windows.

His tails split—once, then again—fire spiraling outward as a ring of flame erupts around him. The ground cracks. Heat slams into the night air. His form swells, muscle and fire surging together as the transformation finishes tearing free.

Nine tails lash behind him now, blazing and furious.

He grows—six feet at the back, higher at the shoulders, his head towering above the men facing him. Fire pours up from the ground at his feet, answering the call, the world around him turning into something molten and unreal.

Zachary charges.

He crashes straight into their lines, fire and force ripping through the formation as men scatter and fall. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow. He tears through them, then darts away just far enough to keep them chasing, to keep every weapon pointed at him.

Focus on me.

That’s the only thought left.

He circles, burns, charges again—making sure they follow, making sure they don’t turn back toward the building.

All attention on him.

All of it.

Time stretches, then fractures.

Zachary staggers through the aftermath, the world reduced to broken bodies and shattered concrete. Every step sends knives of pain through him. His chest seizes and he coughs hard, dark blood splattering onto the ground.

So much pain.

His vision swims as his eyes catch on a familiar symbol amid the wreckage—a spiral of black and white coiling around a red center.

Chaos Insurgency.

Boots crunch behind him.

Zachary turns, forcing himself upright on shaking legs, dragging what little strength he has left together. Fire gutters weakly beneath his skin as he bares his teeth out of instinct.

A woman stands there.

Black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. An M4A1 leveled at him, steady but not eager. Her face is pale—horror and fear warring behind her eyes.

Her uniform is different.

Cleaner. Purpose-built.

On one shoulder is a stark emblem stitched in muted colors: a simple geometric symbol, sharp lines intersecting around a central point, clinical and deliberate. No flourish. No menace. Just precision.

On the other shoulder, a rectangular patch marked with block lettering: THETA-7.

Zachary tries to take another step.

His legs give out.

He drops to his knees, claws scraping uselessly against the pavement. Blood spills from his mouth as he forces the words out, each one tearing his throat raw.

“If you’re gonna kill me,” he rasps, “you’d better make damn sure I don’t come back.”

He coughs again, red staining his chin.

“And if you go into that building and hurt those people—after what those fuckers already did—” his eyes lock on hers, burning even now, “I’ll come back for you.”

For a heartbeat, no one moves.

Then the woman lowers her rifle just a fraction and snaps into her radio, voice sharp despite the tremor in it.

“Theta-7, stand down. Cease fire. I repeat—stand down.”

The night finally exhales.

Zachary sways where he kneels, the strength bleeding out of him all at once. The world narrows—boots moving closer, voices overlapping, hands reaching but not touching yet.

He feels himself tipping forward.

Forcing the words out takes everything he has left.

“If you’re here to help…” His voice is hoarse, barely more than breath. “Fourth floor. Room seven-C.”

He swallows, blood slick on his tongue.

“There’s a little girl. African American. Shoulder-length hair. Blue dress.” His eyes flutter, struggling to stay open. “Both her parents were killed.”

His head dips, then lifts again, stubborn even now.

“She’s with a family—at least she was. Please.” A pause. “Make sure she gets somewhere safe.”

Silence hangs for a heartbeat.

Then Zachary finally lets go.

His body slumps forward as consciousness slips away, the last thing he feels not fire or pain—but hands catching him before he hits the ground.

And somewhere behind him, the sound of boots already turning back toward the building.