Chapter 1 : Cold
The wind gnawed at him like it wanted him gone.
It pushed through the alleys of San Francisco with sharp, salted breath, kicking up wrappers and soaked leaves. It blew through the rips in Benjamin’s hoodie, curled around his bare ankles, and whispered bitter lullabies only the forgotten could hear. He pulled his arms tighter into his chest, fingers curled into numb claws. His stomach growled again, loud and angry, like something alive was trapped inside it.
Then a flicker of green fluttered past his feet. He blinked, caught in the moment as the piece of paper, dancing on the wind, passed him. It glinted just enough to trigger hope. “Money?”
He darted after it as the wind blew it along the cracked pavement of the street. The paper dancing and twisting in the wind like it was teasing him. He chased it as fast as he could, bare feet slapping through puddles, panting, praying he could catch it. It bounced off a wall, curled around a street post, and came to rest beneath a rusted bike frame. He dropped to his knees and grabbed it with trembling fingers. “No!” he screamed in despair as he held a crumpled corner of a takeout menu, smeared with grease and streaked with shoe tread. Benjamin stared at it. His hands shook in disbelieve. The cold wasn’t just outside now, with all the running it was now also inside him.
“Fuck…”
The word barely escaped his chapped lips when a voice rang out behind him, cutting through the wind like a blade.
“Running around again aren’t you little Benji?”
His body locked up before his mind even caught the name. He turned.
Trevor.
Leaning against the alley mouth like a man admiring a painting, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Behind him, Ryan and Greg, those ever-smirking shadows. Same scuffed boots. Same hollow laughter. Trevor grinned, arms wide like a mock welcome.
“Long time old chap. Have you been dodging us? Makes a man feel real unwanted you know.”
Benjamin stepped back, already calculating the distance and angle for the nearest escape route. Trevor noticed.
“No need for all that,” he said, casual as if offering tea. “Just a little chat between old friends.”
But Benjamin saw the coiled tension in his stance, the gleam in Ryan’s right hand, something metal, glinting, sharp.
He turned and ran. No words, no plan. Just driven by pure survival instinct.
Boots thundered behind him. Gravel crunched, glass cracked. The wind roared louder as if cheering them on. He turned into a narrow alley that was slick with old rainwater. He leapt over a pile of pallets, ducked under a fire escape.
Trevor’s voice chased him:
“Come on Benji! You owe us!”
Around a turn he jumped a fence and fell hard on the street, pain shot through his left shoulder. Then he felt it, a hand clamping down hard on his shoulder like iron.
The world melted.
He was somewhere warm. The air smelled of boiled oats and lavender cleaning soap. Children’s laughter echoed down tiled halls. Soft footsteps. Cutlery clinking. A home, if you stretched the word far enough. The orphanage.
Benjamin stood by the kitchen doorway, watching Sister Stacy stir a pot of soup, her back hunched but her movements graceful.
“Don’t just hover like a ghost, Ben,” she said without turning. “Grab a bowl and sit.”
He smiled and walked over to where the bowls were standing on the counter. David burst in from the hallway, cheeks flushed, holding two bent spoons like swords.
“To the death, monster!”
Benjamin dodged, laughing, grabbing a ladle from the counter as his own weapon. They clanged across the tile floor, skidding and shouting, until Sister Stacy barked, “If you dent my cutlery again, you’re both scrubbing toilets with toothbrushes!”
Their laughter echoed through the simple kitchen.
Later, in the classroom, Sister Stacy taught them cursive writing with chalk-stained fingers. She called them her little scribblers. Her broken-winged birds. She fed them, hugged them, scolded them when they deserved it. She loved them, even if they weren’t hers.
Benjamin and David were always together. They made forts under beds. Whispered stories under stairwells. Found hiding places no one else could. And the attic; their first secret kingdom. Dusty and filled with forgotten furniture, broken toys, and stained mattresses. A place no one else dared go.
They sat cross-legged on a moth-eaten rug, a flashlight flickering between them.
“You ever think about what we’ll be when we’re big?” David asked, playing with a frayed yo-yo.
Benjamin shrugged. “Not really.”
“I’m gonna be a magician,” David said proudly. “Or a pirate. Or both.”
Benjamin laughed. “You can’t be both.”
“Why not?”
Benjamin suddenly felt dizzy and rubbed his eyes. His skin started to prickle, and his neck muscles tensed. Something started burning under his ribs; like a fire starting slow.
He winced and David noticed.
“Hey… you okay?”
Benjamin opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t. He reached out to David but his fingers have curled into what looked like claws.
David’s eyes widened—but not in fear.
“Ben… whoa…”
Drip.
Benjamin felt something cold on his forehead and slowly opened his eyes. The sky above was bruised and steel grey. The wind had dulled to a low whimper, but a soft rain had started.
Benjamin lay on cold concrete; body twisted like he’d fallen from a height. His hoodie was torn. His jeans ripped across the thigh. He lifted his hand to check for blood and found only dirt and some fish oil on his hand.
He pushed himself up, bones aching and looked around. He was lying in the harbour in front of some boxes and fish nets. The wind carried the sharp scent of salt and diesel. Somewhere in the distance he heard sirens. He looked left and the saw red and blue glow flashing across warehouse walls.
What happened…?
He staggered to his feet, mind fogged. The last thing he remembered was Trevor’s hand on his shoulder.
Then nothing.
A bin rustled in the corner of his eye. He limped to it, opened the lid. The stench hit him like a punch—rot, fish, decay. But inside he found a discarded blanket, dry enough to matter. He wrapped it around his shoulders like a second skin.
He started walking, following the sounds the sirens. Every step was a weight. His body ached in strange ways—deep muscle pain, the kind that came after a hard and violent experience.
As he neared the commotion, he slowed his step and slipped in behind a row of stacked crates near the corner.
He could make out the police tape, paramedics, police officers, men in gloves.
He edged closer, staying hidden in shadows. Listening in on conversations.
“No blood trail. Whoever or whatever did it vanished clean.”
“Did you see that hole in his chest, like something ripped a part right out of him.”
“No animal could do that. Not like this…”
Then he saw the blanket. Silver. Plastic. Pulled just slightly to the side. And sticking out from underneath it a pale hand. Fingers curled inwards. An 8-ball tattoo on the left knuckle. Benjamin felt his knees starting to buckle as his stomach dropped.
Trevor.
He would recognize that stupid tattoo anywhere. He stared, rooted, breath shallow.
It got out.
The thought came like thunder. Panic rose through his spine like heat. His hands were trembling. His eyes burned. And then, he felt it again.
The monster wanting to crawl out. His breathing got shallow, muscles started to tense up, fingers started to cramp.
Not now… not now… not again…
He turned and ran back down the road he came from. He needed to get back to the harbour before anyone saw him change.
