Howling at the Moon

Ryan used to think the whole werewolf thing was stupid.

Not scary—just wrong.

The idea that something inside you could take over—that it needed a full moon, or a curse, or some external trigger—always felt backwards. If anything like that existed, it wouldn’t come from outside. It would already be there—waiting for the right conditions.

He said as much once, freshman year, half-drunk, arguing with Dan and Sid in the common room while someone played a horror movie no one was watching. Dan and Sid were cozied up with Lisa and Jenny under a heap of blankets. Ryan was solo, as usual.

“It wouldn’t be fur and fangs,” Ryan said. “It’d be something that was there all along. In your DNA. A switch that gets flipped. Subtle. A trigger. You wouldn’t even know when it started.”

Dan laughed. “That’s because nothing’s starting with you.”

Ryan could use a change.

Sid didn’t laugh. He just said, “You’d optimize it. That’s what you’d do. You’d turn it into a system.”

Ryan let it go.

At the time, it didn’t matter.

Nothing about him stood out enough for it to matter. He was just an overanalytical egghead with odd ideas.

***

The challenge started in their junior year of university; two years after the werewolf flick in the commons.

Dan called it first.

“Twelve weeks. Full transformation. Before and after. No excuses. This is gonna be our year, boys!”

It was called the “Tough Makeover Challenge.” There was a contest board. A prize. A chat. A meal plan. Coaches. But the three of them had agreed to do it their own way. Not to follow the program. They were in their own private competition with each other. To see which of them could reverse engineer their own transformation the best.

Sid built the spreadsheet that same night. He was an exercise physiology major who moonlighted as an assistant athletic trainer in the recreation center and had a domestique role on the University Cycling “Club.” Technically it was a varsity team, but Ryan and Dan were forever dogging Sid over it and weren’t sure it was legit. No one doubted Sid’s commitment—that was for sure.

Sid’s spreadsheet was legit, even if his varsity D1 status was questionable. Columns for everything. Weight. Body fat. Sleep. Diet. Output.

“Track it or it’s fake,” he said.

Ryan agreed before thinking about it.

He always did.

It felt easier than saying no.

***

The first photos went up that weekend.

Dan posted from his bathroom. No angle. No filter. Just standing there, like he was bracing for something. Dan was the short, stocky one. 5’7” and shoulders like a bull. With the midsection paunch to match.

He was a shoe-in. All he had to do was lean out. Dan was an exercise junky who competed in stick fighting tournaments. But he liked IPAs and Wingstop too much.

“Baseline,” he wrote.

Sid’s came next. Of course it did.

Better lighting. Relaxed posture. Not trying, which meant he was.

Sid looked like a beanpole. Tall. Lanky. Taut. His task would be to gain a little size and fill-out one of his tight cycling jerseys.

Ryan opened both of their “before” shots.

Then closed the chat.

He didn’t take a picture.

***

By the end of week two, it wasn’t a joke anymore.

Dan again. Same bathroom, same stance—but tighter now. Shoulders fuller. His stocky frame looked harder.

“Didn’t skip leg day,” Dan said.

Sid was sharper too. Leaner. Ripped. Starting to develop the semblance of some biceps.

“Consistency,” Sid wrote. “That’s it.”

From his Strava profile, it looked like Sid was going to log enough miles on the bike to ride around the globe by the time this thing was over. Even if most of the rides were on his Zwift indoor trainer tracing the same virtual trails on Wattopia.

Ryan stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

He could see the difference.

That was the problem.

Dan and Sid were progressing.

He typed: Nice.

Deleted it.

Typed it again.

Sent it.

The dots appeared immediately.

Dan: “Where you at??”

Sid: “Post.”

Ryan locked his phone.

Set it face down.

Waited for the buzzing to stop.

It didn’t.

***

That night, he looked at himself in the mirror.

Not long. Just enough.

There was nothing to point to.

He was a lumpy block. And he was the same lumpy block as two weeks ago. Neither the push-pull splits nor the HIIT training had done anything. And the diet wasn’t moving the needle.

No progress. No backsliding. But no progress.

That was worse than if there had been something wrong.

He opened his laptop instead.

Typed:

fastest body transformation protocol

Scrolled past the obvious ones.

Kept going.

Something caught his eye.

Minimal site. No branding.

Just a single line:

PRIMAL RESET PROTOCOL

Ryan clicked.

He entered his data. Filled out the forms. Wrote out his goals.

An email immediately arrived in his inbox. The warning message was unequivocal: “This is an extreme transformation protocol. This is NOT for the faint of heart. You can awaken the primal animal within. The results are guaranteed. But there is no going back to your old life. Do not proceed if you cannot handle the consequences.”

A green button appeared at the bottom of the payment window. “Proceed at your own risk.”

Ryan clicked again.

Then a pop-up window with an obnoxious number of releases populated on his screen.

***

Ryan hyperventilated in the cold plunge in his garage, ice drifting against his collarbones.

His hands had gone first. Then his chest. Now his head felt separate from him.

Pins and needles climbed up his arms. His nipples burned—then disappeared entirely. Numbness took his limbs. All that was left was a beating heart.

He focused on the far wall. The monitor.

“Slow it down,” Yuren said. Not shouting. Watching.

Ryan tried. His breath came sharp anyway, shallow and fast, fogging the air above the tub.

“You’re thinking too much,” Yuren said. “Stay with the body. Don’t resist.”

Ryan shut his mouth. Drew the air in through his nose. It hurt more that way.

“You said you wanted change,” Yuren went on. “This is where it starts.”

Ryan nodded, though he wasn’t sure Yuren could see it.

His head felt light now. Not just light—loose. As if it might tilt forward and keep going.

For a moment, he thought: This is how people pass out. This is how they drown.

He kept his eyes open.

***

That night, he opened the chat.

Scrolled back to the photos.

Dan.

Sid.

He looked at himself in the reflection of the screen.

Something about it—not different.

Not yet.

But—closer.

He typed:

Posting soon.

Sent it.

Then opened the cabinet in the garage.

The bottle was where he left it.

PRIMER.

He shook two into his hand.

Didn’t hesitate this time.

Then he followed the instructions and disrobed.

He opened the package, which for some reason came in a Styrofoam container with “BIOHAZARD” and “Category B Infectious Substances" stickers on the outside.

The belt was a normal belt with a single prong buckle and a sheath of hair patches sewn onto the leather. The decorative buckle had an engraved wolf on the outside, fangs exposed in a toothy snarl.

Ryan donned the belt and waited.

But he didn’t notice anything different.

He felt foolish.

***

At the gym, people started noticing before they said anything.

Ryan caught it in the mirror—not size, not exactly, but separation. Lines where there had been none. Veins running down his forearms. His body no longer blurred into itself. Everything had edges.

He moved differently too. As if he knew what was happening in his surroundings before it happened.

A weight dropped two racks down. His head turned before the sound finished.

A plate slipped from someone’s grip.

Ryan’s hand twitched—stopped—then relaxed.

He stood there, breathing evenly.

Watching himself not move.

***

Sid brought it up first.

“What are you on?”

Ryan wiped down the bench.

“Nothing.”

Sid didn’t look convinced.

“You’re not training like us.”

“I am.”

“No,” Sid said. “You’re… not reacting anymore. You’re anticipating.”

Ryan met his eyes.

“Isn’t that the point?”

Sid held the look a second longer.

Then nodded, once.

“Maybe.”

But he didn’t smile.

“And you are breathing shallower…” Dan noticed, “You haven’t been out of breath. Not once.”

“I guess the HIIT is lowering my heart rate,” Ryan lied.

***

One night, Ryan was out with Annie, who he’d just started dating.

They were out at a movie theater, watching a scary movie. Annie was shaking as her arms clasped his.

His eyes stayed ahead, taking it in. On the screen was a gory sequence with blood and entrails.

Ryan didn’t react.

Annie squeezed harder.

“Doesn’t this affect you at all?” Annie whispered.

It didn’t. Ryan just looked. Coldly.

A full-on slashing scene exploded with guts and gore.

Annie squeezed even harder, cutting off circulation in his arm.

But Ryan’s heart rate barely changed.

“You are so warm,” Annie said. “But your face is so serene.”

Ryan felt nothing.

He still understood the concept of feelings.

But all emotion had drained out, somewhere.

There was just instinct.

Sensation.

Observation.

Reaction.

***

The protocol changed.

Shorter instructions now.

Less explanation.

Phase 3: Live response. No tools. No delay. Hunt.

Ryan read the description of the task in the garage.

Read it again.

His eyes fastened on the word “kill.”

His instinct was to question it.

He didn’t.

***

The rabbit had been small.

Gray. Flecked with white.

Almost still.

He saw it before it moved.

Not far from the campgrounds. Down a fire road. Deep in the brush. Off the path.

First, he had smelled it. Zeroed in on it as it nibbled in the brush. Heard its little claws digging in the dirt. Its teeth working at the dirt.

Then he saw it.

Just—there. Where he’d expected it to be.

That was the first thing.

It bolted.

Ryan moved too.

No thought.

Left.

Cut off.

The rabbit shifted mid-stride, its body folding sideways—a living spring all heaped up in the folds of its skin—repositioning the joints to launch in a new direction.

Ryan was already there.

Hands closing.

Warm.

Alive.

The eyes—wide, red, startled—disbelieving he was that fast. In shock.

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then—pressure.

Stillness.

His breath didn’t change.

Not until after.

***

“Ryan Cody.”

Dan tossed him a beer.

They were sitting by the fire now. Logs arranged in a loose circle. Flames low, steady.

“Week four,” Dan said. “You posting or what?”

Ryan caught the can without looking.

Didn’t fumble it.

Didn’t even track it.

Just—caught it.

“I’ll post,” Ryan said.

Dan laughed.

“Yeah, you will. You’ve got to. This is—” he gestured at Ryan’s torso, visible in the firelight—“this is not normal. This is like… Tren Twins or something.”

Sid didn’t laugh.

He was stirring the pot.

Too casually.

Not paying attention.

“You didn’t drain the fat,” Sid said, almost to himself.

“What?” Dan said.

“The meat,” Sid said. “You just threw everything in.”

Dan shrugged. “It’s chili.”

Sid shook his head.

“It’s slop.”

Ryan didn’t say anything. He could smell it.

Not just the chili. He could pick out everything—the beef, the salt, the pepper, the oil sitting thick on top. And if he could smell it, they could too.

Unrefined. Raw. Exposed.

It sat wrong in his throat before he even tasted it.

He set the beer down.

Untouched.

***

The rabbit again.

In his hands.

He hadn’t planned what to do next.

That was the second thing.

There was no plan.

Just—impulse.

He crouched. Brought it closer.

The smell hit him—iron, warm, immediate. The smell of food.

He stopped before he did what he had come to do. A thought entered his mind. A warning. But he pushed it out.

Then—shifted.

***

Ryan tilted his head slightly.

Toward the trees.

Ears pitched. Nose twitching.

“Do you hear that?” he said.

Dan didn’t look up.

“Hear what?”

Ryan stayed still.

He could hear movement. Circling. Slow. Deliberate. Predatory. He could even feel its weight there, somewhere in the dark. Smell the musk.

Sid paused mid-stir.

“What?” he said.

Ryan shook his head.

“Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was closer now. He could smell it clearly now.

Under the food.

Under the smoke.

Something heavy. Wet.

***

The smell intensified.

Closer now.

Ryan’s fingers tightened slightly on his knee.

Then relaxed.

Dan took a bite of the chili.

“Not bad,” he said.

Sid didn’t respond.

He was looking at Ryan.

Again.

“You’re not eating,” Sid said.

Ryan didn’t look at him.

“I’m not hungry.”

Dan laughed.

“That’s new.”

Ryan didn’t answer.

He was listening.

The brush shifted.

A slow step.

Weight.

Heavy.

Close.

Too close.

***

The rabbit struggled once.

Then stopped. Ryan held it longer than he needed to.

Looking.

Learning.

Something in him—quieted.

Settled.

He didn’t feel sick.

Didn’t feel shocked.

Just—aware.

He didn’t feel stronger.

Just certain.

***

Ryan stood.

The log tipped slightly under him as he launched forward.

Dan looked up.

“Where are you—”

Ryan was already moving.

Into the dark.

“Ryan,” Sid said.

But he didn’t stop.

***

The trees swallowed the firelight quickly.

The darkness blanketed the landscape. But it was not dark to him. Not really.

He moved between the trees easily. Quiet. Controlled. Navigating under the moonlight, like a ghost, with quiet footfalls, moving with the terrain like a gust of wind.

The smell was stronger now.

Ahead.

He slowed. Instinctively. Then—stopped.

There.

A shape. Large. Black. Solid. The bear lifted its head. Snout wet. Nostrils flaring.

It had already found the scent.

Ryan felt it before he understood it.

Recognition. Not fear. Not exactly. Something older. Readiness. Reaction.

The bear stepped forward.

Ryan didn’t move.

His breath slowed. Even. The world narrowed. His sight fastened. His limbs loosened. He felt something rumbling in his chest. Felt warmth on his forehead. His feet clinging to the ground. Set and loaded.

Just the two of them.

The bear huffed. A hot, wet cough of breath into the air.

Ryan inhaled.

Held it.

Something in his chest—shifted.

He stepped forward.

The bear paused.

The same certainty returned.

Then—Ryan opened his mouth.

The sound came out of him before he formed it.

Low.

Rising.

Not practiced.

Not human.

The bear stopped. Fully. Head tilted. Watching. Looking at him from the side. Not directly. Not fully engaged. Not wanting to.

Ryan felt it then.

The pull. Upward. He looked.

The moon sat above the trees.

Full.

Bright.

Waiting.

Yuren’s voice, distant now:

“You’re not becoming something new. You are just waking up what is inside you already. Releasing it.”

Ryan inhaled again.

Deep.

The sound came again. Louder this time. Carried.

The bear turned its head away from the clearing.

Slowly.

Moving back into the trees. Disappearing into the shadows.

Gone.

Ryan stood there. He stood there… And for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back.

Chest rising. Falling. He looked at his hands.

Then back at the moon.

Held there.

For a long time.

The sound still in his throat.

The howl echoed through the forest, past the campsite, into the valley, and across the lake.

Then something answered.

Or maybe it was just the echo.