Rejected by His Brother, Fated to the Lycan King

The East End of London sank into a thick, exhausted slumber once the last echoes of the day faded, saturated with the mingled scents of river mud, cheap ale, and ancient brickwork. Narrow streets twisted like a labyrinth, their damp cobblestones and peeling walls barely illuminated by the valiant, yet feeble struggle of gas lamps against the oppressive fog. Neon signs flickered intermittently in obscure corners – pawnshops, rundown pubs, all-night chippies – casting brief, garish splashes of colour onto the gloom.

Alan Shaw moved swiftly through this chiaroscuro world. He'd just clocked out from his night shift at the "Thames Storage" docks. Eighteen years old, his frame hovered between boyhood and manhood, lean but carrying the ingrained wariness of the East End. His dark hair, dampened by the night mist, clung to his temples in unruly strands. His features, distinctly marked by his Chinese heritage, were deep-set and usually calm, but now they were etched with profound weariness. His jacket bore the grime of the docks – rust and dust – and slumped slightly at the shoulders from bearing heavy loads.

His home, or rather his workplace and home, was a nondescript Chinese herbalist shop, "Bai Cao Tang," perched on the edge of Chinatown, wedged between a boisterous curry house and a second-hand bookstore exuding the scent of aged paper. The air inside perpetually carried the peculiar fragrance of liquorice root, angelica, and dried tangerine peel – a scent far more comforting to Alan than the Thames' damp breath.

The worn wooden door of "Bai Cao Tang" creaked open, its overhead brass bell giving a muted, throaty jingle. The interior was dimmer than the street, lined with rows of dark-stained cabinets silently standing guard, their drawers labelled with faded yellow slips bearing unfamiliar characters.

The herbal aroma hung thick and pungent, underpinned by a faint, medicinal bitterness.

"Back?" A voice, aged but resonant, came from behind the counter. Old Man Shaw was bent over a mortar and pestle under the glow of an antique desk lamp, meticulously grinding some root. His hair, though white, was impeccably combed; his face was a map of deep lines, but his eyes were sharp, piercing. Dressed in a faded Tang suit, his movements were steady and deliberate.

"Yeah, Grandad," Alan replied, his voice raspy with fatigue. He hung up his jacket and moved to an old enamel basin in the corner. Turning on the tap, he splashed icy water onto his face, scrubbing hard at the grime and weariness. The cold shock brought a brief, sharp clarity.

"Hungry? Congee's warm on the stove. Help yourself." Grandad didn't look up, focused on the rhythmic crunch-grind of stone against root.

Alan ladled a bowl of the warm rice porridge from the back kitchen, eating it silently with a few pickled vegetables. The heat spread down his throat, chasing some of the internal chill. He leaned against the doorframe, watching his grandfather's profile. The lamplight carved deep shadows on the old man's face but illuminated his hands gripping the pestle – hands that were bony, calloused, yet unnervingly steady.

"Feeling… okay today?" Alan asked between mouthfuls. He knew his grandfather's health had been declining in recent years, though the old man rarely spoke of it.

"Same as always," Grandad answered tersely, pausing his grinding to look at Alan. His gaze lingered on the younger man's pale face. "You look peaky though. Dock work too heavy?"

"It's alright," Alan shook his head, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

Grandad didn't press, just gave a curt nod. A flicker of something unreadable – concern? – passed deep within his eyes. "Tired, then get some rest early. Save your strength. Times like these… strength needs conserving."

Alan knew there was more to the words. Since childhood, Grandad had drummed it into him: Stay low. Blend in. Don't draw attention. Especially don't show anything… different. Alan never fully grasped what the "different" meant, but obedience was habit. In the East End, invisibility was survival.

Finishing the congee, Alan helped Grandad store the ground powder and tidy the scattered herbs. The shop settled into a profound quiet, broken only by the occasional, almost imperceptible ting of the brass bell caught by a draft, and the distant, mournful hoot of a freighter on the Thames. A peculiar peace descended.

Then, as Alan's fingertips brushed against a piece of dried, uncured Polygonum root (He Shou Wu) recently brought up from the storeroom and left on the counter, it happened. A sensation, incredibly faint, barely perceptible, flowed into his fingertips. Not texture. Not temperature. More like… a movement. Feeble, sluggish, carrying a profound sense of desiccation and coolness, like a trickle of water seeping through parched earth.

He flinched, pulling his hand back as if shocked. He'd felt this before, occasionally – fleeting moments of intense fatigue or mental drift. Touching cold metal railings might bring a sharp "stream of chill." Being near a lit candle might evoke a faint, pulsing "glow." He'd never dwelled on it, always dismissing it as exhaustion, overactive nerves, or pure imagination. Like now – he must have strained his fingers hauling too many cold, heavy crates.

"What is it?" Grandad's voice cut through the silence, carrying a subtle edge of inquiry.

"Nothing," Alan shook his head quickly, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter. "Hand's just a bit numb." He didn't want worry, didn't want to seem… different.

Chores done, Alan retreated to his tiny garret room. Low-ceilinged and cramped, it held only a narrow bed, a scarred desk, and an old wardrobe. The grimy window offered a view of the neighbouring building's peeling back wall and a sliver of leaden sky. He collapsed onto the bed, physical exhaustion a leaden weight, yet his mind buzzed unnervingly awake. That sensation from the root – the "parched flow" – clung to the edges of his consciousness like stubborn cobwebs.

He closed his eyes, willing sleep. In the dark, his senses seemed amplified. He could hear Grandad moving softly downstairs, putting things away. He could hear the distant shush of car tires on wet streets. He could even hear the faint thrum of his own blood in his ears. And… something else. A deeper, more diffuse background presence. Not a sound, but a pervasive, indefinable hum. Like the air itself was breathing slowly, with a weak, elusive pulse. It grated on his nerves, making him feel like he was at the center of some vast, invisible field.

"Definitely overtired," he muttered into his pillow, turning over and trying to shove the "delusions" away. Early shift tomorrow. Sleep was essential.

Just as the edge of oblivion finally started to pull him under, a new sensation – sharper, colder, utterly alien – slammed through his fading consciousness.

It wasn't sound first. It was… a vibration.

Not the physical tremor of the ground. This resonated deeper, striking nerve endings, striking some primal sense he couldn't name. Icy. Savage. Carrying the phantom tang of rust and blood (not smelled, but felt). It pierced his temples like shards of glass!

"Ungh!" Alan jackknifed upright in bed, heart hammering against his ribs, all sleep obliterated. He gasped for air, cold sweat beading on his forehead. The sensation was brief, gone as swiftly as it came, but it left behind a visceral tremor and a cold knot of fear in his gut.

Instinctively, he looked towards the window. The night pressed in, thick and black. The fog seemed denser now, swallowing distant light sources. What was that? Auditory hallucination? The precursor to a nightmare?

He held his breath, straining to listen. Outside, an unnatural silence had fallen. Oppressive.

Complete. Even the river's mournful horns were absent.

Then, cutting through the stillness, faint but unmistakable, came sounds drifting in.

Fighting.

The sickening thud of impacts. The sharp whissssh of something slicing air. And… a guttural, choked, profoundly unhuman sound – a raw snarl of pain and fury that vibrated the very dust motes on his windowsill! It was followed instantly by another sound – a higher-pitched, metallic screech, like rending steel!

The source? The abandoned shipyard complex! His usual shortcut home, a place the city forgot, littered with rusting containers and the skeletal remains of dead ships, sinister even in daylight.

Alan's throat tightened. Abandoned shipyard? Dead of night? Those sounds? This was no drunken brawl. That guttural snarl, that metallic shriek – they reeked of something profoundly wrong, something outside the realm of street fights.

Fear, cold and serpentine, coiled around his limbs. Grandad's warnings echoed: Don't invite trouble. Avoid danger. Logic screamed at him to lock the window, pull the blanket over his head, pretend deafness.

But… the raw pain and savagery in those sounds were terrifyingly real. What if someone was genuinely dying out there? What if… the source of that sound wasn't human at all?

Curiosity, or perhaps an impulse he couldn't explain, warred with the fear and won. He slid silently out of bed, avoiding the creaky floorboard. Keeping the light off, he moved like a shadow to the window, carefully peeling back a corner of the dusty curtain to peer out towards the shipyard.

Fog and darkness merged into an impenetrable murk. Only the jagged silhouettes of massive, derelict machinery were visible, hulking like slumbering iron beasts. No lights. No movement.

Yet the sounds continued. Thuds. Snarls. Metallic shrieks. Growing louder. Closer. More ferocious.

Each impact, each cry, felt like a physical blow to Alan's taut nerves. They seemed to emanate from the very heart of that suffocating darkness.

Go? Or stay?

Alan's knuckles whitened where he gripped the cold window frame. The scent of danger – unknown, primal – washed over him from the direction of the yards like a chilling tide. The secret Grandad had warned him to hide, the secret of his occasional, inexplicable perceptions, stirred within him like a stone dropped into still water. The sleeping facade of London seemed to peel back, revealing a glimpse of the darkness beneath. He drew in a deep breath of the cold, rust-and-fog-laden air. His decision was made.

He needed to see. What lurked within that fog-shrouded, abandoned labyrinth of steel?