Sabastine’s POV

I heard a crowd roaring from a distance. It was there, I was sure of it. I could hear it crashing over me like always when the game was this close, this critical, but this time it sounded muted, like I was underwater. My blades bit the ice with sharp intent as I glided, eyes on the puck before me. The rink felt smaller than it was supposed to be. I felt restricted, like the walls were closing in on me.

Focus. That was my skill. Focusing so intensely that the world blurred out. The score was even and the clock was still ticking. Overtime loomed in our faces and the playoffs hung in the balance. I thrived on this, I always did. But tonight, something was off. Everything felt… wrong. My breath mixed with the air and my chest tightened under the weight of my gear. The tension in my body was coiled too tightly, my muscles anticipating doing more than just playing a game. My grip on the stick was too tight, fingers aching, knuckles strained. Sweat streamed down my temple although the air around me was sharply cold. But this wasn't the time to think about that. 

I skated harder. A blur of uniforms on both sides. My teammate Jace yelled out, but his voice barely registered in my mind as I strained to hear something else. Was it a whisper? A memory? It was something I didn’t know and it slipped away from me before I could catch it. "Coming for your other shoulder next, freak."

I heard that one as clear as day and the words cut through everything else like a knife. I didn’t need to look in his direction to know the face behind the voice. I knew that voice. Halvorsen. Number 92. Big mouth. Bigger fists. He had been calling the shots all game, but now? Now he was swinging below. "You should've stayed off the ice after that surgery," he sneered, skating up beside me. "Should've stayed out of sight, like your mother." That stopped me dead for a moment. Just long enough and trust me, that was enough.

The puck came sliding by me, and someone demanded, maybe Coach, maybe Jace but all I heard was the rushing sound in my ears. Something bitter and hot poured through my veins, something dark. I turned and my eyes locked on Halvorsen’s. He smiled. The arrogant and cruel smile. And at that moment I stopped thinking. Not weighing repercussions and ignoring the game, I dropped the stick. One second my gloves were crashing into the ice and the next, my fist cracked his jaw.

The break was sickening. His head snapped to the side, and he fell like a marionette with severed strings. He didn’t stand up. Blood ran on the ice in a thick, black line.

Suddenly, the whole arena was dead silent, like someone had pressed the mute button on the remote. I was standing there, chest heaving, fists still clenched. My heart was thudding in my head. My team ran around, clutching my arms, trying to pull me back but I didn’t notice them. I was looking at Halvorsen. At the blood. God, the blood. It was too much. Too bright. It looked too real. Something animalistic stirred within me. My vision snapped, colors ran together into something not quite right. The world slowed down, but my body felt faster, I felt stronger. I sniffed the blood as if it were under my nose. Metallic. Sweet. And very tempting.

And then I looked down.

My hands… They weren’t hands. They were claws. For half a minute, they were clawed, bulging-veined, and not quite right. It looked anything but human.

I blinked in shock and suddenly, they were hands again. They were shaking and my knuckles were bloodied, the skin torn open from the punch. "What the hell is going on with me?" I was whispering, but I thought no one heard.

And in that instant, everywhere turned black. 

I can hear someone yelling my name. I feel hands on my shoulders, dragging me through the tunnel toward the locker room. My gear weighs ten thousand pounds and all I want is to rip it off. I want out of my body. I want…I don't even know.

“Sebastian! What the hell was that?” Coach Grady barks the second we’re through the doors. “You lost it out there!”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Halvorsen’s blood was still on my jersey and he was still not back on the ice. My fist ached as if I had punched concrete. And my head? It was split into two. A migraine was unfolding behind my eyes, piercing and slashing. I fell hard onto the bench and forward, elbows on my knees, hands in my hair.

"I'm benching you," Grady growled, shaking with rage. "That's it. Suspension's coming. PR's going to kill me."

Next minute, he was storming out of the door but I didn't even notice.  I felt Jace's hand on my back a moment later. "What happened, man?"

"I don't know," I replied, my throat feeling raw.

"You flipped out, Seb." I nodded slowly. "I know."

He dropped down into a crouch, trying to catch my eye. "Did he say something?"

"Yeah." "Something bad?"

I nodded again, unable to form the words. Jace released his breath and rubbed his jaw. "It's not like you to lose your temper like that."

I flinched because it is. Or at least, it's starting to be. Something's wrong with me. Something has been wrong with me for weeks now. Nightmares I don't remember. Waking up sweating, shadows shifting when they shouldn't. The way people flinch sometimes when I walk past them on the street. And now this? Claws? I wasn't hallucinating, I saw them. I felt them.

The locker room door burst open again and a man in a suit walked in. I knew that face, the league representative. Behind him, was another figure. It was a smaller woman, all black, with a clipboard. She did not look at anyone but me.

"You are coming with us, Mr. Vega," she said in an icy tone. Jace stands in front of me. "What is this crap?" "Protocol," she replied. "Since when does protocol include removing a player from a game?"

“Since he shattered someone’s jaw in front of thirty thousand people.”

That shut Jace up. Avoiding more chaos, I rose slowly. “I’ll go.”

The rep nodded without saying a single word. “Bring your ID. And maybe a lawyer.” That being said, they led me out the back, away from the press. Away from the cameras and away from whatever hell was waiting for me outside. We climbed into a black car, the windows so darkly tinted that it seemed the world outside didn't exist anymore. I climbed into the back seat and the woman climbed in next to me and placed her clipboard on her lap. She didn't speak until the car started to move. Then she looked at me, eyes unflurried, and said, "When did the symptoms start?" My heart stopped. "What?" "The strength. The senses… the hallucinations." I stared at her. She snapped her pen on the clipboard. "You caught something just now, didn't you?"

"Who are you?" "Dr. Iris Blackwell," she said. "I deal with… unorthodox anomalies. And Sebastian, what happened out there on the ice tonight? That wasn't a normal loss of control."

I sneered, fighting to keep my hands steady. "You think I'm nuts?"

She tilted her head a little, "No. I think you're shifting." The car turned around a corner, and I gazed out the window. We were leaving town and we were going pretty fast. Where are you taking me? "Somewhere safe," she answered.

I shook my head. "This is insane. I'm not going anywhere until somebody tells me what in the world is going on…"

"You're not human." The words strike like a slap.

What? I whisper.

"You're not fully human," she said again as if it were the most normal thing to be said in the world. "You've been keeping it suppressed your whole life, likely without even knowing it. But now it's coming out. And tonight was just the beginning."

My vision suddenly started looking like fog. "You're lying," I said again.

"I wish I were." We fell into silence, the road ahead of us empty and lined with lush trees and dew. I buried my fists in my thighs to keep myself grounded. I needed some control.  I remembered the claws. The smell of blood.

The urge I felt to continue watching. "What's happening to me?" I whispered mostly to myself but Dr. Blackwell heard, her eyes were straight ahead but her tone was gentle.

"You're waking up." The car sped up and in the distance, something howled. Something that sounded a lot like hell to me.