Jude was beginning to feel like a prisoner, worrying he might go stir-crazy from the constant beeping of medical equipment and barriers between himself and every human that entered his room.

Finally, it was time for the full moon. The CDC transported Jude very carefully, as if he were a walking biohazard, to one of their facilities. He was locked in a room with metal walls and a very thick door. The change of scenery would have almost been a relief if he didn't feel spreading unease in his gut the entire day.

It had been a long time since he'd endured the transformation without any intoxication at all. He didn't remember what it was like, exactly. But he was scared and alone, feeling small inside his metal box. There were tiny cameras all around, capturing every angle of him.

It felt like he was about to have surgery without any anesthesia—knowing pain was coming.

It did hurt. Usually, the opioids numbed him. His very flesh and skeleton distorted and warped. He could hear his own bones snapping and animalistic noises escaping his throat. All recollection of the people in his life disappeared, then all of his human memories, then his entire humanity. He was the beast, and he let out a monstrous howl.

___________

The next thing Jude—the human Jude—knew, he was quivering naked on the floor. He forced his eyes open and peeled his hot, clammy skin away from the metal as he pushed himself upright.

Claw marks were everywhere. He pressed a hand against the door, feeling the deep ridges he had left in the hard, unyielding surface.

He was hungry—utterly starving, his throat raw. He hoped no one would come in the room yet, assuming he was harmless once he looked human. It wasn't safe.

Someone spoke over an intercom. "Jude?" There was poorly masked terror in the voice. People were frightened of him. Rightly so. "We—we saw everything that happened throughout the night. It's...well, very concerning. We will have to keep you contained indefinitely, until we figure out exactly what's happening to you."

Jude lay back down on the floor and curled into the tightest ball possible. His senses were still hyperacute. The lights were blinding. He was in predator mode.

The adrenaline gradually wore off. It took half an hour before he felt stinging pain all over his body. His eyes widened as he assessed himself. There were scratches, fairly deep, covering almost every inch of his skin. Soon, it felt like someone had squeezed lemon juice into his wounds. Evidently, the venom or poison in his own teeth and claws burned like acid.

Without anything or anyone to attack, apparently, he had turned on himself.

A man with the formal diction of a lawyer spoke over the intercom. "It's unfortunate that this happened to you in our custody, Mr. Jude Cannavale. Going forward, staff assure me every measure will be taken to prevent harm to you, physically and mentally. You are entitled to legal..."

The voice faded out of his focus. He wondered where Claire was and if she was thinking of him. He could imagine her in the room with him, comforting him and apologizing for getting the government into this. He could smell the synthetic lavender scent of her shampoo. He could feel her hand on his arm, careful not to touch his newly forming scars.

She had always been there even though he rarely did anything for her. This realization stung more than any deep cuts. All he did was take, never give. He wanted to give more if he got out of here.

The clatter of a food tray against the floor thundered in his head. He got up and ate whatever it was, healthy plant food, wishing it were bloody raw meat.

He finished the tray. His stomach was full. But his gut still held that pervading empty feeling. The absence of hope.

There had been a few pills on the tray, too, that he'd swallowed without a thought. He had recognized one as his prescribed antidepressant. In this state, he'd probably need a sky-high dosage of anything to feel an effect.

A small woman stepped into the room with him, wearing a tight smile as her eyes ran him up and down. She wore a black blazer and dress pants. She looked very no-nonsense, no-bullshit.

Jude covered himself with tattered scraps of his clothing and slid down into the corner. He held his arms bent, tensed against his chest so he knew he still had control over them.

"I have to be honest with you: when we received the report from that psychiatrist, we thought it was a joke, or some patient with a condition called clinical lycanthropy—a delusion of turning into a wolf, perhaps so intense a doctor had been fooled into believing it. Maybe even a case of folie à deux.

"We were dead wrong, of course. We knew that the minute we analyzed your samples at the lab. You're an enigma. What can you tell me about how you came to be this way?"

Jude stared up at her, deciding whether he was ready to tell the whole story.