The air is heavy with anticipation as Barry stands in the shadows outside Jonathan Hunter's house, his pack waiting silently behind him.
His claws twitch against the wooden railing of the porch, eyes scanning the darkness for movement. The house is silent, windows dark.
Empty.
A growl rumbles in Barry's throat, low and guttural. Jonathan Hunter—the man who orchestrated the massacre of his kind—isn't here.
Not his wife.
No one.
Barry turns, his golden eyes narrowing as he addresses his pack. "We're going to the station. That's where he works. That's where they all are." His voice is low, brimming with rage.
The rest of the pack falls in line behind him, their footsteps silent as death. For Barry, every police officer represents betrayal.
It was their weapons, their silver bullets, and their merciless orders that wiped out his family.
The badge they wear is a reminder of the blood spilled by his kind.
Tonight, vengeance will taste sweet.
○
The police station becomes a fortress of chaos as Barry and his pack crash through the gates like a storm, their movements swift and precise.
The shattering of windows echoes like gunfire, alarms scream, and the metallic scent of blood saturates the air.
Officers scramble, barking commands, but their voices are lost in the growls of werewolves and the panicked screams of their prey.
Jonathan Hunter stands at the center of it all, his commanding presence unshaken as he fires round after round.
He's no stranger to chaos—he's lived through it before, orchestrated it even. Tonight, though, the battle feels personal.
Beside him, Elena Hunter is just as deadly, her sharp eyes scanning for threats as she moves with cold precision.
But Gerry, their seventeen-year-old son, is a far cry from his parents. Huddled in a corner, trembling as gunfire ricochets off the walls, he regrets begging to come along.
School had been its usual torment—bullies and isolation—and he thought spending time at the station would offer some escape. Now, he's in a nightmare he can't wake from.
Barry storms through the front, his presence commanding. His gaze locks onto Jonathan, and for a moment, the chaos blurs into white noise.
The memories of his family's massacre sear into his mind like fresh wounds, but he clenches his fists.
Not yet.
"Take them down!" Barry roars, his voice reverberating off the walls. His pack responds with feral intensity, tearing through barriers and defenses.
Amid the carnage, Ace fights alongside Barry. He's quick, loyal, and fierce, but tonight, he's not invincible.
The battle rages, both sides suffering heavy losses. Bullets fly, embedding in flesh; claws slash, spilling blood across the polished station floor.
Jonathan fights with relentless determination, Elena beside him, but even they can't stop the storm entirely.
Gerry cowers behind them, his breath shallow as panic consumes him. He's always been the outcast, the weakling, and now, in the middle of this hellish scene, he feels more powerless than ever.
A werewolf lunges, its claws slicing through the air. Jonathan shoves Gerry out of the way, but the beast's strike still lands. Gerry crumples to the ground, blood gushing from his side, his gasps faint and uneven.
Nearby, a gunshot rings out with a silver bullet, and Ace collapses, blood seeping from a wound near his ribs.
Barry freezes, his eyes snapping to Ace. For the first time in years, panic floods his expression.
"Ace!" His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.
Ace isn't just a packmate. He's Barry's anchor, the only one who's stood by him through loss, through rage, through everything. And now, he's slipping away.
The fight becomes irrelevant. Barry abandons the battle, scooping Ace into his arms. "Fall back!" he shouts to the pack, his voice trembling with urgency.
The werewolves retreat, leaving behind devastation and confusion.
○
Barry races through the woods, his breath ragged. Ace's body is limp in his arms, his breaths shallow. For the first time in years, Barry feels truly helpless. He refuses to lose Ace—not like this.
The forest opens into a clearing, where a small, crooked house stands beneath the moonlight.
Carissa, the witch who once fought beside the werewolves, steps outside, her face pale as she sees Barry approaching.
"Help him," Barry demands, his voice cracking. "Do something."
Carissa doesn't hesitate. She moves quickly, her hands glowing with magic as she begins to work. Barry stands over her, his fists clenched, his heart hammering in his chest.
"You'll save him," he growls. It's not a question—it's a command, a plea.
Carissa focuses, sweat beading on her brow as she channels her magic. But something's wrong. The glow around her hands flickers, her movements faltering.
"No!" Barry roars as Ace's body goes still.
Carissa stumbles back, her voice trembling. "I...I don't know what happened. The spell... it didn't work."
Ace lies motionless, his body lifeless. Barry stares, unable to process what he's seeing. His grief spills into the night as he storms outside, his roar echoing through the trees.
But what Barry and Carissa don't know is that the spell didn't fail. Ace's spirit has been transferred into another body, a body of the person who was dying that minute and that person happens to be Gerry __ Jonathan's son who was rushed to the hospital after being attacked by a werewolf.
○
Ace wakes in a hospital bed, his head pounding.
The sterile scent of antiseptic fills his nose, and faint beeping surrounds him.
People hover nearby_faces he doesn't recognize. Their expressions are etched with relief, but he feels nothing but confusion.
"Gerry, thank God!" a woman sobs, clutching his hand.
Ace frowns, his mind racing. Gerry?
The man beside her—Jonathan Hunter—places a hand on his shoulder. "You scared us, son." he recognises him.
Son? You murdered my pack! You dare call me son?!
Ace's heart pounds as he looks down at his hands. They're soft, unfamiliar, too thick for his own.
His eyes catch his reflection in the polished steel bedframe—a fat, round face staring back.
This isn't his body.
This isn't him.
No. No, this can't be real.