Ethan Blackwell's life unfolds like a serene river, his days filled with the quiet satisfaction of simple pleasures and responsibilities. In the small town where he's a known figure, his towering frame and unrivaled strength often become the talk of the day, yet it's his unassuming nature that truly endears him to the locals.
On this particular morning, the sun filters through the curtains of Ethan's room, casting a warm glow on the family photos lining the walls. The scent of coffee and sizzling bacon wafts up from downstairs, where his adoptive parents, Michael and Hannah, are already bustling about in the kitchen.
"Were you planning to sleep all day?" Ethan's brother Jake teases as he barges into the room, flipping on the light.
Ethan groans and sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You know I've got the Henderson's lawn to mow before work."
His brother smirks. "Sure thing, Mr. Perfect. Just don't forget you promised to help me with my science project later."
"I won't," Ethan promises, swinging his legs out of bed. He pulls on a t-shirt and jeans before heading downstairs to join his family for breakfast.
At the table, his younger sister Sarah eyes him with mock suspicion. "So what good deed is our superhero doing today?"
Ethan chuckles as he pours himself a cup of coffee. "Just helping out where I can."
Hannah smiles at her son with pride shining in her eyes. "We raised you right," she says warmly.
Michael claps Ethan on the shoulder as he passes by. "Proud of you, son."
The day unfolds with a rhythm that feels both comfortable and right to Ethan. He finishes breakfast with his family before heading next door to Mr. and Mrs. Henderson's place. The elderly couple always awaits his arrival with gratitude clear in their wrinkled smiles.
"Morning, Ethan!" Mrs. Henderson greets him cheerily as she hands him a glass of lemonade.
"Morning, Mrs. Henderson," he replies with a smile before getting to work on their lawn.
With practiced ease, Ethan pushes the mower across the grass, leaving neat stripes in his wake. The sun climbs higher in the sky as he works, sweat glistening on his brow but not diminishing his steady pace.
After completing his task at the Hendersons', Ethan heads to work at the local bookstore—a quaint little shop that smells perpetually of old paper and coffee. He greets each customer with a genuine smile and finds their requested books with an efficiency that has become second nature.
It's there that Suzy Thomas finds him later in the afternoon, her blue eyes sparkling as she pushes open the door with a tinkle of bells.
"Ethan!" She exclaims as she wraps her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug.
"Hey Suze," he replies warmly, kissing her forehead.
They chat easily as Suzy helps him restock shelves between customers. She tells him about her latest baking class and how she nearly perfected her grandmother's cherry pie recipe.
"I'll have to taste test that," Ethan says playfully.
"Oh, you will," Suzy assures him with a grin. "My parents keep asking when you're going to come by for dinner again—they love having you over."
Ethan laughs softly but feels a twinge of unease at the mention of her parents' affection for him. They often hinted at marriage whenever he visited—a future Ethan wasn't sure he was ready for just yet.
As evening falls and they lock up the bookstore together, Suzy leans against him lightly. "You ever think our life is too... perfect?" she asks quietly.
Ethan pauses before answering truthfully, "Sometimes I do." He doesn't have to voice the rest of his thoughts out loud: perfect doesn't last forever.
She squeezes his hand reassuringly before they part ways for the night—with promises to see each other soon—and Ethan makes his way home under a starry sky that seems to echo his contemplative mood.
Once home, he checks in on his siblings who are busy with their homework or glued to their video games—a picture of domestic tranquility that fills Ethan with both love and an inexplicable sense of foreboding.
"Everything okay?" his dad asks from behind a medical journal as Ethan lingers in the doorway of his father's study.
"Yeah," Ethan replies with an easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just thinking."
Dad looks up at him with understanding eyes. "It's okay to be content, Ethan."
Nodding silently, Ethan makes his way upstairs where he prepares for bed in a room that holds both memories and secrets—like the wolf-shaped birthmark hidden beneath his shirt—a mark no one could explain but one that somehow felt significant amidst all this perfection.
As sleep claims him once again beneath a blanket of comfort and normalcy, part of him wonders if this life—his life—is too good to be true or if it's simply what happiness looks like when one doesn't know any different.
***
Ethan lounges in the corner booth of the Dogwood Tavern, the rustic charm of the local watering hole offering a familiar embrace. Wood panels line the walls, etched with years of laughter and whispered secrets, while dim lights cast a warm glow over the motley collection of patrons. The scent of fried food and malt lingers in the air, mixing with the cacophony of clinking glasses and hearty banter.
Sonny, always a whirlwind of energy, dominates their table's conversation, his laughter infectious as he recounts a mishap from their engineering lab. Ethan chuckles, the sound rumbling from his chest, his large hand wrapped comfortably around a pint glass. His classmates—Jenny with her quick wit and Mark with his dry humor—add to the tapestry of tales and teases.
A group of jocks from their university's football team eyes their table from across the room. They lean against the bar like predators sizing up prey, smirks playing on their lips. Ethan's attention shifts, a low hum of unease growing within him.
Sonny's sharp tongue slices through another joke when one of the jocks struts over, broad-shouldered and sneering. "Looks like we've got ourselves a rainbow gathering."
Ethan feels it then—a surge beneath his skin, a primal warning that sets his nerves on edge. His grip tightens around his glass as Sonny retorts with a grin that could cut glass. "Oh honey, if you only knew."
The jock's face reddens, his friends snickering behind him. Sonny doesn't miss a beat, batting his lashes. "Big boys like you usually hide all sorts of fun secrets."
Ethan watches as one jock leans in too close to Sonny's space. "You got something to say to me?"
The growl almost escapes Ethan's throat—an animalistic sound that feels both foreign and intimately familiar. His heart pounds against his ribs like a caged beast.
Sonny leans back with ease, unbothered by the threat looming over him. "Just that your bravado is as thin as your hairline."
The jock's hand twitches, but before he can act, Ethan rises to his feet—a tower of calm fury. The tavern falls silent at the sight of him; even the jocks' confidence wavers as they crane their necks upward.
With quiet authority, Ethan meets the lead jock's gaze. The voice that comes out of his mouth is as deep as the day is long. "Time for you to walk away."
Their standoff ends without further incident; the jocks retreat under the weight of Ethan's stare and Sonny's smirk.
As they leave the tavern later that night, Sonny slings an arm around Ethan's waist. "My hero," he teases with a theatrical sigh.
Ethan rolls his eyes but wraps an arm around Sonny's shoulders protectively. "Just watch it with those jocks," he murmurs. "You do love to court trouble with the tongue of yours, buddy."
Sonny snorts and rolls their eyes. "Those meatheads can only wish."
They part ways outside—Sonny heading home with another exaggerated bow in Ethan's direction—leaving Ethan to navigate the quiet streets alone.
He pushes open the door to find his parents nestled on the couch amidst laughter from a late-night talk show host emanating from the TV.
Mom looks up with a smile that crinkles her eyes. "How was your night out?"
"Good," Ethan replies as he crosses the living room to plant a kiss on her cheek.
Dad glances at him over his glasses. "Not too many beers I hope?"
"Just three," Ethan says with an easy grin before heading upstairs.
In the bathroom he shares with his siblings—a space marked by assorted toothbrushes and half-empty shampoo bottles—Ethan strips down for a quick shower. The hot water does little to erase the tension coiled in his muscles or cool the lingering heat beneath his skin.
He dries off and stands before the mirror—a giant among men—his black hair clinging to damp skin. The wolf's head birthmark stares back at him from its perch on his shoulder blade—a silent sentinel.
Brushing his teeth is an absentminded task; he hardly tastes the minty foam or feels bristles against enamel. The beers sit in his stomach like stones; alcohol never did much for him anyway.
Back in his room, Ethan pops open the bottle of pills meant to keep him grounded in sleep—a precaution against nocturnal wanderings that seem outlandish but necessary.
He collapses into bed with an issue of Popular Mechanics, pages flipping between fingers until they slow... then stop altogether as sleep claims him under its heavy veil.
The tension fades as dreams take hold—a world where growls are understood and giants are just men waiting to be seen for who they truly are.
***
Ethan stirs, his body shivering from the chill of the morning dew. His skin sticks to the damp earth, and he slowly becomes aware of the soft blanket of mist that enshrouds him. The world is a haze of grays and greens, and for a moment, he can't remember how he got here. Then it hits him—he's in the woods, the ones that stretch behind his house like a familiar shadow.
He tries to stand, muscles protesting with stiffness, and realizes he's naked. A tang of iron lingers on his tongue, and when he wipes his mouth, his hand comes away smeared with crimson. His heart races, a tight knot of panic coiling in his stomach as the sky begins to lighten with the approach of dawn.
Ethan pushes through brambles and low-hanging branches, each step an effort to regain some sense of normalcy. The woods are silent except for the distant call of waking birds and his own labored breathing. As he moves closer to the backyard, something in the underbrush catches his eye—two rabbits, or what's left of them. Their bodies are torn apart, fur matted with blood that gleams darkly in the faint light.
His mind whirls with fragmented images—flashes of teeth and fur, a surge of primal energy—but he can't piece them together into a coherent memory. He forces himself onward, toward home.
The back door creaks as Ethan slips inside, hoping for quietude and solace. But there she is—his mother, Hannah—standing in the kitchen with a glass of water in her hand. Her eyes widen at the sight of him: her son, streaked with blood and dirt.
"Oh my God, Ethan," she gasps, her voice barely above a whisper.
He can see the realization dawning in her gaze; she knows about his nocturnal wanderings, how they've escalated recently. She steps forward but stops short as if unsure whether to embrace him or keep her distance.
"I think... I might have killed some rabbits," Ethan admits, voice rough like gravel being ground beneath a boot heel.
Hannah's features soften with sympathy rather than disgust. "I'll call Dr. Kaplan," she says firmly but gently. "We might need to adjust your medication."
She's so small next to him—her head barely reaching his chest—and yet she stands resolute, ready to do what must be done for her son. It's an incongruous image: this petite woman poised to protect a giant.
Ethan nods and heads for the shower, leaving bloody footprints on the tile floor that will later scrub away without complaint. The spray hits his skin like tiny pinpricks as he scrubs at the red stains on his chest and arms. He watches as the water swirling around the drain carries away bits of forest detritus and diluted blood.
Memories flash again—the bar confrontation with those jocks who had targeted Sonny—how their sneers had sparked something dangerous within him. It had taken all his self-control not to react then; now it seems that same fury found another outlet.
As he dries off, he hears footsteps approaching—the soft pad of socks against hardwood floors—and then his father appears in the doorway. Michael Blackwell looks at Ethan with concern etched deep into his features.
"We're going to get you checked out at the hospital," Michael declares—a statement rather than a suggestion.
Ethan doesn't protest; he knows it's necessary. Despite never being sick or injured enough to warrant concern—his rapid healing always something of a family joke—the seriousness of last night's events can't be ignored.
They had often laughed about Ethan's origin story—the crashed spaceship anecdote serving as a light-hearted explanation for his inexplicable abilities. But standing there in front of his father—a man who has dedicated his life to understanding the human body—it feels like no laughing matter now.
Together they prepare for what will undoubtedly be a long day filled with tests and questions—an attempt to unravel the mystery that Ethan has become.