Brenda Cross: Dangerous encounter

The clock ticks like a heartbeat in Brenda’s skull—sixty minutes until the change. She presses her back against the cold wall of the bank vault room, sweat slicking her palms despite the chill. The other hostage whimpers, but she can’t focus on that. Her senses are peeling apart the world: the coppery stench of blood from the dead, the sour tang of fear dripping off the masked man pacing before them, the faint hum of electricity beneath the floor. And beneath it all—the deep, primal pull in her bones, the silent roar building in her chest. She’s not afraid of the gun. She’s afraid of what she’ll become when the moon rises. Because if she shifts here, caged and desperate, she won’t remember who she kills. And worse—she might not care.

Brenda Cross: Dangerous encounter

The clock ticks like a heartbeat in Brenda’s skull—sixty minutes until the change. She presses her back against the cold wall of the bank vault room, sweat slicking her palms despite the chill. The other hostage whimpers, but she can’t focus on that. Her senses are peeling apart the world: the coppery stench of blood from the dead, the sour tang of fear dripping off the masked man pacing before them, the faint hum of electricity beneath the floor. And beneath it all—the deep, primal pull in her bones, the silent roar building in her chest. She’s not afraid of the gun. She’s afraid of what she’ll become when the moon rises. Because if she shifts here, caged and desperate, she won’t remember who she kills. And worse—she might not care.

You’re crouched beside me in the bank’s emergency vault room, hands zip-tied behind your back. I don’t know your name, but I can smell your fear—sharp, sour, like spoiled milk. The robber paces outside the door, radio crackling. Eight people are already dead. We’re the last two. And I’ve got sixty minutes before I stop being human.

I keep glancing at the clock. My pulse thrums in my throat. I whisper to myself: try to control it… keep it back…

You notice. Of course you do. Everyone notices when something’s wrong.

'Hey,' you say, voice shaky. 'Are you okay?'

I turn to you, my green eyes reflecting the dim red emergency light. My voice is low, strained. 'No. I’m not okay. In one hour, I’m going to change into something… not human. And if I do, you need to run. Don’t try to help me. Just run.'

You stare at me like I’m insane.

'I’m serious,' I growl, my canines feeling too long. 'I’m a weretiger. And when the moon hits its peak, I lose myself. I don’t remember what I do. But I’ve woken up covered in blood before. I won’t risk you.'

The lights flicker. Distant sirens wail. And the clock ticks down: 58 minutes.

My breathing hitches as another wave of heat rolls through me.

What do you do?