The air in the motel room was thick with unspoken tension, a stark contrast to the casual intimacy Bruce and Tatyana shared. His broad shoulders, usually so relaxed under her tender touch, were rigid with a fear he struggled to conceal. The question hung heavy between them: "What did I look like when I turned? Did I frighten you?"

Tatyana's hands, smooth and slender, kneaded the knots from his muscular back. "More like a wolf, less like a man," she murmured, her Russian accent softening the blunt truth. For Bruce, it was a confirmation of his deepest dread: the curse of the werewolf was tightening its grip, threatening to strip away his humanity. Time was running out.

He forced a smile, a fragile mask against the looming threat of the full moon. "I wonder if Dan and Shen had any luck," he mumbled, more to himself than to her. The hunt for rogue mutant-vampires was on hold, replaced by a desperate search for a cure for his affliction. He knew they were cutting it close. Too close.