The Feast

Chen’s instinct for self-preservation, dormant for years under layers of arrogance, suddenly woke up and screamed.

He slashed the scalpel down, aiming for her throat.

Mei’s hand moved faster than human biology should allow. She caught his wrist in mid-air.

Her grip wasn't just strong; it was hydraulic.

*CRACK.*

The sound of Chen’s radius and ulna shattering was loud, like a dry branch snapping in a winter wood.

Chen screamed, dropping the scalpel. He tried to pull away, but she held him fast.

"My turn," Mei whispered.

She stepped out of the shadow of the wall.

Her eyes were no longer dark. They were glowing—a luminous, radioactive gold that pierced the gloom of the alley.

And then, her face changed.

It didn't melt or morph in the way of movies. It broke. Her jaw unhinged with a wet, sickening pop, descending unnaturally low. Her teeth, previously straight and white, seemed to lengthen and sharpen, crowding her mouth in jagged rows of ivory knives.

She didn't turn into a wolf. That would be messy. She liked this dress. Instead, she let the Wolf rise just beneath the surface of the skin, a hybrid horror of woman and beast.

"What are you?" Chen shrieked, scrabbling at the wet cobblestones with his good hand, trying to back away.

Mei smiled, and the smile stretched too wide, splitting the corners of her lips.

"I'm the florist," she growled, her voice distorted by the changing shape of her larynx. "And you are the fertilizer."

Chen scrambled backward, kicking at her. He hit a dumpster and froze. There was nowhere to go.

Mei loomed over him. The demure girl who had eaten dumplings with such politeness was gone. In her place was an apex predator who had been starving for something with a heartbeat.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Mr. Chen," she purred, saliva dripping from her elongated canines. "You look delicious."

She lunged.

Chen raised his arms to protect his face, but it was futile.

Mei didn't use claws. She used her teeth.

She struck with the speed of a viper, clamping her jaws onto his shoulder—the same place he had admired her dress. She shook her head violently, a primal, thrashing motion that tore through the expensive Italian wool of his coat and the flesh beneath it.

Chen’s scream was cut short as she went for the throat.

It wasn't a fight. It was lunch.

The sounds in the alley changed. The screams stopped, replaced by the wet, rhythmic tearing of meat and the snapping of gristle. The rain continued to fall, washing the red streams into the gutters of Chinatown, carrying away the remains of the Gentleman Killer.

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