(A.N.: Essence refers to the physical traits Tod takes from animals. Aspect will be used later for energy-based abilities.)
Tod was pushed back again, my heels digging into the dirt until I felt myself slipping.
I didn't understand why it wasn't working.
I had prepared for this. I knew what I was using. The animals I pulled from weren't weak—each one sat at the top of its kind, built for strength and survival. Rhino bone density. Hippo muscle. Kangaroo tendons. Their essence layered over my body should have made me unstoppable.
One hit should have been enough.
It should have already been over.
As that thought lingered, I swung again—slow, heavy—only for Slade's tail to slice across me before my fist could reach him. The impact burned, rattling through my chest. It didn't pierce. The hippo's muscle density absorbed most of it, just enough mass to act like armor.
Still, it hurt.
He was too fast.
That was the truth I kept circling back to. Strength didn't matter if I couldn't land a clean hit. I only needed one. Just one good strike.
I was exhausted. My clothes were torn and stiff with dirt. I stood there in something that looked like a boxing stance, even though I didn't really know how to fight. My feet were planted wide, legs shaking as I tried to hold my ground.
I wasn't bleeding much, but I was covered in cuts. Small ones. Too many to count. Worse than that, the mutations were pressing down on my mind. Thinking felt slow. Heavy. Like my thoughts were sinking before I could finish them.
Slade stood over me.
Laughing.
The sound made my stomach twist.
I braced myself, muscles tensing as I prepared for his next strike. I told myself to focus—to defend—but my thoughts drifted somewhere darker before I could stop them.
I want to charge again.
I want him to hurt.
. . . i wondered how he tasted ?
That idea scared me.
I forced a breath in. Forced my mind to settle, just enough to think clearly again. Just enough to notice his tail lifting.
If I rushed him like before, it wouldn't work. He'd let me close the distance—he always did—then pull away the moment I committed. He knew I was slowing down. He knew my body couldn't keep this up.
And he was right.
It wasn't my strength failing.
It was my nerves. Every movement sent pain shooting through me. My head felt crowded, instincts pushing and pulling in different directions, none of them mine.
Still… I had an idea.
He would let me get close.
I just needed to be faster.
I didn't know how to jab. Every attack I threw was big and obvious. Power without control. That had been my mistake.
I leaned forward and pushed myself toward him, forcing my body to move even as it protested. I could see him preparing to step aside again, his weight shifting before he even moved.
I noticed it without thinking.
A memory surfaced then—small and strange. A bird I'd watched the day before, how easily it lifted into the air. Hollow bones. Less weight. Faster movement.
Something clicked.
I hollowed out the bones in my arm, by takin the essence of a pigeon I pet one time.
The change was immediate. My arm felt wrong—too light—and a crushing pressure followed as my muscles strained to compensate. It hurt, but beneath the pain was something else.
Speed.
I kept low as I closed in. At the last second, Slade shifted his weight to the right—
And my arm shot forward, sloppy, but faster than anything I'd thrown all fight.
KRACK.
The sound was sharp and loud, like breaking wood—like a shotgun going off right beside my ear. I barely registered it. My focus was locked on the impact.
My fist didn't stop when it hit.
His chitin chest plate crumbled. I felt it give way beneath my knuckles. His ribs folded under the force, collapsing inward as his body was launched backward, folding in on itself as it flew.
For a moment, everything went quiet.
I'd done it.
But something else shattered too.
My arm collapsed almost instantly. The hollowed bone couldn't withstand the force. It crumpled in on itself like wet paper. Every muscle in my arm seized at once, tendons yanking hard as they tried to pull against a structure that was no longer there.
It was like a tree snapping at its weakest point.
The pain—
God, the pain.
Muscle bunched and twisted into itself with nowhere to anchor. Bone fragments punched through skin. White flashed through red. The sensation drowned everything else out, eclipsing every ache and injury I'd taken before.
I screamed.
Tears came without warning, blinding and uncontrollable
Instincts surged, loud and panicked.
Run.
It's over.
Don't let him hurt you again.
My mind felt like it was splitting under the pressure.
My arm hurt so badly that it drowned out everything else. The cuts, the exhaustion, the soreness—all of it vanished beneath that single point of pain.
There was nothing else.
Only the damage I'd done.
And what it had cost me.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
3rd pov
The scream tore through the orphanage yard like something alive.
Hank was already moving before it fully registered.
The sound was wrong—too sharp, too raw. Not the sound of scraped knees or shouted insults. This was pain. Real pain. The kind that left echoes.
He crossed the yard in long, ground-eating strides, the earth seeming to recoil under his weight. Kids scattered instinctively, some backing away, others frozen in place, eyes wide and shining. Mia was beside him almost instantly, light on her feet, wings flaring out in a reflexive burst of color before she folded them tight again. Her hand hovered near her mouth, breath caught—not in fear, but in worry.
They saw it all at once.
Slade lay crumpled several yards away, his armored body twisted at an unnatural angle. The chitin across his chest was cracked—no, shattered—splintered inward like a broken shell. His tail lay limp in the dirt, twitching weakly. Each breath came shallow and uneven, a wet rattle escaping his throat.
And Tod—
Tod was on his knees.
His arm was ruined.
Hank felt something cold settle in his chest.
Tod's body shook violently, small frame hunched over itself, his injured arm hanging wrong, skin split, bone visible through torn flesh. He was crying—not loud, not dramatic—just broken, gasping sobs that wracked his entire body. His eyes were unfocused, darting, like he was seeing something else entirely.
Instinct.
Too much instinct.
"Everyone back," Hank said, voice low but carrying. Calm. Steady. Absolute.
The children obeyed without thinking. Even the ones who had never listened to him before stepped away, fear overriding rebellion.
Hank knelt beside Slade first—not because he cared more, but because he knew what seconds meant. His large hands hovered for a fraction of a moment before moving with practiced precision. He didn't touch the shattered chest plate directly. He watched the rise and fall of Slade's body, counted breaths, eyes sharp and assessing.
"Collapsed ribs," he muttered. "Internal bleeding."
Mia was already there too, kneeling opposite him, her wings trembling faintly. She didn't look at the damage right away. She looked at Slade's face—still just a child's, even twisted in pain—and her expression softened further.
"Oh, sweetheart…" she whispered, voice trembling but gentle, like she could soothe him just by being heard.
Her wings lifted, just enough to cast shade, to create a small pocket of calm around them.
"Hank," she said quietly. "He's fading."
"I know," Hank replied.
Then he turned.
Tod hadn't moved.
He was staring at his own arm now, breathing fast and shallow, his pupils blown wide. His mouth opened and closed like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words—or the thoughts.
The instincts were still clawing at him. You could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his body leaned forward like it was ready to bolt. Run. Hide. Finish it. Survive.
Hank shifted his weight and lowered himself slowly in front of Tod, making himself smaller despite his size.
"Tod," he said.
No response.
Hank spoke again, slower. Firmer.
"Tod. Look at me."
Tod's eyes flicked up for half a second, then away again, tears spilling freely now. He shook his head.
"I— I didn't—" His voice cracked apart. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," Hank said immediately.
That stopped him.
Tod froze, breath hitching.
"I know," Hank repeated, unwavering. "You're here. You're safe. You're done fighting."
Mia shifted closer, her presence warm and steady, her wings folding around Tod just enough to block out the rest of the yard. She didn't touch his arm. She didn't rush him.
She simply smiled.
Not bright. Not forced.
Just there.
"You did very well stopping," she said softly. "That was the hardest part."
Tod's lip trembled violently.
"I hurt him," he whispered.
"Yes," Hank said, honest as always. "You did."
Tod flinched.
"But you didn't lose yourself," Hank continued. "And that matters."
The boy broke then.
He curled inward, pressing his forehead to the dirt, sobbing openly now, pain and fear and shame crashing down all at once. Mia gently rested a hand on his back, her thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles, humming something wordless and familiar.
Behind them, Slade let out a weak groan.
Hank turned back instantly.
"Ambulance. Now," he called over his shoulder.
One of the older kids was already running.
The yard felt impossibly quiet after that.
Not peaceful—just stunned.
This wasn't a victory.
It was a consequence.
And every child there felt it settle into their bones, heavy and unforgettable.