Chapter 04 – The Public Transformation

15th May, Monday

Today, I went to the Civic Health Authority tower, as I was summoned again through yet another letter.

The Civic Health Authority tower loomed over the city like a concrete tomb. No windows, no signage—just a black monolith.

My summons instructed me to arrive at precisely 09:13 a.m. The letter warned, “Late arrival will be noted.” I arrived at 09:10. The receptionist glanced at the clock and muttered, “Too early. That will be noted.”

I was led down sterile halls to a narrow office where Dr. Kessler waited. He was thin, pale, and almost translucent, as though paper had been folded into the shape of a man. His spectacles gleamed but revealed nothing of his eyes. “Lars McKnight,” he said without greeting. His voice was neither warm nor cold—just yet another functional voice. “You’ve been experiencing… changes.” He said.

“I—no,” I stammered. “I’ve just been—”

“Transformations, then,” he interrupted. “Into non-human states. Specifically a wolf. Have you disclosed this to anyone?” My mouth dried. “How do you—”

Before I could finish speaking, he tapped a file so thick it bent the desk. “We know. We always know.”

***

The session became an interrogation. “Do you lose consciousness during metamorphosis?” he asked, almost too excitedly.

“No.” I replied without any hesitation. A flat answer.

“Then why do you forget the hours afterward?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“That inconsistency will be noted.”

He asked about the sphere. Each time, his tone was casual, as if asking about the weather.

“When did you first feel its pull?”

“I never said—”

“You felt it,” he corrected. “Answer the question.”

I tried silence, but silence was also noted.

At one point, he asked me to strip. Not for medical inspection, but to let the two gray-suited attendants trace my skin with rulers, measuring distances between bones, recording in neat, endless columns. “Growth patterns,” Kessler murmured, scribbling in a book whose language I couldn’t recognize. “We must chart them before the other forms appear.” He said.

“The other… forms?” I asked, almost faking being shocked.

He looked at me, finally, and for the first time his eyes were visible. They were gray as stone, flat as slate. “There are nine in total. Wolf was only the beginning. Did you think you were the first?” Hours passed by.

Forms were filled, signatures demanded. I signed the same sheet six times, each under a different date. When I pointed it out, Kessler frowned.

“Are you refusing compliance?” He asked with a somewhat deep feeling in his tone. “No, but—” Before I could finish, he warned me, “Non-compliance will be noted.” He said.

By the time they released me, the sky had darkened. My head buzzed as though stuffed with cotton. My body shook with something caged and restless inside me.

Outside, on the steps of the Authority tower, the same fisherman from the pier waited. His mutilated hand was bandaged now, but he smiled through cracked teeth.

“They marked you,” he whispered. “They think they can study what’s already written. Fools.” He said, almost with a mischievous tone. I tried to walk past him, but he caught my sleeve with surprising strength. His eyes burned.

“Don’t forget, boy. The Guide doesn’t serve them. The Guide serves the end.”

***

That night, when I slept, the wolf didn’t come. Instead, I dreamt of nine shadows circling me in a field of white sand. The sphere hovered above them, pulsing like a second moon. With each beat, the sand turned to ash. And the shadows whispered in unison: Compliance noted.

I told myself I could walk it off. After the Authority session, after Kessler’s measuring, I needed to feel pavement under my shoes, not sterile linoleum. The air was heavy but free, or so I convinced myself. The city was ordinary that evening: a fruit vendor shouting about bruised apples, children chasing a ball between cars, a man dragging two leashed dogs who looked half-dead with boredom. All remained painfully normal.

And then, without warning, my legs buckled. It was not the subtle stir of the wolf I had felt before, not the tremor of bones stretching in secret. This was violent. My chest seized, ribs convulsed inward, then outward. A scream tore itself from me, half-human, half-beast, startling the pigeons into flight.

The crowd froze. My hands split open into claws, nails blackening. Teeth pushed against my gums like knives breaking through leather. Fur burst through my pores, bristling, and raw. I dropped to all fours, and the street screamed.

But not everyone ran.

The fruit vendor tutted, covering his crates with a tarp. “Not again,” he muttered, as if a shapeshifter writhing in the middle of the road was as mundane as rain.

The man with the dogs tightened his leash, but not in fear—in irritation. “You need a permit for that,” he shouted over the chaos. “Transformation without notice is a civic violation!” Children pointed and laughed, one clapping as though I were part of a street performance.

I tried to stagger toward an alley, but the beast pushed harder, every bone begging to snap, every sinew burning with the urge to run, to hunt. My voice broke into a howl that rattled windows. That’s when the sirens came.

Not police sirens—sharp. Authority sirens. A gray van rolled up the curb, its insignia a single black circle. From it spilled attendants in pale suits, faces hidden behind mirrored masks. They moved without hesitation, holding poles tipped with metal loops. The crowd parted obediently, murmuring: “Containment team. About time.”

The first loop caught my neck. Electricity surged down my spine. I bucked, teeth snapping at the cord, but another loop clamped my arms, then my legs. Every jolt forced me halfway back into human skin, only for the beast to shove through again.

The attendants spoke in monotone.
“Subject unstable.”
“Document transformation time.”
“Mark resistance level.”

I spat blood and fur, half-human words slurred into growls. “Let me—graaah—”

One attendant tilted their head. “Verbal response recorded.” Another pressed a clipboard against my chest, as if I were meant to sign. And then I saw him again—the fisherman, limping down the opposite curb, bandages dirty, eyes fever-bright. He didn’t call out this time. He just raised his ruined hand and pointed at the van. His mouth formed one word, though no sound carried: “Ash.”

The attendants dragged me inside. The doors slammed. The last glimpse I caught of the crowd was the fruit vendor arranging his apples again, already bored.

Inside the van, the restraints tightened. The wolf retreated just enough to let me breathe, but I could still feel its claws scraping the inside of my skin. The attendants sat in silence, scribbling notes I couldn’t see. At the far end of the van sat a crate. It was round, metallic, and faintly humming.

A sphere. Smaller than the one they pulled from the sea, but unmistakable. The moment my eyes locked onto it, the wolf inside me fell silent. Not calm, not tamed—but attentive. Like a dog hearing its master’s whistle.