The Trash Husband is a Lycan God

The Shortage

The Black Trucks saved the delivery timeline, their engines roaring through the night like a mechanical cavalry. But in business, as in war, solving one problem often creates another.

Speed was the enemy of supply.

Wolf-Mart was too efficient. The platform, backed by Killian's hidden algorithms, was pushing sales faster than the factory could stitch the seams.

"We are out of Starlight," the factory foreman shouted over the phone, his voice barely audible over the clatter of the few remaining sewing machines. "Ms. Sterling, the looms are dry! We used the last roll ten minutes ago!"

Seraphina dropped her phone on her mahogany desk. It hit the wood with a dull thud that echoed in her silent office.

"Fuck."

She rarely cursed. She was a Sterling, raised to be poise and polish. But this week? She was ready to fight a sailor in a dive bar.

"How can we be out?" She looked at Killian, who was napping on the office couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. "You said you had tons! You said 'enough to drown the market'!"

"I said I had a lot," Killian opened one eye. It was bloodshot. Even he was feeling the strain of the last 72 hours. "100,000 dresses is a lot, Sera. That's three football fields of fabric. Apparently, people really like looking skinny for $19.99."

"This isn't funny!" Seraphina paced the room, her heels clicking aggressively on the floor. "If we stop production now, the momentum dies. The algorithm punishes out-of-stock items. We drop off the front page. Vane wins."

She stopped at the window, looking out at the city. The Vane Tower stood tall in the distance, its logo glowing mockingly in the night.

"Relax," Killian sat up, stretching his back until it cracked. "I anticipated this. I bought a mill."

Seraphina turned slowly. "You... what?"

"A textile mill. In the Ghost District. Old place, went bankrupt in '08 during the crash. Got it for pennies. Or, well, I traded a very rare baseball card for the deed."

"You bought a factory with a baseball card?" Seraphina stared at him, trying to decide if he was a genius or a lunatic.

"A _swapped_ Honus Wagner," Killian corrected. "Anyway, the point is, the mill is full of raw polymer. The tanks are topped off. Enough to make a million dresses. But there's a catch."

"Of course there is," Seraphina sank into her chair, covering her face with her hands. "There is always a catch with you."

"The power is cut," Killian said, standing up and walking to the mini-bar. He poured two glasses of water. "And the city grid won't reconnect it without a permit. Guess who controls the permit office?"

"Vane," Seraphina whispered. "The Utilities Commissioner is his golfing buddy."

"Exactly. So we have a fully stocked factory, but no juice. It's a giant, brick paperweight."

"So we're done," Seraphina said, her voice hollow.

"Not necessarily," Killian handed her a glass of water. "I'm pretty good with wires. Let's go take a look."

---

The Ghost District lived up to its name.

It was an industrial graveyard on the outskirts of Aurora Bay. Skeletal cranes loomed against the grey, churning sky. Rusted smokestacks stood like tombstones, silent and cold. The streets were cracked, weeds growing through the asphalt like fingers reaching from the grave.

The "New" Blackwood Mill was a brick fortress covered in dead ivy. It looked like a prison.

Killian parked the car—a nondescript sedan—at the broken gates.

"Wait here," he said, popping the trunk.

"No," Seraphina unbuckled her seatbelt. "I'm the CEO. If this is my factory, I need to see it."

Killian looked at her. He saw the fire in her eyes, the same fire that had made her stand at the altar alone. He smirked. "Fine. But watch your step. The rats here are size of cats."

They walked into the mill. Inside, it was a cavern of silence. Massive looms stood in rows, covered in dust sheets like sleeping ghosts. The air was freezing, smelling of stale oil and rust.

"The main breaker is out back at the substation," Killian said, his voice echoing. "That's where the feed comes in."

They walked through the factory floor to the rear lot. A massive electrical substation sat there, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The transformer was a hulking metal beast, silent and dead.

Killian inspected the main cables. They were thick as pythons, severed cleanly. The copper ends gleamed in the dim light.

"Sabotage," Killian muttered, running a hand over the cut. "Hydraulic shears. Vane's work. They knew we bought the place."

"It's over," Seraphina shivered, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. Use the flashlight on her phone to illuminate the damage. "You can't fix high-voltage lines with a screwdriver, Killian. We need a line crew. We need parts."

Thunder rumbled overhead. A low, angry growl. The sky had turned a bruising purple. A storm was rolling in off the bay.

Perfect.

"Sera, go to the car," Killian said. His voice was different. Deeper. It vibrated in her chest. "Metal and lightning don't mix."

"I represents safety!" Seraphina argued. "I'm not leaving you!"

"GO!"

The command hit her like a physical shove. It wasn't a request. It was an order. Her body reacted before her mind could protest. She stumbled back, fear spiking in her chest. She turned and ran to the car, her heart pounding.

Once she was gone, Killian turned back to the transformer.

He didn't need tools. He didn't need parts.

He looked up at the sky. rain began to fall, cold and sharp.

"Come on," he whispered to the storm.

He reached out and grabbed the two severed ends of the main power cable. They were cold, dead.

"Let there be light," he growled.

He squeezed.

His eyes didn't just flash gold; they ignited. A pure, blinding white light poured from them, illuminating the rain.

He didn't use a spell. He didn't use a technique. He used his blood. The ancient, volatile bio-electricity of a Lycan King.

He became the conduit.

_ZAP._

A blue arc of electricity jumped between his hands, welding the copper back together.

_PAIN._

It wasn't like a static shock. It felt like someone had poured molten lead into his veins. His muscles seized, locking up. His skeleton felt like it was vibrating apart. The scream died in his throat, choked off by the sheer intensity of the energy flowing through him.

He was channeling enough voltage to power a city block through his own nervous system.

His skin began to smoke. The smell of burning ozone and... _meat_ filled the air.

"HAAAAAAA!"

He roared, forcing the connection, willing the metal to fuse. The Golden Aura around him flared, pushing back the rain, creating a dry sphere of pure power.

_BOOM._

The transformer exploded with life. The hum returned, loud and angry. A deep, mechanical throbbing that shook the ground.

Inside the factory, the lights flickered on. First one row, then another. The hum of the ventilation fans started up, a low moan that grew into a roar.

Killian dropped the cable. He fell to his knees in the mud, gasping for air.

His hands were black. Charred. Smoke rose from his fingertips.

He looked at them, watching as the skin cracked and peeled away, revealing fresh, pink flesh underneath. The healing factor was already working, knitting the comprehensive damage back together in seconds.

"All in a day's work," he wheezed, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the wet asphalt.

He wiped the soot on his jeans, stood up, and steadied himself against the fence. He waited until his hands looked human again—until the trembling stopped.

Then, he walked back to the car.

Seraphina was waiting, her face pressed against the glass. The windows were fogged with her breath. When she saw him emerge from the smoke and rain, she threw the door open.

"You fixed it?" she gasped, grabbing his jacket. "I saw sparks! Huge blue sparks! I thought the whole thing blew up!"

"Just a loose wire," Killian smiled, hiding his hands in his pockets. He felt drained, empty, like a battery running on 1%. "I told you. I'm handy."

"You look terrible," she said, touching his face. Her hand was cool. "You're burning up."

"Just the adrenaline," he leaned into her touch for a split second, closing his eyes. "Let's go. The machines are running. We have dresses to make."

As they drove away, the factory chimneys began to puff white smoke into the storm. Production was back online.

But deep in the shadows of the substation, hidden in the rusted metal framework of a crane, a security camera—one Killian had missed in his weakened state—blinked a red light.

It had a long-range lens. And it had recorded everything.

The sparks. The roar. The Golden Eyes.