Chapter 5: Prey in the Low-Grade Fever
942 Words
The antiseptic stench of the morning was sharper than usual.
Fang Yan stood outside City General Hospital’s examination wing, the cuff of his borrowed white coat creased where Su Heng had straightened his collar the night before. On the digital display above, Exam Room 3 blinked in sterile red. His fingers tapped restlessly against the USB drive in his pocket—copied files from the rare-species medical archives.
“Mr. Fang?” The receptionist’s voice pricked through his thoughts like a needle.
When he looked down, Su Heng was walking toward him, her hair damp with morning dew, a manila folder tucked under her arm.
“Pulled your decade-old physical records.” She handed it over, her fingertips lingering half a second too long on his palm. “My father’s research notes are in there too.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed.
Last night’s medical report flashed in his mind—Professor Su’s jagged handwriting, the same ruthless precision as his daughter’s scalpel.
The moment they stepped into the records room, the tattoo on his nape seared as if branded by a hot coin.
Dust and mildew clung to brittle paper.
On page 237, Fang Yan’s pen dug into the notepad. Every patient marked “metabolic anomaly” had the same fever curve—spiking to 39.8°C like a flame’s tongue l*****g the chart.
He remembered his foster mother’s trembling hands at sixteen, wiping his burning back with a wet towel: “Xiao Yan, this fever… it burns like something alive.”
Footsteps echoed outside.
He snapped the file shut just as Shen Huaiyuan’s shadow fell across the doorway.
The deputy director’s coat was immaculate, his ID badge gleaming cold under fluorescent lights. “Dr. Su, Director Zhang needs you in the ER.” His gaze slid to the file in Fang Yan’s hands, lips quirking. “Mr. Fang has an interest in medical archives?”
Su Heng’s nails bit into Fang Yan’s knuckles.
He caught the iodine scent clinging to her—a surgeon’s version of safety. “He’s had recurrent fevers. I wondered if it was genetic.” Her voice was steady as a heart monitor’s flatline. But when she turned, her elbow knocked over a teacup, dark liquid splashing Shen’s polished shoes.
“Sorry.” She bent to wipe it, the flush behind her ears betraying her—her tell when nervous.
Shen’s shoe retreated half an inch. “Still clumsy, Dr. Su.” He checked his watch. “Three o’clock. My office. Quarterly reports.” His coat swished as he left, the gust flipping Fang Yan’s open files like leaves.
Silence settled.
Then his phone buzzed.
An anonymous image—A’Mao hunched outside a convenience store, gnawing on oden. The zoomed-in shot showed a crooked wolf tattoo on the boy’s neck.
“A’Mao?” Su Heng’s voice came from the doorway. “You know that stray who loiters near the hospital?”
Fang Yan’s pupils contracted.
Three months ago, during a storm, he’d knocked over a dumpster mid-transformation—right at A’Mao’s feet.
The kid hadn’t screamed. Just stared with hungry fascination: “Ge, can those claws cut through security bars?”
“Don’t know him.” He flipped the phone face-down, the USB drive biting into his palm. “Let’s go to the lab. I want to recheck my bloodwork.”
The lab’s LED lights glared like surgical lamps.
Under the microscope, his blood sample’s double helix glowed—certain base pairs fluorescing in sync with the lunar cycle onscreen, peaking at full moon.
The Mark’s power awakens…
The tattoo on his neck split open, coarse fur pushing through torn skin.
Knock-knock.
By the time the door creaked open, Fang Yan had his silver pendant pressed to the wound.
Shen Huaiyuan’s voice oozed through the gap: “Dr. Su, Mr. Fang’s test results are ready.”
When Fang Yan turned, Su Heng’s hands shook around the report.
Her lashes gleamed wet, like rain-soaked butterfly wings. “Abnormal leukocytosis, CRP levels…”
“I’m fine.” He caught her trembling fingers—then froze. A fresh scar sliced her palm. “Another overnight shift?”
She laughed, but tears hit their joined hands. “Three ER cases last night. All sudden high fevers, then… things moving under their skin.” Her nails dug into his flesh. “Just like you at sixteen.”
Evening kitchen smells: sweet-vinegar ribs, old radio static.
Foster Mother Fang dozed in her wicker chair, News Broadcast droning.
Dishwater sloshed over Fang Yan’s gloves—then rip. Claws shredded rubber, screeching against porcelain.
“Yan-ge?”
Su Heng’s breath warmed his nape.
Her arms circled his waist, colder than surgical steel. “Before he died, my father said he failed a child.” Her cheek pressed to his spine. “He said that child’s blood could save thousands… but he ran out of time.”
Crack. A claw snapped.
When he turned, her tears had soaked his collar.
She looked up, shattered. “Have you… not been you for a long time?”
Moonlight clawed over the roof tiles.
Fang Yan stared at the cowlick on her crown—the one she got when he’d boosted her into a tree as kids.
He touched his burning tattoo, swallowed hard. “Come with me.”
Midnight wind carried the scent of dead grass.
Outside the abandoned warehouse, Fang Yan’s phone lit up with Su Heng’s text: “I believe you.” He unclasped his silver bracelet. Moonlight spilled over bare skin.
The Mark ignited. From his chest rose a growl that hadn’t surfaced in twenty years—the Wolf King’s soul, finally awake.
- Writer
