Chapter 6: Transformation
The city bled noise.
Car horns blared, subway brakes screamed, and the air carried that restless New York energy—the kind that promised a fight around every corner. Styles walked through the academy gates like he owned them, cigarette in his mouth, hoodie loose, grin cocky as ever.
His Level marker still flickered faintly at 15. Nobody saw the truth. Nobody knew he was already 85.
The infection had changed more than his strength. His body buzzed with energy now, speed sharpening with every breath. He could cross a room before anyone blinked. He could dodge bullets if he wanted. And he did it all under the mask of a slacker who never took anything seriously.
But tonight, things would change.
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Scene 1: The Detective Again
The detective from the other day—the married one—cornered him near the stairwell, lips curved into a smirk.
"You've been busy, Styles," she whispered. "The Rift, the gangs… everyone's talking about you."
He smirked back, leaning closer. "Talking's free. Touching costs extra."
She laughed, slapping his chest lightly. "You're impossible."
By the time the mission alarm sounded, her lipstick was smudged and Styles was lighting a cigarette, muttering, "Detectives… always the hungriest."
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Scene 2: Mission Briefing
The squad assembled in the operations bay, the instructor's face grim.
Mission Code: 0209.
Threat: Blood Fang remnants linked to a Rift anomaly.
Location: Brooklyn docks.
Reward: 25,000 EXP.
Marisol paled. "A Rift and gang members? Together?"
The instructor nodded. "We've never seen it before. The gangs are harnessing Rift energy. Containment is top priority."
Styles stretched lazily. "Containment, huh? Guess I'll bring duct tape."
Marisol shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
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Scene 3: Brooklyn Docks
The docks reeked of salt and oil. Crates lined the pier, spray-painted with the Blood Fang sigil. But the air wasn't normal—it shimmered faintly, bending like a mirage.
A Rift pulsed between two cranes, jagged and unstable. From it leaked whispers, inhuman and cold.
Gang members stood guard, their eyes glowing faint red from Rift corruption. Their markers hovered between Level 20–30.
"Open fire!" the instructor shouted.
Bullets flew. Corrupted thugs roared and charged, claws sparking against steel.
Styles lit his cigarette. "Guess it's showtime."
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Scene 4: The Fight
They came at him first. Maybe they sensed he was the real threat. Maybe they just didn't like his grin.
Styles moved faster than their eyes could follow. One duck, one twist, and his fist cracked into a jaw, sending a thug spinning into the water. Another swung a blade; Styles caught his wrist, snapped it, and shoved him into a crate.
To the rookies, it looked like chaos. To Styles, it was a rhythm. Every move effortless, every strike disguised as sloppy luck.
Then the Rift pulsed.
From it, something bigger crawled out. A demon, all jagged limbs and coal-burning eyes, its marker reading Level 60.
The rookies froze. Marisol screamed, "It's too strong!"
Styles cracked his neck. "Finally. Something worth punching."
The demon lunged. Styles sidestepped, speed blurring him across the dock. His fist slammed into its ribs, cracking bone. It roared, swiping claws that cut through steel, but Styles was gone before they landed.
Every strike he gave shook the dock. Every dodge made it look like the demon missed by inches.
Then—one final blow. His fist drove straight into its chest, black smoke exploding as the Rift shuddered and sealed.
Silence followed.
Scene 5: The Level-Up
Above the rookies' heads:
+25,000 EXP.
Cheers broke out. Some rookies leveled twice.
But in Styles' vision:
+50,000 EXP.
Level Up → 135.
He staggered slightly, breath catching. Not from exhaustion—something else. His skin tingled, his veins burning hot.
He ducked away before anyone noticed, slipping behind a crate. The infection pulsed through him, rewriting again. His skin deepened, smooth and rich, a dark chocolate tone that gleamed under the dock lights. His hair lengthened, thick black locs tumbling past his shoulders, heavy and strong.
He caught his reflection in the water—different. Stronger. Sexier. Dangerous.
He smirked. "Guess leveling up has perks."
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Scene 6: Reactions
Back at the academy, the whispers doubled.
"Did you see him?"
"His whole look changed!"
"Skin darker… hair longer… what the hell is happening to him?"
Women noticed first. EMTs, nurses, even rookies from other divisions—they whispered, stared, giggled behind their hands. Styles had always been smooth, but now he was magnetic. His new look turned heads wherever he walked.
He slid into the cafeteria with his hood down for the first time, long locs brushing his shoulders. A communications officer—model-perfect, already dating another cadet—bit her lip as he passed. He smirked and sat at her table. Within minutes, she was laughing too loudly at his jokes, hand brushing his thigh under the table.
Marisol glared from across the room, fury and suspicion mixing with something else she couldn't admit.
⸻
Scene 7: Nightfall
Back at the shelter, Styles sat shirtless on his bunk, cigarette glowing in the dark. His skin gleamed a deep chocolate now, his long locs brushing his shoulders. His body felt sharper, faster, deadlier.
He clenched his fist, the metal frame bending until it snapped. Smoke curled upward as he grinned at the cracked ceiling.
Level 135. Stronger. Faster. Sexier. And nobody can stop me.
His laughter filled the empty room, low and dangerous.
Tomorrow, there'd be another mission. Another fight. Another woman.
And Styles would own them all.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]