Rex's pulse won't slow down.
His hands are shaking.
His breath is uneven.
His nerves feel electrified under the skin like someone wired him into a generator.
"Rex?" Mr. Hale calls from behind him, confused. "Kid? You good? You look pale."
Rex doesn't answer.
He can't.
He's staring at the TV, at the blurred-out corpse, at the words inhuman assailant, and the pressure in his chest keeps rising, rising, rising— He feels it.
A crawling sensation under his skin… like something is waking up.
"I—I need a second," he mutters.
Then he rushes toward the back of the store, ignoring Mr. Hale calling after him. He pushes through the staff-only door and stumbles into the small employee bathroom, slamming the lock shut.
He leans against the sink.
His heart beats like a war drum against his ribs.
He looks up at the mirror—
And freezes.
His reflection looks back at him…
But not the way it should.
His pupils twitch like a camera lens adjusting.
And then—
FWOOM.
His iris ignite into a glowing, unnatural red.
"Not again— not here—"
His vision sharpens. Colours become too bright, too violent. The buzzing of the fluorescent light becomes painfully loud. The sound of cars outside becomes thunder.
He grips the sink.
His fingers tremble.
His nails darken.
His hair—already shoulder long—suddenly lengthens, growing past his shoulders in seconds. Strands separate into sharp, thick tufts… then stiffen… then angle backward like quills.
(Like Knuckles-style quills.)
He gasps.
"What—what is happening to me—?"
His spine arches.
A hot wave pulses through his chest. His skin ripples like something underneath is reshaping him.
His hoodie melts into vapor.
His shirt dissolves into dust.
His jeans turn to drifting wisps of energy.
Not ripping.
Disappearing.
Matter rearranging itself as the new body forms.
His arms bulk out.
Fur spreads over his shoulders, chest, and back.
His jaw widens.
His teeth sharpen.
His legs shift, muscles tightening like coiled springs.
He groans, gripping the bathroom stall wall, claws scraping thin lines into the metal.
But this time…
This time he's conscious.
He can feel every shift.
The strength.
The power.
The raw, primal force humming through his veins.
This form was still monstrous…
But now Rex is awake inside it.
Not a passenger.
A pilot.
His breathing steadies as he slowly straightens, looking at himself in the mirror.
A massive, dark-furred creature with glowing red irises… but with his awareness staring back.
"…holy shit," he whispers, voice still deep and rumbling. "This is me."
He lifts a clawed hand, Flexed a few times
Flexible.
Powerful.
Controlled.
He touches the mirror lightly with a clawed hand.
The glass cracks from the pressure, spiderwebbing across his reflection.
He huffs a breath — part awe, part terror.
Then—
FOOTSTEPS.
Coming closer.
Slow.
Heavy.
Familiar.
His ears twitch, rotating instinctively.
His nose flares.
Mr. Hale.
The manager knocks on the door.
"Rex? You alright in there? You've been in there a while. I need you back on the floor, kid."
Rex clamps a hand over his own mouth, muffling the beast-like breathing.
His voice rumbles too deep. Too wrong.
He forces it higher, trying to sound normal—
"I—I'm fine, sir. Just… just need a minute."
"You sure? You sound strange."
"I'm—fine," he repeats, a little more controlled.
A pause.
"Alright. Take your time. Just hurry, okay?"
Footsteps fade.
Rex exhales sharply.
He looks down at himself — at the claws, the fur, the height, the power.
He sees the danger.
He sees the responsibility.
He sees the monster.
His adrenaline is still surging — his body wants to run, leap, roar —
No.
Calm.
He forces his breathing to slow.
In…
Out…
In…
Out…
Little by little, the energy around him flickers.
His fur recedes.
His claws melt back to fingers.
His quills shorten, folding back into normal hair.
The beast shrinks.
Until—
He stands in front of the sink again.
Human.
Sweaty.
Shaking.
Clutching the counter like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
His clothes reform on his body in a shimmering swirl of residual energy.
He looks in the mirror.
Just Rex.
Just a guy.
But he knows now—
There is something inside him.
And it's not going away.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Few hours later
Hours after closing time, Rex slips through the back alleys of Gotham, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, trying not to look like a man who committed a murder twelve hours earlier. His nerves are still fried. His head aches faintly. But the thing inside him?
It's awake.
Every sound, every scent, every distant siren feels too loud, too sharp.
He needs privacy.
He needs space.
He needs to understand this thing before it turns him into a murderer again.
So he goes somewhere no sane Gothamite ever visits after dark:
Old Trident Rail Station.
A forgotten, decayed railway graveyard beneath the Narrows.
Rust. Dust.
Graffiti from gangs that died out years ago.
Broken lights humming like angry metallic bees.
Perfect.
He slides through a broken fence and steps onto the cracked concrete. Old train cars sit derailed on their sides, like dead metal beasts abandoned by time.
He exhales.
"Alright… let's see what the hell I am."
He rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms, cracks his neck.
He even jogs in place.
"Warm up… in case I pull something," he mutters. "Because apparently even monsters get muscle cramps."
He stops mid-stretch, closes his eyes, and forces himself to think.
He needs adrenaline.
He needs emotion.
He needs something to push him into the change.
He imagines—
A gun pointed at his face.
A car crash.
A fall from a skyscraper.
Being chased.
Being cornered.
Lena's scream.
The fear of Batman finding him.
The terror of becoming a monster again.
His heartbeat spikes.
His skin prickles.
His breath deepens.
Then—
FWOOM.
His eyes ignite bright red, glowing like warning lights in the dark.
His spine straightens.
His hair unravels into quilled tufts.
His nails lengthen.
Muscle surges through his arms, back, chest, legs.
Clothes evaporate off him in a ripple of energy.
And in a breath—
He stands as a werewolf, fully shifted, fully conscious.
A beast, yes…
But one with awareness.
Control.
Intention.
He curls his claws, feeling the strength humming inside.
"Alright… let's test this."
He walks to a derailed train car — one of the middle sections.
Not the engine.
Not the caboose.
A standard four-car set, rusted, heavy, easily several tons.
He grabs the steel frame.
Claws sink in.
Metal groans.
Rex grits his teeth—
And lifts.
He lifts the entire four-car chain off the tracks like it's a stubborn couch.
"Holy…"
He steadies it, muscles bulging beneath the fur, feet digging trenches into the concrete.
Then he sets it back down with a heavy THUD, dust exploding around him.
"Okay," he mutters. "Stronger than I thought."
He then lowers himself into a runner's stance.
Inhales.
Exhales.
Then— CRACK.
He tears across the abandoned tracks, feet pounding the concrete like cannon fire.
Fast enough to outrun a normal car.
But not fast enough to beat a sports car or motorcycle.
Still—
The speed feels clean.
Effortless.
"Not flash fast," he admits. "But strong enough to ruin somebody's day."
As he slows down, something strange happens.
Static gathers around his arms.
Blue-white electricity crackles between his claws.
Not violent lightning — more like charged energy boosting under the skin.
He feels it coil in his legs, his spine, his shoulders.
"Okay… okay… what is this?"
He crouches.
The electricity sharpens.
He leaps—
ZAP—BOOM!
He rockets forward in a burst of electrified speed, leaving a lightning trail behind him.
Not teleportation.
Not true dash-speed.
But a short-range electrified burst.
He slams into a freight container, denting it inward by a lot.
He dusts off his arms.
"That… was sick."
He tries again.
ZAP—SHOOM!
Another surge but this time it rips the container into two jagged halves.
Fast.
Powerful.
Impactful.
He grins.
The beast inside him grins too.
While he was still catching his breath, admiring the abilities in his new form, something happened—
BOOOOM.
A massive explosion echoes from far across the city.
He whips his head toward the sound, quills flaring.
Lights flare in the distance — orange flames lighting the night sky.
Somewhere near the waterfront.
The GCPDRD&E yard.
Where they store impounded tech, weapon shipments, confiscated gear…
He narrows his eyes.
His instincts whisper:
Go. Investigate. Fight.
But Rex shakes his head.
"No. Not my business. Not tonight."
Another explosion rings out.
Sirens follow, and Rex — still in his werewolf form— stares toward the chaos…
Then exhales, letting the adrenaline drain.
Fur recedes.
Claws shrink.
Eyes dim.
Muscles contract.
Clothes reform.
He becomes Rex again.
Just a man.
Just a guy in a hoodie.
He turns away from the docks.
"Whatever that was… somebody else can handle it."
He climbs back through the broken fence, hands in his pockets, walking into the Gotham night as if nothing happened.
Tomorrow?
Will he regret that choice maybe, maybe not.
But that's tomorrow's problem.
Tonight?
Rex Dominic just wants to go home.