Chapter 4

Cold sweat clung to Dale’s skin as he tossed and turned, wrestling with the sheets tangled around him like an unwanted cocoon. Every inch of his body felt wrong, too hot and too tight, as though he were wrapped in a strange fever. The bed creaked beneath him as he twisted, trying to shake off the lingering weight of sleep that held him captive in the nightmare.

Images from the dream lingered, hazy but vivid. He was back in Kirk’s living room, the Xbox controllers lying abandoned on the floor, forgotten in the chaos of the moment. The room had been a strange, warped version of reality—somewhere between memory and fantasy.

In the dream, his vision was sharp—he could see every stray thread on the worn cushions, every dust particle hanging in the slant of light filtering through the window. And yet, all of his attention had been locked onto one thing.

Kirk.

In the dream, Dale had found himself pinning Kirk to the sofa, his hands pressed down on Kirk’s shoulders, his face inches from his. The warmth of Kirk’s breath against his skin had been so real, and Dale’s body had responded to it with a hunger he didn’t fully understand. Shaky but determined, his hand reached for Kirk’s belt, struggling to unbuckle it, the need to go further gnawing at him, primal and unstoppable.

But it wasn’t just need—it was more than that. There was something feral about it, something fierce and unrelenting that made Dale’s skin crawl even now as he lay in bed, wide awake and drenched in sweat. The memory of his desperation, his loss of control, filled him with a strange combination of shame and excitement. He could still feel the pulse of it, the wildness that had taken over him.

And that’s when it happened in the dream. His hand, tangled in Kirk’s hair, had started to change. His fingers had elongated, twisting and reshaping themselves into something foreign, with sharp claws sprouting from his nails. His skin prickled, dark hair pushing through in patches along his arm. Even his face had begun to contort, the bones shifting beneath his skin, his jaw stretching, and teeth sharpening into fangs.

Then, the worst part—the howl.

The sound had torn from his mouth, low and guttural, as if it were coming from somewhere deep inside him, primal and ancient. It had echoed through the dream, vibrating through his chest as though he were transforming from the inside out, his humanity slipping away in layers. The sensation had been terrifying and exhilarating, a release that left him gasping.

And in the dream, Kirk’s face had twisted in horror. He’d struggled beneath Dale’s grip, his eyes wide with terror as he realized he was no longer face-to-face with his best friend but with something monstrous, something otherworldly. Dale’s heartbeat had pounded, echoing with a predatory rhythm, as he’d watched Kirk’s fear turn to panic.

He shuddered, blinking away the images as he sat up in bed, clutching the sheets in his fists. It had only been a dream, he told himself. It's just a nightmare. But his body was alive with the sensation of it, his skin prickling, his heart racing as though he were still in that moment, still trapped in that feverish transformation.

Dale ran a shaky hand over his face, taking in the darkness of his room, the faint glow of moonlight slipping in through the cracks in the blinds. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by his uneven breaths. He glanced around, half-expecting to see claws, fur, or fangs, as though remnants of the nightmare might still be clinging to him.

“Get a grip, Dale,” he whispered into the night air, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and planting his feet on the cool hardwood floor.

The sensation grounded him, pulling him back to reality. But even as he took a few deep breaths, his mind raced, replaying fragments of the dream, the raw, unfamiliar urges that had surged through him like wildfire.

The hallway outside his room was dark and quiet, but Dale could hear the faint sounds of the night filtering in through an open window somewhere in the house. The soft chirping of crickets, the distant hum of a car passing on the road, and the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind felt sharper and more intense as though his senses had been turned up a notch.

Steeling himself, Dale walked down the hallway toward the living room. The familiar clutter of Kirk’s house greeted him: stacks of fashion magazines, half-empty coffee mugs, Kirk’s bright pink feather boa draped carelessly over the back of a chair. The sight of it made him smile, if only briefly. Kirk’s unique blend of glitz and chaos had always been a comfort to him, a reminder that there was a place where he truly belonged.

As he reached the kitchen, Dale flipped on the light and grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water from the tap. The coldness of the water was a shock against his throat, calming the last remnants of his dream-induced panic. He leaned against the counter, staring into the glass, trying to make sense of everything.

The night’s events replayed in his mind, blurring the line between reality and nightmare. He remembered the bite, the searing pain, the darkness that had closed in on him as he’d slipped into unconsciousness. And now, this dream—this horrible, vivid vision of himself as something… inhuman. Something dangerous.

A sound behind him made him jump, and he spun around to see Kirk standing in the doorway, looking just as rumpled and disoriented as he felt. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his pajamas—a pair of ridiculously oversized, polka-dotted pants and a T-shirt that read “I’m Too Fabulous to Function”—only added to his look of groggy confusion.

“Dale?” Kirk’s voice was thick with sleep, his eyes squinting against the kitchen light. “What are you doing up at… whatever time it is?”

Dale forced a shaky smile, trying to shrug off his lingering anxiety. “Just… couldn’t sleep. Bad dream.”

Kirk wandered over, scratching his head as he squinted at Dale. “Must’ve been some dream. I thought you were about to rip the house down with all that thrashing around.” He gave Dale a playful nudge. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to have wild dreams about me.”

Dale felt his cheeks heat up, and he rolled his eyes, trying to laugh it off. “Trust me, it wasn’t that kind of dream.”

Kirk smirked, leaning against the counter next to him. “Well, if it involves you pinning me to the couch, it sure sounds like it could’ve been.” His eyes sparkled with mischief, but genuine concern was behind his teasing.

Dale shook his head, swallowing hard as he tried to put the dream into words. “No, it was… different. I was… I don’t know, turning into something. Like, my hands were changing, growing claws, and my face—” He broke off, shivering at the memory. “It felt like I was losing myself. Like I was becoming something… dangerous.”

Kirk’s expression softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on Dale’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s just a dream. Maybe a leftover from… you know what happened. Trauma can do weird things to your mind. Trust me, I took a psych class once.” He gave Dale a crooked smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Dale managed a small laugh, though the tension in his chest hadn’t dissipated. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just… it felt so real.”

“Dreams can do that,” Kirk said, squeezing his shoulder. “But look, you’re here. Alive, in one piece, and, I’ll admit, looking a little paler than usual, but otherwise fine.” He gave Dale a light punch on the arm. “You’re still our same old Dale.”

Dale smiled, grateful for Kirk’s steady presence. Kirk had always had a way of grounding him, of bringing him back to reality when his mind spiraled out of control. But as they stood in the quiet of the kitchen, Dale couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside him had shifted, something he didn’t fully understand.

Kirk gave him a playful nudge. “Now, how about we get you back to bed before you start howling at the moon?”

Dale chuckled, rolling his eyes. “You’re hilarious.”

Kirk grinned, patting him on the back. “You know it.” He turned and headed back toward the hallway, his footsteps light and carefree, as if the night’s events were already forgotten.

But as Dale followed him back to their rooms, a strange, almost primal urge tugged at him. He caught himself listening intently to the sounds around him—the faint rustling of leaves outside, the distant hum of traffic, the soft breathing of Kirk just a few steps ahead. It was as if his senses had been dialed up, every sound, every scent sharper, clearer.

And then, as they reached their doors, he caught a scent—a subtle, musky smell that made his stomach twist with hunger. He shook his head, trying to dismiss it, but the sensation lingered, gnawing at him with an alarming and thrilling intensity.

“Goodnight, Dale,” Kirk said, throwing him a lazy salute as he disappeared into his room.

Dale nodded, his heart pounding as he slipped into his room and shut the door behind him. He sank onto his bed, clutching his pillow, and stared into the darkness, feeling a strange, restless energy coursing through him.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, though the word felt empty in the silence. And as he closed his eyes, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.