My apartment smells like I do - wolf and man mixed together. Seven years in the same place leaves an impression. Landlord doesn't ask questions as long as the rent checks clear. Neighbors think I work nights. Not entirely wrong.
The cage takes up half my bedroom - reinforced steel bars anchored to the floor and ceiling. Cost me three months' worth of odd jobs to have it custom built. Heavy-duty padlocks on the outside. Food and water dispensers on the inside. A thin mattress that gets replaced every few months when the stuffing starts coming out. Home sweet home.
I set my phone alarm for 5:00 PM, then lay out what I need: alcohol wipes, cotton balls, Band-Aids. The black case sits on my kitchen counter, one autoinjector removed and placed beside it. Vysera? (daxerimab). Sounds like something you'd see in a commercial where people frolic through meadows while a voice-over lists horrifying side effects.
First time for everything.
At 5:05, I'm sitting on my couch, staring at the autoinjector. Blue liquid visible through the small window. One of the side effects listed in the paperwork was "power suppression is absolute." No more enhanced smell for a few hours. That'll be... weird. Like suddenly going colorblind after seeing in technicolor your whole life.
Worth it, though. Normal people don't know how good they have it, being able to walk around at night without worrying about turning into a monster.
I roll up my sleeve, wipe my upper arm with alcohol, and position the injector. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Press firmly against the skin, thumb on the button, and--
Click.
A sharp sting as the needle penetrates, then a cold sensation spreading outward. Not as bad as I expected. I've had worse tetanus shots.
I set the used injector aside and press a cotton ball to the tiny bead of blood on my arm. Thirty minutes until full effectiveness. Might as well eat something while I wait.
The fridge is mostly empty - half a carton of eggs, some deli meat, condiments. Bachelor life. I make a sandwich, chewing methodically while watching the minutes tick by on the microwave clock. 5:15. 5:20. 5:25.
First, I notice my nose. Or rather, I stop noticing it. The constant barrage of scents begins to fade, like someone's slowly turning down a dial. The sandwich loses its complexity - just bread and meat now, not the individual spices and preservatives. My neighbors' cooking no longer seeps through the walls. The lingering wolf-scent of my own apartment dims to nothing.
By 5:35, it's gone completely. Just... normal human smell. Barely anything at all.
I walk to the window, looking out at the South Philly row houses as the late October sun slides toward the horizon. Golden light on brick buildings. Long shadows stretching across narrow streets. The sight hasn't changed, but the experience has. Less information coming in. Simpler.
My phone buzzes. A text from my old man.
Dinner at Vincenzo tomorrow's? 4:30? Would like to catch up.
I text him back.
Tonight 6:30.
He texts me back.
Derek that's after nighttime. You want me to bring over dog treats or something.
I text him back.
No let's go to Vincenzo. I'll be fine. They started me on the trial.
He texts me back.
Awesome. Cool.
Glad to hear it.
The sun sets at 6:08 PM. I watch it happen from inside my cage, through the window, just in case. I've got a vial of ketamine drawn, just in case. Nothing but my boxers, just in case.
Then, when it hits 6:09, and 6:10, and 6:11, and 6:13, and 6:15, I breathe a sigh of relief. I put my clothes back on. Okay. It looks like this is going to work. I step out onto the fire escape and start watching the sunset for real.
By 6:25, I'm walking into Vincenzo's - a little Italian joint in deep South Philly that's been around since before either of us was born. Red checkered tablecloths. Candles in wine bottles. Photos of Frank Sinatra on the walls. The kind of place that still takes cash only and doesn't have a website. I've got an extra injector of Vysera? in my pocket in case I need it.
Dad's already there, nursing a glass of whiskey at a corner table. He looks up when I enter, raising his glass slightly in acknowledgment. At 65, he's still built like the knee-breaker he used to be - broad shoulders, thick forearms, hands that look like they're made for snapping shinbones. He can insist all he wants that he was a personal trainer or whatever, it fools all the ladies on his block, sure. Silver hair cropped military-short. Face lined with a sort of subtle sort of worry.
"You're late," he says as I sit down.
I check my watch. 6:27 PM. "No, I'm not."
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He grunts, which could mean anything from agreement to dismissal. "Ordered you a beer."
"Thanks."
We sit in comfortable silence until the waiter brings my beer and takes our food orders. Same thing we always get: veal parmigiana for him, chicken marsala for me.
"So," Dad says after the waiter leaves, "how come I'm not being mauled right now? Or everyone else here, for that matter,"
He's quiet. Quiet enough. I can tell he asked for the corner seat for chatter room. All these years and he still can't stop sounding like a southie even as I've started lapsing into "wooder ice" and "jawn"s. Old habits die hard.
I take a sip of beer, buying time. "Got into a program. Government thing."
His expression darkens slightly. I'm sure this brings back bad memories of Bulger, but, you know, I don't give a shit, pops. I'll milk what I can and they can deal with the rest of the problems.
"What kind of program?"
"Medical trial," I say, rolling up my sleeve to show him the bracelet. "Power suppression."
He stares at it, then at me. "They're tracking you."
"Part of the deal."
"There's always a part of the deal they don't tell you about," he mutters, finishing his whiskey. "What's it do?"
"Stops the transformation. For a few hours at a time."
He processes this information, face unreadable. "So you can be out. At night."
"Yeah."
"That's good," he says finally, and I can tell he means it. "That's real good, Derek."
Coming from Finn Taylor, that's practically a tearful embrace.
"Just got the first dose today," I continue. "Fourteen doses a week. Not enough for full coverage, but..."
"Better than nothing," he finishes.
The waiter returns with a basket of bread. We both reach for a piece, another moment of silence stretching between us.
"Your mother would be happy," Dad says suddenly. Very weird word to hear. 'Mother'.
I focus on buttering my bread, not sure how to respond. It's not like I know who she is, or have a relationship with her. I don't even know if Dad does, either. Is he just trying to butter me up?
"Yeah," I manage. "Guess she would."
Dad clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional territory. "So these government types. What do they want in return?"
"Data. Blood samples. Regular check-ins." I tap the bracelet. "Complete compliance."
"There's the catch." He signals the waiter for another whiskey. "Nobody gives something for nothing."
"It's a fair trade," I argue. "They get to study me, I get a few hours of normal."
"If you say so." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "You look different."
"What do you mean?"
"Your shoulders are down. Your neck is slack. You're not squared up," he points out. "Weird. For you."
I hadn't noticed, but he's right. Without the constant bombardment of scents, I'm more relaxed. Not constantly processing and categorizing every smell within a hundred-foot radius.
"Side effect," I explain. "Suppresses all the powers, including the smell thing."
"That makes sense. Good to have options," he says, as our food arrives.
We eat in companionable silence for a while. The food's good - not amazing, but familiar. Comfort food. Something normal people do - have dinner with their dad at a neighborhood restaurant. On a weeknight. After dark.
"You look like you want to ask me something," Finn says, mopping up sauce with a piece of bread.
I hesitate. "Been thinking about taking on some different work. Something more... regular."
"Regular how?"
"Volunteer thing. Sort of a... neighborhood watch situation."
Dad's eyebrows rise slightly. "You're not volunteering with those anti-vigilante idiots, are you? The concerned asshole patrol. You don't want to get involved in any of that cape nonsense."
"I'm not doing any stupid cape shit, Dad. It's just normal volunteer stuff. You know. Now I can get out at night, after work hours, maybe I can actually meet my neighbors for once," I say, trying to be diplomatic. I can hear the very small Sam in my head and it pisses me off. What a goody two shoes.
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Just be careful who you associate with. Some of these superhero types attract the wrong kind of attention."
"I can handle myself," I assure him.
"Never doubted that." He finishes his second whiskey. "Taylors handle their own business. You've always been my son more than your momma's son."
Two mom mentions in one night. Unprecedented.
What? Un - pre - ce - dent - ed, that's five syllables. I'm hanging around those loser teens too much. Dad catches me counting something on my fingers - five syllables - and I wave it away.
More small talk. Nothing interesting. It lasts for about another hour.
We finish our meals, and Dad insists on paying. I don't argue. Welfare and pride only fill up the fridge as much as a single welfare check.
Outside, the night air is cool, streetlights casting long shadows down the narrow street. Cars passing by with headlights illuminating patches of sidewalk. Normal night things that I usually only see from behind bars, totally split from human contact, not in control of my body or my mind.
"Need a lift?" Dad asks, jingling his car keys.
"Nah. Think I'll walk for a bit."
He nods, understanding without needing it explained. "How long does that stuff last?"
I check my watch. "Another hour or so."
"Don't cut it close," he warns. "Whatever they gave you, it's experimental. Don't bet your life on it."
"I won't."
He claps me on the shoulder, a rare physical gesture. "Come by the house sometime. When you can. I've got a dog now, I think you'd get along. He'd probably like your smell."
"I will," I respond, suddenly second guessing myself. "Do I smell bad?"
He laughs without answering. Then, he gets into his car - a ten-year-old Buick, meticulously maintained - and drives off. I watch until his taillights disappear around a corner, then start walking in the opposite direction.
The streets of South Philly at night are different than I imagined. Quieter. The daytime bustle replaced by a softer energy. Couples walking hand in hand. Groups spilling out of bars, laughing too loudly. Someone playing a saxophone somewhere, the notes floating through open windows.
And the stars. I can see stars.
Not many - city lights drown out most of them. But enough. Enough to make me stop on a corner and just look up for a while, ignoring the occasional strange glance from passersby. They don't understand what it means to see stars for the first time in seven years.
My phone buzzes with the warning alert. Thirty minutes until the suppression starts to wear off. Time to head home.
I take a different route back, savoring every moment of night air, every shadowed doorway, every lit window. Storing memories for the cage.
Back in my apartment, I check the locks twice before heading to the bedroom. The cage door stands open, waiting. I strip down to boxers and a t-shirt, then step inside, securing the padlocks from within using a long metal hook designed for this purpose. The cage's bars feel so wide right now, but I know once my wrists become twice as thick they're impossible to get through.
My phone shows 8:45 PM. Suppression should wear off around 9:10. Plenty of time to get comfortable.
I lie back on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening in my mind. Dinner with Dad. Walking under streetlights. Stars.
Worth it. All of it.
I pull out my tranquilizers. At this point, doing this every god damn night for seven years, it's become totally routine muscle memory. To the point where it feels weird that I'm doing it almost three hours late. In, then out, then in again. Feels just like a sleepy bumblebee.
