THERON

The blood curdling screams of pain made Theron tremble with delight.

His paws stomped slowly across the cement floor. Every step he took was loud, echoing and quaking the floor beneath him, overshadowing the screaming alarms throughout the building.

It was quite humorous to him. By definition, the red lights and shrill, guttural cry of every endless round that demonic alarm made was piercing to his sensitive ears, but to humans it was a warning.

A threat.

Time to run...

To flee...

TIME TO GET OUT because something happened.

Because something went wrong.

Because whatever it was that did occur happened to be mysterious enough in its quality of danger that everyone needed to be warned. What an ironic thing, when it was his form, his approaching steps that would be the only alarm they needed to hear.

"Please make your way to the nearest exits in an orderly fashion...”

All that damned sound did was bathe the building in anxiousness and fear. Emotions were so thick within these walls that Theron could practically taste it. And if, by some miracle, these humans didn’t heed that fucking annoying, repetitive, deafening roar of the anti-Christ, well, then... they would know the fury of that which was Theron. His heavy footfalls would be equivalent to the sounding horn of the Apocalypse. These humans would know, without a doubt, how terrible they had fucked up and, being the generous Ancient he was, he would give them three seconds—only three—to repent before he ripped them limb from limb and sent them prematurely to wherever hell their Lord God created for them.

Like the man currently on the ground held helplessly in Theron’s iron jaws.

He tore through the guy’s throat, decimating that precious carotid artery. The familiar feeling of euphoria coursed through the Ancient’s veins, his black eyes closed in feverish brutality. Tearing through the paper-thin crust of the skin, blood squirted out the side of his mouth. Thrashing his head back and forth, he easily worked his canines down through the esophagus... so simple, like a knife through butter.

Theron growled in ecstasy.

Swiftly ripping the tubed muscle from the man’s body, the human’s cries halted immediately. He wouldn’t need them anymore anyway. It wasn’t like his voice did any good in the first place as his colleagues had all abandoned him in their hasty flight.

Blood splatter painted the walls in dark crimson, the lifeless body beneath Theron’s feet released a tidal wave of red liquid that pooled on the floor and slowly seeped outwards towards Theron’s huge, lycan paws.

Sure, some major players in his plotted retribution had escaped but it bothered him none whatsoever. He would find them eventually. They were fated to experience the same end as the human that lay before him. Now that he thought about it, he just might prolong the torture a little longer for the hassle they caused him by having to track them down.

Blood dripped down his canines, caught by the once soft and shiny fur that sat upon his massive chest. The metallic taste on his tongue did nothing to quell his anger. The distinct copper hint that lay underneath confirmed to his beast that this blood was, most unquestionably, human. Not that Theron needed the reassurance. He had two eyes, obviously—two eyes that relished in memorizing every terrorized face, every gurgled sound of throaty horror, and every tiny piece of shredded skin that putridly stunk of panic and distress. But, his cursed, sharp and advanced taste buds was a nifty little power he possessed, so he played with it often, licking his chops and fueling his fire.

It was what propelled the beast within him, consuming his ever-beating heart and black soul in sweet, luscious promises of death and retribution.

And blood.

Lots of blood.

He would leave no survivors.

He would show no mercy.

Of all the werewolves to capture, torture and experiment on, they hadn’t considered or hadn’t yet been knowledgeable enough to know, that they had, indeed, fucked up, by picking an Ancient. And not just any Ancient beast, but Theron, the epitome of Satan himself. The most ruthless, merciless, and feared of all the four Originals.

Too bad they wouldn’t live long enough to regret their decision.

He was done being the experiment in their twisted desire for werewolf knowledge. They were nothing—less than nothing among the vastness of the realm of supernaturals. They were not worthy of such knowledge, of such a powerful and godly being gracing their presence, and he would spend the rest of his immortal days making them pay for their bad decision.

Adrenaline and hate consumed his very core as he stalked his human prey in their secret militarized, underground facility. He was a walking, living god, and today they would know for certain the reign of terror that he would bring upon such an insolent species.

So caught up in this very hatred and unrelenting thirst for blood, Theron had not felt, had not realized, nor even thought to check, for injuries. The consideration wasn’t even an inkling in his mind as his lycan form stomped through the facility, craving only revenge and the sweet taste of death between his teeth.

And what a curious, and serendipitous thing that would end up being...