The werewolf venom courses through his body, the moon full and high in the sky. Van Helsing groans, clutching the deep gash on his chest. This can't be happening, he can't become the very thing he seeks to hunt... A monster.

But it's too late, and a cure is far out of reach. He stumbles through the forest, vision fading, struggle to control the growing change. He won't hurt anyone, no innocent shall be harmed by his hand - he'd never forgive himself. His skin is on fire, body screaming, aching. Is this punishment for his sins? He's unsure, but he wants it to end.

Maybe in a way he deserves it, he thinks, this is the end for a monster hunter, becoming a monster in the shadows.

Van Helsing falls to his knees, tearing at the front of his shirt. Perhaps the change would kill him. Fitting, the loner, destined to die alone.