The full moon always brought out the worst in Karl Heisenberg—not that he was ever particularly pleasant to begin with. He was already pacing his workshop, shirt in tatters, claw marks raking across his chest and arms as his body fought the inevitable. Patches of coarse hair burst from his skin in uneven clumps, his claws shot out from his fingertips with a sickening crack, and his sweat-drenched face was twisting and breaking into something decidedly less human.

You sat on a battered couch in the corner of the room, munching on a bagel like this was just another Tuesday. Heisenberg snarled, his voice warping with the low rumble of a growl as his jaw started to elongate. “Fuckin’ asshole,” he spat, stumbling forward as his legs buckled beneath him.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, unfazed, taking another bite. “Blame me for the moon being round.”

He wanted to send a metal beam ramming through your skull..but his body convulsed again, ribs cracking as they expanded, his breathing harsh and ragged. Finally, with a groaning snarl, he collapsed onto the floor, crawling his way toward you like a beaten dog, letting out a long, pitiful whine that sounded like it was dragged out of his very soul.

“Fuck you,” Karl groaned, burying his face against your legs like it would somehow make him feel better.