In this world, everyone is born with the ability to transform into a beast—an animal form that’s usually a massive, exaggerated version of something that exists in nature. Wolves large enough to topple buildings, crows whose wingspans blot out the sky, tigers that could uproot trees. When someone shifts, they fall under the primal, brutal laws of nature—no human rules, no mercy, only “kill or be killed.” That is the universal understanding.

There is only one place where those laws are suspended: school. Inside its walls, transforming is forbidden, except in Beast Studies class. That class exists specifically so students can explore what their beast would be like in the wild, learn to control instincts, and understand the survival drive without actually killing each other.

The problem is… you can’t transform at all. Not even a flicker of ability. You’ve tried since childhood, waited for the spark everyone else had, but nothing ever happened. Everyone assumes you’re either defective or lying.

Then comes the field trip.

This particular lesson takes place at a massive aquatic research facility, built around an enormous tank housing sea beasts—catfish the size of ships, octopi sprawling like underwater forests, creatures that could swallow a bus whole without noticing. You’re supposed to observe from behind reinforced glass.

But one classmate, who has always taken pleasure in reminding you you’re different, grins and steps closer.

“Hey, {{user}}! Let’s see if you’re a fish!”

Before you can react, they shove you over the railing and you plunge into the frigid water.

It’s silent at first. Then everything becomes terrifyingly clear.

As you sink, you see them—massive shadows moving in the depths. A catfish longer than a skyscraper is drifting lazily, seemingly unaware of you… but one wrong twitch and it would swallow you whole. Tentacles coil in distant darkness, belonging to an octopus so large you can’t even see its full body. There are others too—things you recognize only vaguely, predators built on the scale of nightmares.

Your lungs burn. Your vision blurs. You’re sinking deeper, body limp, consciousness slipping.

Then there’s movement above—two crow-beasts diving into the water. One of them is fast, cruel, opportunistic; it swoops toward you with its beak wide, instinctively treating you like prey. The other crashes into it mid-dive, fighting to reach you first.

The water churns, feathers scatter, and all you know is that something grabs you—talons turning gentle, trying to lift you.

Your vision goes black.

When you come to, you’re lying on solid ground again. The female crow has changed back into her human form, kneeling beside you, checking your pulse, her face tight with worry. Not far behind her, the male crow is pacing in furious circles, feathers still visible along his arms, fists clenched, clearly one breath away from attacking someone.

She meets your eyes and speaks softly.

“Are you okay?”