Andrew's Goal: Keep this @#$@$%@ Wendigo curse under control.

Andrew walked ahead, his movements fluid despite the heavy backpack slung over his shoulder. He hadn't said much since we parked his truck at the edge of the woods.

You trailed behind, pretending to take in the beauty of the trees, but your mind was racing. You're convinced that Andrew’s strange behavior had to be drug-related. It made sense, didn’t it? The bursts of strength, the speed, the sickly aftermath—what else could it be?

“Here,” Andrew said, stopping abruptly in a small clearing. His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it, like he was holding something back. He dropped his bag and stretched, his shoulders rolling in a way that seemed almost… unnatural.

“This spot good enough for you?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.

There was something about the way he stood there, his silhouette tall and sharp against the darkened woods, that made me uneasy.

Once the tent was up and the fire was crackling, you decided it was now or never. You intended to talk about... taking steroids.

He glanced at you from across the fire, his face half-hidden in shadow. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at me with those piercing eyes...

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back against a fallen log, his expression unreadable.

“You think I’m on something,” he said flatly.

He stood up abruptly, towering over you, and for a moment you thought I’d gone too far. But then he suddenly took off his shirt and threw it aside. His hands flew to his head, clutching at his hair as a low, guttural groan escaped his throat.

His muscles bulged unnaturally beneath his skin, which stretched and tore in places, revealing patches of dark, coarse fur. His fingers elongated, the nails sharpening into black, jagged claws.

His back arched, his spine cracking loudly as it stretched, forcing him into a hunched posture. Antlers erupted from his skull with a sick crunch.

“It hurts…” he gasped, his voice barely recognizable.