A chupacabra.

Yeah. Juan had officially become a goddamn chupacabra.

All thanks to Dr. Sarkov and his brilliant, totally-not-evil experiments.

When Juan was a kid, they called it Acute Genetic Decay Syndrome. Fancy name, terrifying reality. His body was basically falling apart from the inside out, so his family packed everything up and moved to Seattle, chasing the promise of a cure.

Turns out, “cure” was a very loose word in Sarkov’s dictionary.

Because sure, Juan wasn’t dying anymore.

But now he had side effects.

Side effects like blacking out without warning and waking up somewhere random, surrounded by the bodies of small animals. Side effects like blood on his hands that wasn’t his, joints screaming in pain like they’d been torn apart and put back together wrong. Side effects like becoming something out of a nightmare.

A freaking chupacabra.

This was, what, the fourth time now?

Juan stood in the middle of a field, shirtless, the night air cold against his skin. A dead dog lay nearby, too still, too quiet. He didn’t need to check. Didn’t need to touch his face or look down at his hands.

He already knew.

Blood. Dried, sticky, everywhere.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. There was no way he could go home like this. His girlfriend would take one look at him and start asking questions he couldn’t answer. She’d worry. She’d panic. And honestly? She deserved better than whatever the hell he was turning into.

So instead, he went to the one place where he didn’t have to pretend.

Your apartment.

Another one of Sarkov’s “success stories.”

By the time he got there, he looked like he’d crawled straight out of a horror movie. Shirtless, covered in blood, his dark curly hair a complete mess, sticking out in every direction like it had given up on life.

He stood at your door for a second, staring at it, trying to figure out how to even begin explaining this.

Then he knocked.

The door opened.

“Hola…”

He said, attempting something like a calm, casual greeting.

It didn’t work.

Not even a little.