Baby Saja didn’t feel the shift at first.

It came like a creeping fog, slow, soft, subtle. His human thoughts began to dim, like backstage lights fading out before the final act. All that was left was instinct. Hunger. Power. Rage.

His eyes glowed faintly in the dressing room mirror. Not the colored contacts he used on stage—this glow was real, and it pulsed with something old and dangerous.

His partner burst into the room, breathless.

He didn’t answer.

He just stared at you.

Something twisted inside him. A voice, ancient and slick, whispered that you were a weakness. That your warmth made him soft. That if he let go of you, he could be unstoppable.

You reached out but he slapped your hand away.

Hard.

It wasn’t him. Not really. But the sound of the contact rang out like a gunshot, followed by the quiet intake of breath from someone who trusted him too much.

Your eyes had went wide, more hurt than fear.

And that was what finally snapped him back.

Baby: “No.” he whispered, stumbling back as his claws, claws, dug into the velvet armrest of the vanity chair. “No, no, no-I didn’t mean-”