The feeling of turning into a werewolf

A man must be relentless with himself.

Cancer, as commonly understood, refers to various malignant tumors. The dread surrounding malignant tumors stems primarily from two characteristics: first, the abnormal differentiation and proliferation of cells, allowing for unchecked growth that destroys normal bodily tissue; second, these aberrant cancer cells can metastasize to other parts of the body via the circulatory or lymphatic systems.

Reflecting on his observations upon waking, Yan Feng surmised that he had undergone some extraordinary transformation after losing consciousness the previous night. Otherwise, his current condition would not have enabled him to kill Youfu with his bare hands and dismember him without raising suspicion. The damage to his clothing, coupled with the bite marks and scratches found on Youfu's remains, indicated that his physical form had likely undergone a significant alteration, expanding in size and sprouting organs that were not characteristic of a human—such as teeth and claws.

Subjectively, Yan Feng was skeptical about his body undergoing such inhuman changes within a brief period. Yet, the undeniable evidence of his heightened senses and the transformation of his eyes resembled those of a beast. Furthermore, the regeneration of his hair, nails, and teeth occurred with the rapidity reminiscent of cancerous cell proliferation, albeit within certain limitations.

Contemplating this, he grasped a fruit knife from the table and approached the full-length mirror, hesitating for a long moment before resolutely piercing his left middle finger. He had intended to make a small incision, but his innate aversion to pain made it difficult to proceed. After setting down the knife, he pinched his fingertip until a drop of blood formed, then shook it off to observe the wound's progression.

To his astonishment, the wound began to scab and heal at a visibly accelerated rate, leaving no trace behind. Although he had forgotten to start a stopwatch, he estimated the entire process took less than two minutes. "It appears my body has indeed developed an extraordinary regenerative capability. However, this small cut is insufficient; I need to inflict a larger wound to truly assess my condition."

After a fierce internal struggle, he summoned his courage, stuffed a dry towel in his mouth, activated the timer, and settled on the couch with the fruit knife. "It won't hurt, it won't hurt... Yan Feng, you can do this."

After muttering these affirmations, he plunged the knife into his thigh. As the blade approached his skin, he instinctively halted. "What if the wound is too large and I find myself devoid of regenerative ability? That would be quite the irony." In modern society, where comfort reigns, few possess the fortitude to harm themselves; Yan Feng was no exception. His body and mind instinctively resisted the act of self-harm.

Yet, he felt compelled to uncover the truth behind his bodily changes—whether he truly had cancer, the reality of killing Youfu, and the series of unusual reactions he experienced during the day. Without clarity, how could he find peace? How could he decide whether to resign and return home?

"To hell with it; it's just a cut. I wasn't even this frightened when I was diagnosed with cancer," he thought, his gaze hardening. He bit down on the towel and drove the knife down again.

A sharp, short scream escaped him. Gasping, he clenched his fists, flinging the fruit knife aside as the towel slipped to the floor. Perhaps due to overwhelming tension, or perhaps a newfound strength, he miscalculated both force and angle, carving a crescent-shaped gash several inches long into his thigh. Staring at the exposed flesh, he felt a wave of nausea; cold sweat broke out across his brow. This was the most severe injury he had ever inflicted upon himself.

"This is terrifying! I nearly cut to the bone!" Thankfully, his body exhibited remarkable regenerative capabilities; the bright red blood flowed less profusely. He began timing the healing process:

At 1 minute and 35 seconds, the bleeding ceased entirely, and the pain lessened; at 3 minutes and 12 seconds, the flesh appeared to writhe and draw together, the wound shifting from bright red to a dark hue before scabbing over; at 7 minutes and 26 seconds, all sensation of pain faded, while a mild itchiness intensified, and the scab began to flake; at 12 minutes and 51 seconds, the scab fell away, revealing a shallow white mark; and finally, at 16 minutes and 38 seconds, the mark vanished completely, leaving no evidence of injury.

Gazing at his unblemished thigh, Yan Feng's anxiety lifted. He rose and stretched, feeling invigorated and in excellent condition. "Incredible! Such a severe injury healed in such a short time. Clearly, my body has undergone an extraordinary transformation; it’s possible that this so-called bone cancer is merely a reaction in this process. But why would this happen? Could it truly be a genetic mutation?"

After the initial joy, troubling thoughts resurfaced: What had he truly become? How had he killed Youfu? Would he experience such loss of control again? If he were to harm a human, or worse, a loved one, would he be capable of the same? The gravity of these thoughts filled him with dread.

He composed himself, returning to the sofa to check the time: 10:39 PM. After burying Youfu that morning and feeling the aftermath, he had set his phone to airplane mode. In their profession, being reachable at all times was essential for clients, managers, and project supervisors. Especially for clients, failing to respond could provoke an explosive reaction.

Upon being diagnosed with terminal cancer, he had intended to resign, thus his lack of concern. However, if he were to recover, he would need to continue working. Weighing his options, he deactivated airplane mode, only to be inundated with notifications.

Sixteen missed calls and twenty-three messages flooded in—this was after muting all work-related groups; otherwise, the barrage would have been overwhelming. The notifications sent cold sweat down his spine, eliciting a response more intense than his self-inflicted injury. Among the missed calls, only the department manager and a colleague were not clients or supervisors.

The messages were primarily from these individuals, with three from Tong Feifei, inquiring about his unavailability and expressing concern over the frantic search by the manager and clients.

Still not quite eleven, it was not too late for them, so he returned calls to everyone except Tong Feifei, fabricating an excuse: he had been out and lost his phone, only just retrieving it. It was a poor excuse but sufficient to deflect scrutiny.

By the time he finished with the calls, it was past eleven. He tidied up his room, clearing away the scattered hair, nails, teeth, and blood, then took a shower before collapsing into bed. After a long, exhausting day, he felt drowsy.

Just as he was about to drift into sleep, a troubling thought jolted him awake: "With my eyes now so unearthly, how will I face others? How will I explain?"